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Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +7.9k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
August settled over New York with that oppressive, humid heaviness that made every movement feel slower, the air thick and clinging to the skin.
The streets lay as if asleep, weighed down by the heat, and by five o’clock in the afternoon, the Bushwick workshop felt like a balmy greenhouse where the fabrics soaked up the humidity and the scent of warm wood lingered everywhere. Y/N had got into the habit of rising early: half past six, seven at the latest, she would climb the three flights of stairs in the cool morning silence, hot coffee in hand, folded fabrics tucked under her arm. Those early hours were hers alone, the slanting light streaming through the large windows, skimming the shelves, lending the fabrics an almost living softness.
Nadia managed external communications from her small office next door. She only came in three days a week, but her touch was evident in every detail: clear briefings in the morning, short and precise messages, decisions made before anyone even had to ask. That morning, an email had arrived from Tokyo. Hana, who had been running Shizen for six years, had read Clara and Jana’s articles. She wanted to know if Thomas existed in materials that aligned with her own vision of sustainability. Nadia had replied with photos and a detailed description of the fabrics: raw linen from Williamsburg, bamboo silk from Lyon, natural horn buttons from Lisbon, and above all those perfect internal seams, invisible from the outside but so important.
Y/N read Hana’s reply around seven o’clock, sitting alone in the still-quiet workshop, her coffee set down beside her. Hana wanted three pieces to show to her clients. Y/N took a moment to let the weight of the request sink in, then replied herself, directly, with words that came from the heart. She spoke of what Thomas was really looking for: clothes made for those who looked beyond the surface.She sent the message and picked up her needle again, letting her hands find their familiar rhythm on the fabric. Around eight o’clock, the door opened with that soft sound she now recognised instantly. Bucky came in, two coffees in hand. He’d simply sent a message from the car:
I’m popping round if you’re up for it.
She’d replied yes without hesitation. He set the coffees on the table, came up behind her and slid his hands onto her shoulders, letting them linger there for a long time, warm and firm, gently massaging away the tension he could already feel beneath his palms. Y/N closed her eyes for a second, letting that familiar warmth run down her back. He leaned in, planted a slow kiss on the nape of her neck, then a gentler one just below her ear, his warm breath against her skin.
“There’s something about you this morning,” she murmured, turning slightly towards him, her hand resting on his.
He nodded, staying close, his body brushing against hers. He finally sat down on the wide sill of the middle window. She joined him at once, settling right up against him, her thigh pressed against his. He slipped an arm around her waist, drew her even closer, and planted a lingering kiss on her temple, then on her forehead, as he always did when words were slow to come. His fingers slid beneath the hem of her top, slowly caressing the small of her back with a tender, possessive gesture.
“The bad days are coming back a little,” he said at last, his voice low and calm.
Y/N rested her head against his shoulder, slipped a hand under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. She remained silent for a moment, letting the touch speak for her. He tightened his arm around her, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles on her hip.
“Since when?” she asked softly.
“This week. Not like before… but they’re there. I’m not sleeping as well.”
She lifted her face towards him. He was already looking at her, with that gaze that always lingered a second too long, filled with the gentle intensity he reserved solely for her. He caressed her cheek, brushed her jaw, then kissed her slowly, a quiet, deep kiss in which their breaths mingled for a long time. When she pulled away, she remained close, forehead to forehead, her hand still resting on his bare skin beneath his shirt.
“You could have waited to tell me,” she whispered against his lips.
“No. I protect you better by telling you the truth than by hiding it.”
She smiled against his lips, kissed him again, more gently, just a tender touch that stirred a warm glow deep within her chest. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled her close. They stayed like that for a long time, entwined on the windowsill, with the August heat streaming in through the open windows and Brooklyn going about its quiet business outside.They drank their coffee pressed close together, his fingers idly playing with hers. Later, when she picked up her needle again, he stayed in the workshop, present without disturbing her. From time to time, he would get up, bring her some cold water, tidy away a scrap of fabric lying about, or place a warm hand on her back as he passed. When he sensed she was starting to feel cold despite the warmth, he draped his jacket over her shoulders without a word, then kissed her on the temple, murmuring that she was working too hard.
They spoke little, but the silence was full: the way he always stood a little close to her, his lingering gaze, that gentle possessiveness that made her feel deeply cherished. When she turned towards him later that morning, he pulled her against his chest, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head, simply holding her, for a long time, whilst the light changed in the studio.
“Next week, we could go to Staten Island,” she murmured against his neck, her lips brushing his skin.
“To see my parents?”
She nodded, sliding her hands under his shirt to feel his warmth.
“George will probably be showing Mila something in the garage. She’s got questions.”
He smiled, kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth – a longer, deeper kiss – before holding her a little tighter.
“He’ll have the answers. And I’ll need you there.”
She felt her heart tighten with tenderness. They stayed like that for a moment, entwined in the rising August heat, before he had to leave. He let her get on with her work, but not without one last kiss on the nape of her neck and a message ten minutes later:
“Have something to eat at lunchtime, I know you’ll forget. I love you.”
Y/N smiled, her heart warm, and carried on sewing with that lingering sensation of his hands on her, his mouth on her skin, that attentive presence that made everything feel softer.
The August heat continued to weigh heavily on the city over the following days, making the air even more stifling and the evenings seem to drag on. On Wednesday evening, Y/N sent a quick message to Rebecca from the underground: she’d pop round if she was there. The reply came almost immediately, simple and direct. When she pushed open the door to Rebecca’s flat, the familiar scent of plants and fresh coffee greeted her. Rebecca was waiting for her, two cups already set out on the small kitchen table. She gave her a brief hug, that frank, no-nonsense gesture that had become their way. They sat facing each other. Rebecca took a sip, looked at her for a moment in silence, then spoke without beating about the bush.
“Bucky told you about his bad days.”
Y/N nodded, her fingers clenched around her still-warm cup.
“Yeah. Tuesday morning, at the workshop. He turned up with coffees and told me almost straight away. ”
Rebecca gently set down her cup, a sad smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“He told you himself. That’s a huge step.”
Y/N felt a lump forming in her chest. She thought back to Bucky sitting on the windowsill, his hands lingering on her, that slow kiss on her neck just before he spoke.
“He said it wasn’t like it used to be. Less dark. But that it was still there.”
Rebecca looked at her for a long time, with that quiet frankness that was so characteristic of her.
“Before, he dealt with it all on his own until it became too much. He barely slept, forgot to eat, cancelled everything. He’d disappear to places where no one could follow him.”
Y/N listened without interrupting, picturing the Bucky of the past, the one she’d never known. Rebecca continued, her voice soft but firm:
“What brought him back to earth were the practical things. My father showing him an engine in the garage. My mother bringing him coffee without asking. Me sending him clinical cases because he liked problems that had solutions.”
Y/N thought of her own father in the workshop, of those internal seams he was checking one last time, of the way Bucky now came and sat beside her without speaking, just being there. Rebecca placed a light hand on hers for a moment.
“What you’re doing is good. Staying in the studio in the mornings. The sketchbooks. Staten Island next week. Concrete, practical things—that’s what works for him.”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat.
“What if the bad days last longer?”
Rebecca shook her head gently.
“Then you call me. He’ll see his therapist more often. We’ll manage it together. But that’s not the scenario here. It’s just something that comes back sometimes. The important thing is not to let it take hold.”
A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the distant noise of the street. Rebecca continued, more quietly:
“He’ll tell you. He knows now. Do you trust him?”
Y/N replied without hesitation:
“Yes.”
“Then trust this too.”
They finished their coffees in the little kitchen full of plants. Y/N set off again on the Underground, those words still echoing softly in her mind. In the vibrating carriage, she took out her phone.
I went to see Rebecca.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. She sent me a message to say you were there. How did it go?
Fine. She’s straightforward.
Always.
She told me some important things.
What were they?
Y/N hesitated for a second, then typed slowly.
That practical things work out for you. And that putting my name on the map is important. More than I thought.
The silence was longer this time. Then the phone vibrated.
Becca never exaggerates.
No, sweetheart. She never exaggerates❤️.
Y/N put her phone away and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the movement of the tube lull her. She thought of the child on the platform in Bucky’s notebook, of his name written on a worn page, of all those perfect inner seams made even when no one was looking.
The following Saturday, they set off for Staten Island. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers slowly stroking the fabric of her jeans. Every now and then he would squeeze gently, as if to remind himself that she was there. She placed her hand over his and intertwined their fingers.
“Did you sleep well last night?” she asked softly.
“Better than the nights before. Thanks to you.”
He brought his hand to her lips and pressed a lingering kiss there without taking his eyes off the road. Y/N felt that familiar warmth rising in her chest. She leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek, then on his neck, just below his ear, where she knew he liked it.
“Have you eaten this morning?” she murmured against his skin.
“Yes. I even took the time. Because I knew you were going to ask me.”
He smiled and slid his hand higher up her thigh, possessive yet tender. They stayed like that for a moment, silent, only the sound of the road and their mingled breaths. They arrived at ten o’clock. The blue door opened before they’d even rung the bell. Winnifred gave them all a long, warm hug. Mila headed straight for the garage with her notebook, barely saying a word.
“She’s getting straight to the point today,” remarked Bucky with a chuckle.
“As always,” replied Y/N.
Bucky stopped in the hallway and looked around the house.
Alpine came out of the kitchen and rubbed against his legs. He crouched down immediately, ran a hand over the cat’s back and stroked him long and slowly. Y/N watched him, touched. He looked up at her and held out his hand. She took it and he pulled her close, standing in the hallway, his arm around her waist, his nose in her hair.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Yes. And you?”
“Better now that you’re pressed up against me.”
He kissed her forehead, then another, slower kiss on her lips. Winnifred smiled from the kitchen without saying a word. Y/N went and sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden. The August heat caressed her arms. She took out her phone.
I'm in my parents' garden. Bucky's with his mum.
Lea replied quickly.
I know.
Bucky sent me a message from the car this morning. Is Mila in the garage yet?
Yes. She's already on the second question.
She'll have finished the twelfth before noon.
Y/N put her phone down and listened to the sounds coming from the garage: Mila’s clear voice, and George’s lower, calmer one. Bucky joined her a few minutes later. He sat right next to her on the bench, put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close against his chest. His hand slipped under her shirt, gently stroking her back.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“A bit.”
“Come here.”
He opened his jacket and wrapped her up in it with him, holding her tight. They stayed like that for a long while, his chin resting on her head, his fingers tracing slow circles on her skin.
“My father is going to answer his twelfth question,” he murmured.
“I know. And you, how are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine. Less heavy. Because you’re here.”
He turned her face towards him and kissed her gently, a slow, deep kiss that lasted a long time. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I love you,” he said simply.
“Me too, my love.”
At midday, they ate at the large table. Winnifred had cooked too much, as always. Mila had her notebook closed beside her plate. George was at the end of the table, Bucky next to Y/N, his hand resting on her thigh beneath the table, stroking her gently. George looked at Mila.
“You asked eleven questions this morning.”
“I have a twelfth one,” replied Mila.
“I know. You’ve looked at the notebook twice but you haven’t asked it.”
Mila nodded.
“I wanted to wait for the right moment. When people had eaten. The difficult questions are best asked afterwards.”
Winnifred smiled gently. Bucky squeezed Y/N’s thigh under the table. Mila took a breath.
“Question twelve. Do you have bad days?”
Silence fell over the table, not heavy, just respectful. George put down his cup.
“Yes.”
“How do you cope?” asked Mila.
“I go into the garage. I work with my hands. Practical things help.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook. George continued:
“Why are you asking that question?”
“Because Bucky has bad days sometimes and I wanted to know how his family cope with it, so I can understand what I can do.”
Another silence. George looked at Bucky, then at Mila.
“What you’re doing here is already something.”
“What?”
“Asking the right question at the right time. Trying to understand rather than fix things. That’s better than fixing them.”
Mila took another note.
“Why?”
“Because some things don’t need fixing. They need to be understood and left as they are.”
Bucky leaned towards Y/N and whispered softly in her ear:
“He told me that in the garage five years ago.”
Y/N turned her head slightly and kissed him on the jaw.
“And now he’s telling Mila.”
Bucky squeezed her hand under the table.
“Yes.”
Y/N slipped her fingers between his and squeezed them tightly. They stayed like that throughout the meal, hands clasped, knees pressed against one another. That afternoon, George showed them the engine running. Mila was focused, her notebook open. Bucky and Y/N stayed a little way back in the driveway. He stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“My father thinks of Mila between visits,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“He thinks of very few people like that.”
Y/N turned in his arms and kissed him slowly, tenderly, her hands on his chest.
“That’s good.”
“It’s really good.”
He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair, and they stayed like that for a long time, entwined
Léa returned from her work placement one Friday evening in late August. The flat smelled of fresh coffee and the simple dishes Y/N had laid out on the table. Mila was in her room, the door open, a notebook in her hand, present without being intrusive. When the front door opened at half past seven, Léa came in with her suitcase and her bag. She made the same gesture to put her things down, but something had changed in the way she occupied the space: she was more composed, more confident without being ostentatious. Mila came out of her room straight away.
“You’ve changed,” she said, watching her.
Léa set down her suitcase.
“How so?”
“The way you walk into rooms. You walk in like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.”
Léa smiled slightly.
“It’s Amira.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook.
“What has she taught you?”
“To walk into rooms knowing why I’m there.”
Y/N watched them both in the hallway. She discreetly took out her phone.
Léa’s back.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know.
She sent me a message from the taxi. She says the work placement went well in the truest sense of the word.
In the truest sense of the word.
That’s what she said. How is she?
Mila says she walks into rooms like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.
It’s Amira.
At dinner, Léa spoke about the internship in small, precise details. She recounted the complex cases from the third week, the intellectual property lawyer who had praised her questions. Mila listened attentively.
“Did Nathan say that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a huge compliment.”
“That’s what Amira said too.”
Mila nodded.
“And what did you say?”
“Thank you.”
“Just ‘thank you’.”
“Yes.”
Mila smiled.
“That’s the right answer.”
Léa took a sip of coffee.
“Amira told me something on the last day. She said that NYU will give me the tools, but what I’ve learnt this summer is how to hold them.”
”Y/N looked up.”
“How do you hold the tools?”
“The difference between knowing a tool exists and knowing which hand to put it in depending on the situation.”
Mila chimed in straight away.
“It’s like pencils. I learnt the different thicknesses first. Then I learnt which one to use depending on what I’m drawing.”
Léa looked at her little sister.
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
Y/N slipped her foot under the table and gently stroked Bucky’s ankle; he’d come straight from work. He responded by placing his hand on her thigh, squeezing it tenderly. Their eyes met for a moment, filled with that silent warmth. The next morning, Y/N arrived at the workshop at seven o’clock. Nadia was already there, having been on the job since July, with two coffees on the large table.
“Margot has confirmed September. She’s arriving on the fifteenth.”
“Right.”
“She wants to see the workshop and the pieces in production, not the finished ones.”
Y/N nodded.
“She wants to see how we work.”
Nadia smiled slightly.
“Yes. She says the way things are done says more than the result.”
Y/N thought of her father turning each garment over one last time. She picked up her needle. Later that morning, Nadia placed a sheet of paper on the table: a new article, by Diane Chen.
Y/N read it slowly, feeling something stir within her. When Bucky dropped by at the end of the day, he found her still hunched over the table. He approached silently, draped his jacket over her shoulders because she’d shivered slightly, then slipped his arms around her waist from behind. He kissed her neck, lingeringly, before whispering:
“You look tired, sweetheart.”
“A bit.”
He turned her gently, pulled her close and kissed her properly, a slow, deep kiss, his hands caressing her back beneath the fabric. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I’ve brought you something to eat. I know you’ve forgotten.”
Y/N smiled against his mouth.
“You know me too well.”
“It’s my job.”
He kissed her again, more gently, then stayed close by whilst she tidied up, his hand still on her back, possessive and tender at the same time.
Margot Lemaire arrived in New York on Tuesday morning, 15 September. She had asked to see Brooklyn first, not just the studio, as if she wanted to get a feel for the surroundings before forming an opinion of the place itself. Nadia had organised everything: a simple stroll through the neighbourhood, without a guide, just walking. Y/N was waiting for her outside the building at ten o’clock. Margot was younger than she had imagined, in her forties, with short, confidently grey hair, and that calm presence of someone who took exactly what she needed. They climbed the three flights of stairs. Margot entered the studio and did what everyone else did: she looked closely, slowly, in silence. She ran her hand along the shelves, organised by fabric weight, from heaviest to lightest.
“That makes sense,” she murmured.
She took the raw Williamsburg linen between her fingers, crumpled it gently, then let it spring back into shape.
“Did you find this one on your own?”
“Yes. For the trousers and part of the coat.”
“The colour can’t be replicated with dye.”
Margot laid the fabric back down carefully, almost reverently. She walked over to the large solid-wood table and ran her fingers over the old marks in the wood.
“A dressmaker used to work here. Marcus. He made stage costumes for Off-Broadway theatres. Mila looked up his name.”
Margot nodded, a small smile on her lips.
“ ‘Spaces have memories.”
She walked over to the wall displaying the sketches for the second collection, pausing at length over the jacket with the slit at the wrist.
“The second collection.”
“Yes. Not finished yet. Just directions. What we choose to show when we’re ready.”
Margot jotted something down in her notebook. Then she asked to see a piece that was currently in progress. Y/N took out the merino wool coat for Chicago and turned it inside out on the table. Margot took it in her hands, turned each sleeve inside out, and examined the inner seams in silence for several long seconds.
“Your father was a tailor.”
“Yes. He used to turn every garment inside out before handing it back. To check one last time.”
Margot looked up.
“My grandfather made shoes in Lyon. He used to check the inner seams of the lining. He said the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.”
Y/N felt a gentle emotion welling up in her throat.
“That’s exactly it.”
Margot laid the coat down carefully.
“Fond has been around for eight years because I’m looking for designers who’ve learnt that. Not at school. Through a way of working passed down through the generations. Thomas is what I’ve been looking for for three years.”
She took out her notebook.
“Three pieces to start with. The signature dress, the coat, and a jacket. If it goes well, we’ll talk about the second collection. Take as long as you need. I’d rather wait for something that’s just right.”
Nadia, sitting in the corner, discreetly took notes. Margot looked at her for a moment.
“Your assistant. ,Nadia. She keeps my schedule clear so I can sew.”
After the visit, they went for lunch at the little café on the corner. Sitting by the window, with the bustling Bushwick street behind the glass, the conversation flowed naturally. Margot spoke of ‘what we keep’, her shop’s slogan since day one. Y/N told her about George , who had checked the inner seams twice on the evening of the presentation.
“It’s the biggest compliment he gives: ‘It’s well made.’ Two words.” Margot smiled. “My grandfather used to say exactly the same thing.”
Y/N felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She read Bucky’s message under the table.
Are you holding up okay?
I’ve been thinking about you all morning.
She replied straight away.
It’s going well. She really gets it!
He replied within seconds.
I know. I’m proud of you.
See you tonight, I’ll bring you some food. I know you’ll forget.
When Margot left, Y/N went back up to the workshop alone. She sat down at the large table, her hands flat on the worn wood, and breathed slowly. She thought of Marcus, of her father, of Margot’s grandfather, of Hana’s father. All those hands that had done things right. She picked up her phone.
Margot said yes. Three pieces for Fond Paris.
Bucky replied straight away.
I know. Nadia sent me a message when she left the workshop.
How are you feeling?
His grandfather used to make shoes in Lyon and would check the inner seams of the lining. He used to say that the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.
It’s Thomas.
Yes, sweetheart. It’s Thomas.
Your father would have liked Margot.
Yes. I think they would have understood each other without many words. People who’ve learnt the same things always understand each other.
Y/N put down her phone, turned off the light and walked down the three flights of stairs in the dark Bushwick stairwell. She could still feel the warmth of Bucky’s hands on her, even though he wasn’t there.
Lea started classes at NYU on a Monday in September. The night before, she had packed her bag using the precise method she’d worked out for herself: nothing extra, everything in its place. She slipped Muybridge’s book in last, like an anchor. Mila watched her from the doorway, a notebook in her hand, without saying a word.
“Do you have something to say?”
Lea asked without turning around.
“No.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m watching.”
Lea closed her bag and turned around. Mila was there, calm.
“I’ll be back tonight,” said Lea. “Every night.”
“I know.”
A silence settled in. Mila paused.
“That’s not why I’m watching. “
“Then why?”
“I wanted to see how you put the important things away last.”
Lea looked at her bag, the book visible on top. She smiled softly.
“You saw.”
“Yes. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“You said thanks right away.”
Lea laughed softly.
“I’m learning. ”
On Monday evening, Lea got home at 6:30 p.m.
Y/N was in the kitchen, and Mila was sitting at the table with her pencils. Bucky was already there, settled on the couch with the second notebook. He came over often on Monday evenings now, like a gentle routine that had fallen into place naturally. Léa set down her bag and sat down. Mila looked up.
“How did it go?”
“Good. The first day is mostly introductions. The real classes start on Thursday.”
“Did you meet anyone?” Mila asked.
“A few people. There’s Priya, who did an internship with a federal judge this summer. And Sam, from Portland, who worked for two years before coming here.”
Mila jotted something down.
“They have experience.”
“Yeah. But not the same kind as Amira. She taught me how to handle the tools. NYU will teach me how to choose the right ones.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“That’s a good sequence.”
Bucky, from the couch, spoke without looking up from the notebook, his voice calm:
“Priya and Sam. Do you have their numbers?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Lea looked at him for a moment. Bucky kept turning the pages, but you could tell he was really listening.
“Thanks,” said Lea.
“For what?”
“For saying ‘good.’”
“It makes sense.”
“No. It’s thoughtful.”
Mila chimed in from her notebook:
“She used the words.”
Lea sighed with a smile.
“I hear you, Mila.”
“I was just noting it down.”
Y/N slid her foot under the table and stroked Bucky’s leg. He immediately placed his hand on her thigh, squeezed it tenderly, then moved a little higher, possessive and gentle. Their eyes met. He gave her a small smile that said it all. The following week, on a Tuesday evening, Bucky came to the studio unannounced. When Y/N pushed open the door, he was already there, sitting on the ledge of the middle window.
She sensed right away that something was wrong.
“How long have you been here?” she asked, setting down her bag.
“An hour. Nadia gave me the key. She told me you’d need someone tonight.”
Y/N moved closer. She sat right next to him, her thigh pressed against his. He immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest, her face buried in his hair.
“How are you?” she whispered.
“Not good tonight.”
She slid her hands under his shirt, stroking his back slowly, feeling the tense muscles.
“Since this morning?”
“Since yesterday. But tonight it’s worse. Images. Not nightmares… images during the day. Things I’ve experienced that come back without warning.”
Y/N lifted her head and kissed him gently, lingeringly, until he relaxed a little against her. He returned her kiss, deep and almost urgent, his hands clasping her waist.
“Have you talked to your therapist about it?” she asked against his lips.
“Next Thursday.”
“That’s in two days.”
He nodded. She kissed him again, more tenderly this time, then rested her forehead against his.
She picked up her needle again. Bucky stayed on the windowsill, right next to her. Every now and then he would get up, come up behind her, place his hands on her shoulders, massage her gently, and kiss the back of her neck. At one point he whispered,
“There’s one that’s been coming back for days. A hallway. The light… the way the floor echoed underfoot.”
Y/N set down her needle, turned around in her chair, and pulled him between her legs. She held him tight against her, his face against her stomach.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Not tonight. Thursday with her. But I wanted to tell you it was there.”
She stroked his back under his shirt.
“I know. “Thanks for telling me.”
He knelt in front of her, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her slowly, intensely, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, his hands on her thighs.
“It’s easier to say it now.”
“Than before?”
“Yes. Before, I kept it all inside. Now it’s still hard… but I can talk about it.”
Y/N kissed him on the forehead, then on the lips, gently.
“You know I’m here.”
“Yes.”
“Not to fix things.”
“I know.”
“To understand.”
He rested his head on her lap for a moment. She ran her fingers through his hair. They stayed like that for a long time, in the silence of the studio, with only the distant sound of the street and their breathing. On Thursday, after her session, Bucky sent her a message.
It went well. She said that being able to talk about it before the session is progress.
Y/N replied right away, sitting at the big table.
Talk to me?
Yes.
Before, I’d come with everything bottled up inside. Now I arrive with things already named.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The hallway… she thinks we can work on that.
I wanted to tell you. I know.
Thank you. It makes sense.
It’s thoughtful.
Both can be true.
She smiled, her heart warm, and already imagined his hands on her tonight, his body against hers, the way he held her as if she were his anchor.
October had arrived, bringing with it that typical New York autumn light that makes everything seem sharper. The buildings looked more defined, the trees in the parks were ablaze with colour, and the light had shifted, becoming softer and more oblique. One Wednesday morning, Y/N finished the sixth order. The merino wool coat for the client in Chicago was ready. She laid it on the large table, turned it over one last time, and checked every inner seam with her fingertips, slowly, just as her father used to do. Everything was perfect. She took a photo of the seams and sent it to Nadia.
The sixth one is ready.
Nadia replied almost immediately.
I’ll get in touch with the client today about the delivery.
Y/N walks over to the middle window and glances down into the courtyard. Someone is hanging out the washing. The bike is still there. Everyday life in Bushwick carries on, undisturbed. Her phone vibrates.
The sixth coat is finished.
Bucky replies almost instantly.
I know. Nadia sent me a photo of the seams. How are you?
Fine. Really fine.
You’ve got that look on your face.
How can you tell I’ve got a certain look on my face from a text?
I know the way you say ‘really well’. When it’s just okay, you say ‘fine’. When it’s better than that, you say ‘really well’.
Y/N smiles, touched that he knows her so well, so deeply. She types:
This morning, it’s more than fine.
Why?
Because six coats are finished with impeccable stitching, Fond Paris, Shizen Tokyo, Rose & Root Portland, Margot arriving soon, Léa at NYU, Mila turning eleven… and you, my love, who’s feeling better.
Yes. It’s more than fine.
The following Friday, the newspapers were talking about Thomas in a different light. Sophie Park had published an article in a mainstream magazine: ‘Alpine and Thomas: when love runs the business’. Y/N read it on the tube at eight o’clock in the morning. The words stung her for a moment, like a sudden chill. She put her mobile away and looked at the people around her.
At the office, at midday, Camila popped in.
“Sophie Park?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to respond?”
“Yes. Straight away. Not to her, but to what she wrote.”
Camila sat down.
“Tell me what you mean.”
Y/N thought aloud.
“That I found the Williamsburg linen all by myself. That I learnt the inside seams from my father, long before I met Bucky. That Thomas’s philosophy was in my notebooks months before Alpine. And that Amira drew up a contract that protects Thomas, not the other way round.”
Camila nodded.
“And what about the relationship?”
“The relationship doesn’t explain the stitches. Both exist at the same time. Neither replaces the other.”
“That’s right.”
That evening, when Bucky arrived at the studio, he found her still bent over the table. He set a bag of food down on the corner, approached from behind and wrapped his arms around her.He kissed her neck, lingering there, then her shoulder.
“You’ve forgotten to eat,” he murmured against her skin.
“A little.”
He turned her round, held her close, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. He kissed her gently, then more deeply, until she relaxed completely in his arms.
“I’ve got you what you like. And then we’ll go home, and I’ll run you a bath.”
Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“You think of everything.”
“I think of you. All the time.”
He kissed her again, tenderly and intensely at the same time, his hands sliding over her hips
Mila found out Y/N’s answer that Friday evening. Nadia had gone to the trouble of printing out the page so that Mila could touch it, feel it between her fingers. Mila stood rooted to the spot in the hallway, the sheet held out in front of her, her eyes fixed on it.
“The last sentence,” she said in a calm voice.
“Yes,” replied Y/N from the kitchen.
“It’s true.”
“Yes.”
“Sophie Park was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“You replied straight away.”
Mila carefully folded the sheet of paper, first in half, then into quarters, and went to put it away in her special drawer, the one where she keeps the things that really matter. Y/N heard her open and close the drawer very gently. Léa came out of the kitchen with her coffee.
“She’s put it in the drawer,” remarked Léa.
”Yes”.
”That’s good”.
Léa took a sip.
“Amira sent me the article on Monday morning with just one note: ‘This is why we’ve been documenting everything from the start.’”
Y/N smiled.
“She’d planned it all.”
Léa nodded.
“That’s why we’re thanking her for the Muybridge notebooks.”
That weekend, Bucky arrived at the studio with a small, plain cardboard box. He set it down on the large table without saying a word, then approached Y/N from behind, wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Open it,” he whispered in her ear before kissing her neck.
Inside were spools of thread, a shade between white and beige, slightly warm, almost iridescent in the light.
“It’s a blend of silk and linen,” he explained softly. “A supplier in Kyoto. Hana recommended it to me. She says this thread ages well, that the stitching becomes more interesting over time. Like a patina.”
Y/N picked up a spool and twirled it between her fingers. Bucky stayed pressed against her back, his hands on her waist, stroking her gently.
“For the inner seams of the second collection,” she said.
“That’s what Hana thought. If the second collection shows what we choose to reveal, then these seams that improve with wear… that’s the foundation.”
He kissed her on the temple, then slipped a hand under her top to stroke her stomach very gently.
“Hana also told me that the three pieces would have their own presentation in Tokyo in November. A small gathering. Twenty people who’ll really be looking.”
Y/N turned in his arms and looked at him.
“I’ll be there.”
“I know. I’ve already told her you’d be coming. It was obvious.”
She kissed him slowly, deeply, her hands on his chest. He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair.
“Mila’s going to want to come,” she murmured against his lips.
“I know. She’s already sent me three questions for Hana this morning.”
He kissed her again, more tenderly, then rested his forehead against hers.
“Nadia invited her straight away. She says that Thomas without Mila wouldn’t be complete.”
Y/N smiled, her heart full.
“Nadia really does understand.”
The following Tuesday, Bucky had a bad day. He wasn’t at the workshop as planned. Around seven o’clock, he messaged:
I’m staying in tonight. Not a good day.
Y/N put down her needle.
I’m coming over.
You don’t need to.
I know. I’m coming anyway.
On the tube to Dumbo, she sent a message to Mila.
I’m at Bucky’s tonight. Lea’s at home.
Mila replied quickly.
I know. Tell him Robert’s doing well.
When she arrived, he opened the door with that heavier look on his face. She went in without a word, took off her coat and went straight into the kitchen to make tea. She knew every cupboard by heart now. She brought two cups and sat right next to him on the sofa.
“The corridor came back this morning,” he murmured.
She set her cup down, slid onto his lap and wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her neck, holding her tight.
“Did you ring your therapist?”
“Yes. On Thursday. She says it’s normal during times of change.”
Y/N stroked his back beneath his shirt, slowly, for a long time. He lifted his head, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with that gentle, almost desperate intensity, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, forehead to forehead.
“You’re staying tonight,” she said.
“Yes.”
They stayed entwined on the sofa, his hands on her, possessive and tender, until the evening wore on and the weight seemed a little lighter.
On the Thursday after session, he messaged:
It went well. She says that being able to talk about it beforehand is already progress.
Y/N replied from the studio.
Talking to me?
Yes.
Before, I kept everything to myself. Now I come in with things I can put into words.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The corridor… we can work on that.
November had arrived, a bitterly cold month, and this time, our destination was Tokyo. We set off on a Wednesday: Y/N, Bucky, Mila with her notebook full of questions she’d prepared especially for Hana, and Léa, who’d managed to secure four days off from NYU. On the plane, as soon as the lights went out, Bucky gently slipped his hand into Y/N’s. He brought it to his lips, kissed it tenderly, then held it close to him, his thumb stroking the back of her hand without ever stopping, like a soothing little ritual.
“Are you tired?” he whispered close to her ear.
“A bit, but too excited to sleep,” she replied.
So he drew her even closer, put an arm around her shoulders, and planted a gentle kiss on her temple, then another on her cheek, before finding her lips in the darkness of the cabin. It was a long, tender kiss, like a secret shared only between the two of them. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered,
“Get some sleep; I’m here, I’ll keep watch.”
In Tokyo, Hana was waiting for them at the airport. She was petite, precise in her movements, with a calmness that commanded respect. She greeted everyone, then looked at Mila with a gentle smile.
“I’m told you have some questions?”
“Seventeen, to be precise,” replied Mila, her eyes sparkling.
“Perfect. Let’s start in the car, then,” said Hana, opening the door.
And throughout the journey, Mila reeled off her questions one by one, like a thread she was patiently unwinding.
Bucky kept his hand on Y/N’s knee, gently stroking it with his thumb. Every now and then he would lean in to kiss her temple or whisper something in her ear, just for her. Shizen was small, bright and carefully organised. When Y/N saw her three pieces on display, she felt a lump in her throat. Bucky stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. ‘They’re beautiful,’ he murmured.
“You’ve done a lovely job, my love.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then held her closer to him. The presentation took place on Friday evening. Only twenty-two people, but they were really watching. Y/N stayed close to the wall. Bucky came over to her, slipped his hand round her back, under her jumper, caressing her skin with his fingertips.
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
“Fine. A bit nervous.”
“You’re perfect.”
He kissed her on the temple, then on the lips, a gentle but deep kiss, before staying pressed against her, his hand still on her back. Mila was talking to Kenji, a furniture designer who specialised in hidden joints. Bucky watched the scene and smiled. “She’s found her equal.” Y/N turned towards him. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close against his chest, one hand in her hair.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “Of all this.”
He kissed her again, more lingeringly, as if they were alone in the shop. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
On the last morning, Y/N went back to Shizen’s place on her own. As she left, she sent a photo of the coins to Bucky.
They returned to New York on a Sunday morning, still reeling from jet lag and the dull November light that bathed Brooklyn. Mila fell asleep in the taxi, her head resting against the window, her notebook clutched to her chest. Léa, meanwhile, kept her eyes open, serene, watching the city go by. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers gently stroking the fabric of her trousers.
“You look tired,” he murmured, giving her a tender look.
“A bit. So do you. ”
He gently squeezed her thigh, then slid his hand towards her waist, caressing her with that constant attention that came so naturally to him.
“Have something to eat tonight. I know you barely touched the tray on the plane.”
Y/N placed her hand on his and squeezed it.
“All right. ”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it for a long time, without taking his eyes off the road.When they arrived at the flat, Mila woke up, went upstairs and rushed straight into her bedroom. Y/N heard her open the drawer where she kept her important things and carefully put her notes from Tokyo away.
A few minutes later, Mila came back out.
“I’ve put the notes from Tokyo in the drawer.”
“Right,” replied Y/N softly.
Mila paused for a moment.
“I’ve also got a question for George, now that I’m back.”
Y/N smiled.
“About the dovetail joints?”
“No. About something Kenji said. I want to check with George if it’s true in two different contexts. He said that the strongest joints improve with use. The wood tightens over time and becomes stronger.”
Y/N nodded, touched by her precision.
“That’s a good question. Send it to him tonight. ”
Mila looked satisfied and went back to her room. Léa came out of the bathroom, her face refreshed.
“Has Mila already sent a message to George?”
“Yes,” replied Y/N. “About joints getting better with use.”
Léa smiled.
“She’ll have a reply tomorrow morning at six forty.”
Bucky, who had just come up behind Y/N, slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
“Lea’s going to Priya’s tonight,” he murmured against her skin. “We’ve got the flat to ourselves for a while.”
Y/N leaned into him, feeling his warm hands on her stomach.
“Perfect. ”
That evening, Bucky stayed. Mila was already asleep, exhausted from the journey. In the quiet living room, they were alone with their teas. Bucky pulled Y/N onto the sofa and sat her between his legs, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand sliding under her jumper to gently stroke her stomach, the other running through her hair.
“The second collection… what are you thinking for the presentation?” he asked softly, his lips against her ear.
“Not Bushwick this time. Something different. Maybe Shizen.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then moved up to her jawline.
“It’s an important decision. Take your time. ”
Y/N closed her eyes, savouring the warmth of his body against hers.
“Is Robert all right?”
“Nadia watered him while we were away. She said that the plants of someone who lives with Thomas deserve to be watered.”
Y/N smiled and turned her head to kiss him. The kiss was tender, then deeper, their breaths mingling for a long time. When they pulled apart, Bucky held her tighter, a possessive hand on her hip.
“Robert’s had a third leaf since Friday.”
“During Tokyo…”
“Yes.”
He kissed her again, gently, then rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Things that get better with use… Mila’s right.”
Y/N leaned her head back against him.
“Yes. That goes for everything else too.”
They stayed like that for a long time, entwined in the silence of the living room, his hands caressing her skin beneath her jumper, his warm breath on her neck.
summary : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, just to fill the silence.
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +7.9k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
August settled over New York with that oppressive, humid heaviness that made every movement feel slower, the air thick and clinging to the skin.
The streets lay as if asleep, weighed down by the heat, and by five o’clock in the afternoon, the Bushwick workshop felt like a balmy greenhouse where the fabrics soaked up the humidity and the scent of warm wood lingered everywhere. Y/N had got into the habit of rising early: half past six, seven at the latest, she would climb the three flights of stairs in the cool morning silence, hot coffee in hand, folded fabrics tucked under her arm. Those early hours were hers alone, the slanting light streaming through the large windows, skimming the shelves, lending the fabrics an almost living softness.
Nadia managed external communications from her small office next door. She only came in three days a week, but her touch was evident in every detail: clear briefings in the morning, short and precise messages, decisions made before anyone even had to ask. That morning, an email had arrived from Tokyo. Hana, who had been running Shizen for six years, had read Clara and Jana’s articles. She wanted to know if Thomas existed in materials that aligned with her own vision of sustainability. Nadia had replied with photos and a detailed description of the fabrics: raw linen from Williamsburg, bamboo silk from Lyon, natural horn buttons from Lisbon, and above all those perfect internal seams, invisible from the outside but so important.
Y/N read Hana’s reply around seven o’clock, sitting alone in the still-quiet workshop, her coffee set down beside her. Hana wanted three pieces to show to her clients. Y/N took a moment to let the weight of the request sink in, then replied herself, directly, with words that came from the heart. She spoke of what Thomas was really looking for: clothes made for those who looked beyond the surface.She sent the message and picked up her needle again, letting her hands find their familiar rhythm on the fabric. Around eight o’clock, the door opened with that soft sound she now recognised instantly. Bucky came in, two coffees in hand. He’d simply sent a message from the car:
I’m popping round if you’re up for it.
She’d replied yes without hesitation. He set the coffees on the table, came up behind her and slid his hands onto her shoulders, letting them linger there for a long time, warm and firm, gently massaging away the tension he could already feel beneath his palms. Y/N closed her eyes for a second, letting that familiar warmth run down her back. He leaned in, planted a slow kiss on the nape of her neck, then a gentler one just below her ear, his warm breath against her skin.
“There’s something about you this morning,” she murmured, turning slightly towards him, her hand resting on his.
He nodded, staying close, his body brushing against hers. He finally sat down on the wide sill of the middle window. She joined him at once, settling right up against him, her thigh pressed against his. He slipped an arm around her waist, drew her even closer, and planted a lingering kiss on her temple, then on her forehead, as he always did when words were slow to come. His fingers slid beneath the hem of her top, slowly caressing the small of her back with a tender, possessive gesture.
“The bad days are coming back a little,” he said at last, his voice low and calm.
Y/N rested her head against his shoulder, slipped a hand under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. She remained silent for a moment, letting the touch speak for her. He tightened his arm around her, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles on her hip.
“Since when?” she asked softly.
“This week. Not like before… but they’re there. I’m not sleeping as well.”
She lifted her face towards him. He was already looking at her, with that gaze that always lingered a second too long, filled with the gentle intensity he reserved solely for her. He caressed her cheek, brushed her jaw, then kissed her slowly, a quiet, deep kiss in which their breaths mingled for a long time. When she pulled away, she remained close, forehead to forehead, her hand still resting on his bare skin beneath his shirt.
“You could have waited to tell me,” she whispered against his lips.
“No. I protect you better by telling you the truth than by hiding it.”
She smiled against his lips, kissed him again, more gently, just a tender touch that stirred a warm glow deep within her chest. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled her close. They stayed like that for a long time, entwined on the windowsill, with the August heat streaming in through the open windows and Brooklyn going about its quiet business outside.They drank their coffee pressed close together, his fingers idly playing with hers. Later, when she picked up her needle again, he stayed in the workshop, present without disturbing her. From time to time, he would get up, bring her some cold water, tidy away a scrap of fabric lying about, or place a warm hand on her back as he passed. When he sensed she was starting to feel cold despite the warmth, he draped his jacket over her shoulders without a word, then kissed her on the temple, murmuring that she was working too hard.
They spoke little, but the silence was full: the way he always stood a little close to her, his lingering gaze, that gentle possessiveness that made her feel deeply cherished. When she turned towards him later that morning, he pulled her against his chest, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head, simply holding her, for a long time, whilst the light changed in the studio.
“Next week, we could go to Staten Island,” she murmured against his neck, her lips brushing his skin.
“To see my parents?”
She nodded, sliding her hands under his shirt to feel his warmth.
“George will probably be showing Mila something in the garage. She’s got questions.”
He smiled, kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth – a longer, deeper kiss – before holding her a little tighter.
“He’ll have the answers. And I’ll need you there.”
She felt her heart tighten with tenderness. They stayed like that for a moment, entwined in the rising August heat, before he had to leave. He let her get on with her work, but not without one last kiss on the nape of her neck and a message ten minutes later:
“Have something to eat at lunchtime, I know you’ll forget. I love you.”
Y/N smiled, her heart warm, and carried on sewing with that lingering sensation of his hands on her, his mouth on her skin, that attentive presence that made everything feel softer.
The August heat continued to weigh heavily on the city over the following days, making the air even more stifling and the evenings seem to drag on. On Wednesday evening, Y/N sent a quick message to Rebecca from the underground: she’d pop round if she was there. The reply came almost immediately, simple and direct. When she pushed open the door to Rebecca’s flat, the familiar scent of plants and fresh coffee greeted her. Rebecca was waiting for her, two cups already set out on the small kitchen table. She gave her a brief hug, that frank, no-nonsense gesture that had become their way. They sat facing each other. Rebecca took a sip, looked at her for a moment in silence, then spoke without beating about the bush.
“Bucky told you about his bad days.”
Y/N nodded, her fingers clenched around her still-warm cup.
“Yeah. Tuesday morning, at the workshop. He turned up with coffees and told me almost straight away. ”
Rebecca gently set down her cup, a sad smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“He told you himself. That’s a huge step.”
Y/N felt a lump forming in her chest. She thought back to Bucky sitting on the windowsill, his hands lingering on her, that slow kiss on her neck just before he spoke.
“He said it wasn’t like it used to be. Less dark. But that it was still there.”
Rebecca looked at her for a long time, with that quiet frankness that was so characteristic of her.
“Before, he dealt with it all on his own until it became too much. He barely slept, forgot to eat, cancelled everything. He’d disappear to places where no one could follow him.”
Y/N listened without interrupting, picturing the Bucky of the past, the one she’d never known. Rebecca continued, her voice soft but firm:
“What brought him back to earth were the practical things. My father showing him an engine in the garage. My mother bringing him coffee without asking. Me sending him clinical cases because he liked problems that had solutions.”
Y/N thought of her own father in the workshop, of those internal seams he was checking one last time, of the way Bucky now came and sat beside her without speaking, just being there. Rebecca placed a light hand on hers for a moment.
“What you’re doing is good. Staying in the studio in the mornings. The sketchbooks. Staten Island next week. Concrete, practical things—that’s what works for him.”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat.
“What if the bad days last longer?”
Rebecca shook her head gently.
“Then you call me. He’ll see his therapist more often. We’ll manage it together. But that’s not the scenario here. It’s just something that comes back sometimes. The important thing is not to let it take hold.”
A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the distant noise of the street. Rebecca continued, more quietly:
“He’ll tell you. He knows now. Do you trust him?”
Y/N replied without hesitation:
“Yes.”
“Then trust this too.”
They finished their coffees in the little kitchen full of plants. Y/N set off again on the Underground, those words still echoing softly in her mind. In the vibrating carriage, she took out her phone.
I went to see Rebecca.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. She sent me a message to say you were there. How did it go?
Fine. She’s straightforward.
Always.
She told me some important things.
What were they?
Y/N hesitated for a second, then typed slowly.
That practical things work out for you. And that putting my name on the map is important. More than I thought.
The silence was longer this time. Then the phone vibrated.
Becca never exaggerates.
No, sweetheart. She never exaggerates❤️.
Y/N put her phone away and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the movement of the tube lull her. She thought of the child on the platform in Bucky’s notebook, of his name written on a worn page, of all those perfect inner seams made even when no one was looking.
The following Saturday, they set off for Staten Island. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers slowly stroking the fabric of her jeans. Every now and then he would squeeze gently, as if to remind himself that she was there. She placed her hand over his and intertwined their fingers.
“Did you sleep well last night?” she asked softly.
“Better than the nights before. Thanks to you.”
He brought his hand to her lips and pressed a lingering kiss there without taking his eyes off the road. Y/N felt that familiar warmth rising in her chest. She leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek, then on his neck, just below his ear, where she knew he liked it.
“Have you eaten this morning?” she murmured against his skin.
“Yes. I even took the time. Because I knew you were going to ask me.”
He smiled and slid his hand higher up her thigh, possessive yet tender. They stayed like that for a moment, silent, only the sound of the road and their mingled breaths. They arrived at ten o’clock. The blue door opened before they’d even rung the bell. Winnifred gave them all a long, warm hug. Mila headed straight for the garage with her notebook, barely saying a word.
“She’s getting straight to the point today,” remarked Bucky with a chuckle.
“As always,” replied Y/N.
Bucky stopped in the hallway and looked around the house.
Alpine came out of the kitchen and rubbed against his legs. He crouched down immediately, ran a hand over the cat’s back and stroked him long and slowly. Y/N watched him, touched. He looked up at her and held out his hand. She took it and he pulled her close, standing in the hallway, his arm around her waist, his nose in her hair.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Yes. And you?”
“Better now that you’re pressed up against me.”
He kissed her forehead, then another, slower kiss on her lips. Winnifred smiled from the kitchen without saying a word. Y/N went and sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden. The August heat caressed her arms. She took out her phone.
I'm in my parents' garden. Bucky's with his mum.
Lea replied quickly.
I know.
Bucky sent me a message from the car this morning. Is Mila in the garage yet?
Yes. She's already on the second question.
She'll have finished the twelfth before noon.
Y/N put her phone down and listened to the sounds coming from the garage: Mila’s clear voice, and George’s lower, calmer one. Bucky joined her a few minutes later. He sat right next to her on the bench, put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close against his chest. His hand slipped under her shirt, gently stroking her back.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“A bit.”
“Come here.”
He opened his jacket and wrapped her up in it with him, holding her tight. They stayed like that for a long while, his chin resting on her head, his fingers tracing slow circles on her skin.
“My father is going to answer his twelfth question,” he murmured.
“I know. And you, how are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine. Less heavy. Because you’re here.”
He turned her face towards him and kissed her gently, a slow, deep kiss that lasted a long time. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I love you,” he said simply.
“Me too, my love.”
At midday, they ate at the large table. Winnifred had cooked too much, as always. Mila had her notebook closed beside her plate. George was at the end of the table, Bucky next to Y/N, his hand resting on her thigh beneath the table, stroking her gently. George looked at Mila.
“You asked eleven questions this morning.”
“I have a twelfth one,” replied Mila.
“I know. You’ve looked at the notebook twice but you haven’t asked it.”
Mila nodded.
“I wanted to wait for the right moment. When people had eaten. The difficult questions are best asked afterwards.”
Winnifred smiled gently. Bucky squeezed Y/N’s thigh under the table. Mila took a breath.
“Question twelve. Do you have bad days?”
Silence fell over the table, not heavy, just respectful. George put down his cup.
“Yes.”
“How do you cope?” asked Mila.
“I go into the garage. I work with my hands. Practical things help.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook. George continued:
“Why are you asking that question?”
“Because Bucky has bad days sometimes and I wanted to know how his family cope with it, so I can understand what I can do.”
Another silence. George looked at Bucky, then at Mila.
“What you’re doing here is already something.”
“What?”
“Asking the right question at the right time. Trying to understand rather than fix things. That’s better than fixing them.”
Mila took another note.
“Why?”
“Because some things don’t need fixing. They need to be understood and left as they are.”
Bucky leaned towards Y/N and whispered softly in her ear:
“He told me that in the garage five years ago.”
Y/N turned her head slightly and kissed him on the jaw.
“And now he’s telling Mila.”
Bucky squeezed her hand under the table.
“Yes.”
Y/N slipped her fingers between his and squeezed them tightly. They stayed like that throughout the meal, hands clasped, knees pressed against one another. That afternoon, George showed them the engine running. Mila was focused, her notebook open. Bucky and Y/N stayed a little way back in the driveway. He stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“My father thinks of Mila between visits,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“He thinks of very few people like that.”
Y/N turned in his arms and kissed him slowly, tenderly, her hands on his chest.
“That’s good.”
“It’s really good.”
He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair, and they stayed like that for a long time, entwined
Léa returned from her work placement one Friday evening in late August. The flat smelled of fresh coffee and the simple dishes Y/N had laid out on the table. Mila was in her room, the door open, a notebook in her hand, present without being intrusive. When the front door opened at half past seven, Léa came in with her suitcase and her bag. She made the same gesture to put her things down, but something had changed in the way she occupied the space: she was more composed, more confident without being ostentatious. Mila came out of her room straight away.
“You’ve changed,” she said, watching her.
Léa set down her suitcase.
“How so?”
“The way you walk into rooms. You walk in like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.”
Léa smiled slightly.
“It’s Amira.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook.
“What has she taught you?”
“To walk into rooms knowing why I’m there.”
Y/N watched them both in the hallway. She discreetly took out her phone.
Léa’s back.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know.
She sent me a message from the taxi. She says the work placement went well in the truest sense of the word.
In the truest sense of the word.
That’s what she said. How is she?
Mila says she walks into rooms like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.
It’s Amira.
At dinner, Léa spoke about the internship in small, precise details. She recounted the complex cases from the third week, the intellectual property lawyer who had praised her questions. Mila listened attentively.
“Did Nathan say that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a huge compliment.”
“That’s what Amira said too.”
Mila nodded.
“And what did you say?”
“Thank you.”
“Just ‘thank you’.”
“Yes.”
Mila smiled.
“That’s the right answer.”
Léa took a sip of coffee.
“Amira told me something on the last day. She said that NYU will give me the tools, but what I’ve learnt this summer is how to hold them.”
”Y/N looked up.”
“How do you hold the tools?”
“The difference between knowing a tool exists and knowing which hand to put it in depending on the situation.”
Mila chimed in straight away.
“It’s like pencils. I learnt the different thicknesses first. Then I learnt which one to use depending on what I’m drawing.”
Léa looked at her little sister.
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
Y/N slipped her foot under the table and gently stroked Bucky’s ankle; he’d come straight from work. He responded by placing his hand on her thigh, squeezing it tenderly. Their eyes met for a moment, filled with that silent warmth. The next morning, Y/N arrived at the workshop at seven o’clock. Nadia was already there, having been on the job since July, with two coffees on the large table.
“Margot has confirmed September. She’s arriving on the fifteenth.”
“Right.”
“She wants to see the workshop and the pieces in production, not the finished ones.”
Y/N nodded.
“She wants to see how we work.”
Nadia smiled slightly.
“Yes. She says the way things are done says more than the result.”
Y/N thought of her father turning each garment over one last time. She picked up her needle. Later that morning, Nadia placed a sheet of paper on the table: a new article, by Diane Chen.
Y/N read it slowly, feeling something stir within her. When Bucky dropped by at the end of the day, he found her still hunched over the table. He approached silently, draped his jacket over her shoulders because she’d shivered slightly, then slipped his arms around her waist from behind. He kissed her neck, lingeringly, before whispering:
“You look tired, sweetheart.”
“A bit.”
He turned her gently, pulled her close and kissed her properly, a slow, deep kiss, his hands caressing her back beneath the fabric. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I’ve brought you something to eat. I know you’ve forgotten.”
Y/N smiled against his mouth.
“You know me too well.”
“It’s my job.”
He kissed her again, more gently, then stayed close by whilst she tidied up, his hand still on her back, possessive and tender at the same time.
Margot Lemaire arrived in New York on Tuesday morning, 15 September. She had asked to see Brooklyn first, not just the studio, as if she wanted to get a feel for the surroundings before forming an opinion of the place itself. Nadia had organised everything: a simple stroll through the neighbourhood, without a guide, just walking. Y/N was waiting for her outside the building at ten o’clock. Margot was younger than she had imagined, in her forties, with short, confidently grey hair, and that calm presence of someone who took exactly what she needed. They climbed the three flights of stairs. Margot entered the studio and did what everyone else did: she looked closely, slowly, in silence. She ran her hand along the shelves, organised by fabric weight, from heaviest to lightest.
“That makes sense,” she murmured.
She took the raw Williamsburg linen between her fingers, crumpled it gently, then let it spring back into shape.
“Did you find this one on your own?”
“Yes. For the trousers and part of the coat.”
“The colour can’t be replicated with dye.”
Margot laid the fabric back down carefully, almost reverently. She walked over to the large solid-wood table and ran her fingers over the old marks in the wood.
“A dressmaker used to work here. Marcus. He made stage costumes for Off-Broadway theatres. Mila looked up his name.”
Margot nodded, a small smile on her lips.
“ ‘Spaces have memories.”
She walked over to the wall displaying the sketches for the second collection, pausing at length over the jacket with the slit at the wrist.
“The second collection.”
“Yes. Not finished yet. Just directions. What we choose to show when we’re ready.”
Margot jotted something down in her notebook. Then she asked to see a piece that was currently in progress. Y/N took out the merino wool coat for Chicago and turned it inside out on the table. Margot took it in her hands, turned each sleeve inside out, and examined the inner seams in silence for several long seconds.
“Your father was a tailor.”
“Yes. He used to turn every garment inside out before handing it back. To check one last time.”
Margot looked up.
“My grandfather made shoes in Lyon. He used to check the inner seams of the lining. He said the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.”
Y/N felt a gentle emotion welling up in her throat.
“That’s exactly it.”
Margot laid the coat down carefully.
“Fond has been around for eight years because I’m looking for designers who’ve learnt that. Not at school. Through a way of working passed down through the generations. Thomas is what I’ve been looking for for three years.”
She took out her notebook.
“Three pieces to start with. The signature dress, the coat, and a jacket. If it goes well, we’ll talk about the second collection. Take as long as you need. I’d rather wait for something that’s just right.”
Nadia, sitting in the corner, discreetly took notes. Margot looked at her for a moment.
“Your assistant. ,Nadia. She keeps my schedule clear so I can sew.”
After the visit, they went for lunch at the little café on the corner. Sitting by the window, with the bustling Bushwick street behind the glass, the conversation flowed naturally. Margot spoke of ‘what we keep’, her shop’s slogan since day one. Y/N told her about George , who had checked the inner seams twice on the evening of the presentation.
“It’s the biggest compliment he gives: ‘It’s well made.’ Two words.” Margot smiled. “My grandfather used to say exactly the same thing.”
Y/N felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She read Bucky’s message under the table.
Are you holding up okay?
I’ve been thinking about you all morning.
She replied straight away.
It’s going well. She really gets it!
He replied within seconds.
I know. I’m proud of you.
See you tonight, I’ll bring you some food. I know you’ll forget.
When Margot left, Y/N went back up to the workshop alone. She sat down at the large table, her hands flat on the worn wood, and breathed slowly. She thought of Marcus, of her father, of Margot’s grandfather, of Hana’s father. All those hands that had done things right. She picked up her phone.
Margot said yes. Three pieces for Fond Paris.
Bucky replied straight away.
I know. Nadia sent me a message when she left the workshop.
How are you feeling?
His grandfather used to make shoes in Lyon and would check the inner seams of the lining. He used to say that the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.
It’s Thomas.
Yes, sweetheart. It’s Thomas.
Your father would have liked Margot.
Yes. I think they would have understood each other without many words. People who’ve learnt the same things always understand each other.
Y/N put down her phone, turned off the light and walked down the three flights of stairs in the dark Bushwick stairwell. She could still feel the warmth of Bucky’s hands on her, even though he wasn’t there.
Lea started classes at NYU on a Monday in September. The night before, she had packed her bag using the precise method she’d worked out for herself: nothing extra, everything in its place. She slipped Muybridge’s book in last, like an anchor. Mila watched her from the doorway, a notebook in her hand, without saying a word.
“Do you have something to say?”
Lea asked without turning around.
“No.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m watching.”
Lea closed her bag and turned around. Mila was there, calm.
“I’ll be back tonight,” said Lea. “Every night.”
“I know.”
A silence settled in. Mila paused.
“That’s not why I’m watching. “
“Then why?”
“I wanted to see how you put the important things away last.”
Lea looked at her bag, the book visible on top. She smiled softly.
“You saw.”
“Yes. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“You said thanks right away.”
Lea laughed softly.
“I’m learning. ”
On Monday evening, Lea got home at 6:30 p.m.
Y/N was in the kitchen, and Mila was sitting at the table with her pencils. Bucky was already there, settled on the couch with the second notebook. He came over often on Monday evenings now, like a gentle routine that had fallen into place naturally. Léa set down her bag and sat down. Mila looked up.
“How did it go?”
“Good. The first day is mostly introductions. The real classes start on Thursday.”
“Did you meet anyone?” Mila asked.
“A few people. There’s Priya, who did an internship with a federal judge this summer. And Sam, from Portland, who worked for two years before coming here.”
Mila jotted something down.
“They have experience.”
“Yeah. But not the same kind as Amira. She taught me how to handle the tools. NYU will teach me how to choose the right ones.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“That’s a good sequence.”
Bucky, from the couch, spoke without looking up from the notebook, his voice calm:
“Priya and Sam. Do you have their numbers?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Lea looked at him for a moment. Bucky kept turning the pages, but you could tell he was really listening.
“Thanks,” said Lea.
“For what?”
“For saying ‘good.’”
“It makes sense.”
“No. It’s thoughtful.”
Mila chimed in from her notebook:
“She used the words.”
Lea sighed with a smile.
“I hear you, Mila.”
“I was just noting it down.”
Y/N slid her foot under the table and stroked Bucky’s leg. He immediately placed his hand on her thigh, squeezed it tenderly, then moved a little higher, possessive and gentle. Their eyes met. He gave her a small smile that said it all. The following week, on a Tuesday evening, Bucky came to the studio unannounced. When Y/N pushed open the door, he was already there, sitting on the ledge of the middle window.
She sensed right away that something was wrong.
“How long have you been here?” she asked, setting down her bag.
“An hour. Nadia gave me the key. She told me you’d need someone tonight.”
Y/N moved closer. She sat right next to him, her thigh pressed against his. He immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest, her face buried in his hair.
“How are you?” she whispered.
“Not good tonight.”
She slid her hands under his shirt, stroking his back slowly, feeling the tense muscles.
“Since this morning?”
“Since yesterday. But tonight it’s worse. Images. Not nightmares… images during the day. Things I’ve experienced that come back without warning.”
Y/N lifted her head and kissed him gently, lingeringly, until he relaxed a little against her. He returned her kiss, deep and almost urgent, his hands clasping her waist.
“Have you talked to your therapist about it?” she asked against his lips.
“Next Thursday.”
“That’s in two days.”
He nodded. She kissed him again, more tenderly this time, then rested her forehead against his.
She picked up her needle again. Bucky stayed on the windowsill, right next to her. Every now and then he would get up, come up behind her, place his hands on her shoulders, massage her gently, and kiss the back of her neck. At one point he whispered,
“There’s one that’s been coming back for days. A hallway. The light… the way the floor echoed underfoot.”
Y/N set down her needle, turned around in her chair, and pulled him between her legs. She held him tight against her, his face against her stomach.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Not tonight. Thursday with her. But I wanted to tell you it was there.”
She stroked his back under his shirt.
“I know. “Thanks for telling me.”
He knelt in front of her, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her slowly, intensely, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, his hands on her thighs.
“It’s easier to say it now.”
“Than before?”
“Yes. Before, I kept it all inside. Now it’s still hard… but I can talk about it.”
Y/N kissed him on the forehead, then on the lips, gently.
“You know I’m here.”
“Yes.”
“Not to fix things.”
“I know.”
“To understand.”
He rested his head on her lap for a moment. She ran her fingers through his hair. They stayed like that for a long time, in the silence of the studio, with only the distant sound of the street and their breathing. On Thursday, after her session, Bucky sent her a message.
It went well. She said that being able to talk about it before the session is progress.
Y/N replied right away, sitting at the big table.
Talk to me?
Yes.
Before, I’d come with everything bottled up inside. Now I arrive with things already named.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The hallway… she thinks we can work on that.
I wanted to tell you. I know.
Thank you. It makes sense.
It’s thoughtful.
Both can be true.
She smiled, her heart warm, and already imagined his hands on her tonight, his body against hers, the way he held her as if she were his anchor.
October had arrived, bringing with it that typical New York autumn light that makes everything seem sharper. The buildings looked more defined, the trees in the parks were ablaze with colour, and the light had shifted, becoming softer and more oblique. One Wednesday morning, Y/N finished the sixth order. The merino wool coat for the client in Chicago was ready. She laid it on the large table, turned it over one last time, and checked every inner seam with her fingertips, slowly, just as her father used to do. Everything was perfect. She took a photo of the seams and sent it to Nadia.
The sixth one is ready.
Nadia replied almost immediately.
I’ll get in touch with the client today about the delivery.
Y/N walks over to the middle window and glances down into the courtyard. Someone is hanging out the washing. The bike is still there. Everyday life in Bushwick carries on, undisturbed. Her phone vibrates.
The sixth coat is finished.
Bucky replies almost instantly.
I know. Nadia sent me a photo of the seams. How are you?
Fine. Really fine.
You’ve got that look on your face.
How can you tell I’ve got a certain look on my face from a text?
I know the way you say ‘really well’. When it’s just okay, you say ‘fine’. When it’s better than that, you say ‘really well’.
Y/N smiles, touched that he knows her so well, so deeply. She types:
This morning, it’s more than fine.
Why?
Because six coats are finished with impeccable stitching, Fond Paris, Shizen Tokyo, Rose & Root Portland, Margot arriving soon, Léa at NYU, Mila turning eleven… and you, my love, who’s feeling better.
Yes. It’s more than fine.
The following Friday, the newspapers were talking about Thomas in a different light. Sophie Park had published an article in a mainstream magazine: ‘Alpine and Thomas: when love runs the business’. Y/N read it on the tube at eight o’clock in the morning. The words stung her for a moment, like a sudden chill. She put her mobile away and looked at the people around her.
At the office, at midday, Camila popped in.
“Sophie Park?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to respond?”
“Yes. Straight away. Not to her, but to what she wrote.”
Camila sat down.
“Tell me what you mean.”
Y/N thought aloud.
“That I found the Williamsburg linen all by myself. That I learnt the inside seams from my father, long before I met Bucky. That Thomas’s philosophy was in my notebooks months before Alpine. And that Amira drew up a contract that protects Thomas, not the other way round.”
Camila nodded.
“And what about the relationship?”
“The relationship doesn’t explain the stitches. Both exist at the same time. Neither replaces the other.”
“That’s right.”
That evening, when Bucky arrived at the studio, he found her still bent over the table. He set a bag of food down on the corner, approached from behind and wrapped his arms around her.He kissed her neck, lingering there, then her shoulder.
“You’ve forgotten to eat,” he murmured against her skin.
“A little.”
He turned her round, held her close, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. He kissed her gently, then more deeply, until she relaxed completely in his arms.
“I’ve got you what you like. And then we’ll go home, and I’ll run you a bath.”
Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“You think of everything.”
“I think of you. All the time.”
He kissed her again, tenderly and intensely at the same time, his hands sliding over her hips
Mila found out Y/N’s answer that Friday evening. Nadia had gone to the trouble of printing out the page so that Mila could touch it, feel it between her fingers. Mila stood rooted to the spot in the hallway, the sheet held out in front of her, her eyes fixed on it.
“The last sentence,” she said in a calm voice.
“Yes,” replied Y/N from the kitchen.
“It’s true.”
“Yes.”
“Sophie Park was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“You replied straight away.”
Mila carefully folded the sheet of paper, first in half, then into quarters, and went to put it away in her special drawer, the one where she keeps the things that really matter. Y/N heard her open and close the drawer very gently. Léa came out of the kitchen with her coffee.
“She’s put it in the drawer,” remarked Léa.
”Yes”.
”That’s good”.
Léa took a sip.
“Amira sent me the article on Monday morning with just one note: ‘This is why we’ve been documenting everything from the start.’”
Y/N smiled.
“She’d planned it all.”
Léa nodded.
“That’s why we’re thanking her for the Muybridge notebooks.”
That weekend, Bucky arrived at the studio with a small, plain cardboard box. He set it down on the large table without saying a word, then approached Y/N from behind, wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Open it,” he whispered in her ear before kissing her neck.
Inside were spools of thread, a shade between white and beige, slightly warm, almost iridescent in the light.
“It’s a blend of silk and linen,” he explained softly. “A supplier in Kyoto. Hana recommended it to me. She says this thread ages well, that the stitching becomes more interesting over time. Like a patina.”
Y/N picked up a spool and twirled it between her fingers. Bucky stayed pressed against her back, his hands on her waist, stroking her gently.
“For the inner seams of the second collection,” she said.
“That’s what Hana thought. If the second collection shows what we choose to reveal, then these seams that improve with wear… that’s the foundation.”
He kissed her on the temple, then slipped a hand under her top to stroke her stomach very gently.
“Hana also told me that the three pieces would have their own presentation in Tokyo in November. A small gathering. Twenty people who’ll really be looking.”
Y/N turned in his arms and looked at him.
“I’ll be there.”
“I know. I’ve already told her you’d be coming. It was obvious.”
She kissed him slowly, deeply, her hands on his chest. He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair.
“Mila’s going to want to come,” she murmured against his lips.
“I know. She’s already sent me three questions for Hana this morning.”
He kissed her again, more tenderly, then rested his forehead against hers.
“Nadia invited her straight away. She says that Thomas without Mila wouldn’t be complete.”
Y/N smiled, her heart full.
“Nadia really does understand.”
The following Tuesday, Bucky had a bad day. He wasn’t at the workshop as planned. Around seven o’clock, he messaged:
I’m staying in tonight. Not a good day.
Y/N put down her needle.
I’m coming over.
You don’t need to.
I know. I’m coming anyway.
On the tube to Dumbo, she sent a message to Mila.
I’m at Bucky’s tonight. Lea’s at home.
Mila replied quickly.
I know. Tell him Robert’s doing well.
When she arrived, he opened the door with that heavier look on his face. She went in without a word, took off her coat and went straight into the kitchen to make tea. She knew every cupboard by heart now. She brought two cups and sat right next to him on the sofa.
“The corridor came back this morning,” he murmured.
She set her cup down, slid onto his lap and wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her neck, holding her tight.
“Did you ring your therapist?”
“Yes. On Thursday. She says it’s normal during times of change.”
Y/N stroked his back beneath his shirt, slowly, for a long time. He lifted his head, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with that gentle, almost desperate intensity, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, forehead to forehead.
“You’re staying tonight,” she said.
“Yes.”
They stayed entwined on the sofa, his hands on her, possessive and tender, until the evening wore on and the weight seemed a little lighter.
On the Thursday after session, he messaged:
It went well. She says that being able to talk about it beforehand is already progress.
Y/N replied from the studio.
Talking to me?
Yes.
Before, I kept everything to myself. Now I come in with things I can put into words.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The corridor… we can work on that.
November had arrived, a bitterly cold month, and this time, our destination was Tokyo. We set off on a Wednesday: Y/N, Bucky, Mila with her notebook full of questions she’d prepared especially for Hana, and Léa, who’d managed to secure four days off from NYU. On the plane, as soon as the lights went out, Bucky gently slipped his hand into Y/N’s. He brought it to his lips, kissed it tenderly, then held it close to him, his thumb stroking the back of her hand without ever stopping, like a soothing little ritual.
“Are you tired?” he whispered close to her ear.
“A bit, but too excited to sleep,” she replied.
So he drew her even closer, put an arm around her shoulders, and planted a gentle kiss on her temple, then another on her cheek, before finding her lips in the darkness of the cabin. It was a long, tender kiss, like a secret shared only between the two of them. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered,
“Get some sleep; I’m here, I’ll keep watch.”
In Tokyo, Hana was waiting for them at the airport. She was petite, precise in her movements, with a calmness that commanded respect. She greeted everyone, then looked at Mila with a gentle smile.
“I’m told you have some questions?”
“Seventeen, to be precise,” replied Mila, her eyes sparkling.
“Perfect. Let’s start in the car, then,” said Hana, opening the door.
And throughout the journey, Mila reeled off her questions one by one, like a thread she was patiently unwinding.
Bucky kept his hand on Y/N’s knee, gently stroking it with his thumb. Every now and then he would lean in to kiss her temple or whisper something in her ear, just for her. Shizen was small, bright and carefully organised. When Y/N saw her three pieces on display, she felt a lump in her throat. Bucky stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. ‘They’re beautiful,’ he murmured.
“You’ve done a lovely job, my love.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then held her closer to him. The presentation took place on Friday evening. Only twenty-two people, but they were really watching. Y/N stayed close to the wall. Bucky came over to her, slipped his hand round her back, under her jumper, caressing her skin with his fingertips.
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
“Fine. A bit nervous.”
“You’re perfect.”
He kissed her on the temple, then on the lips, a gentle but deep kiss, before staying pressed against her, his hand still on her back. Mila was talking to Kenji, a furniture designer who specialised in hidden joints. Bucky watched the scene and smiled. “She’s found her equal.” Y/N turned towards him. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close against his chest, one hand in her hair.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “Of all this.”
He kissed her again, more lingeringly, as if they were alone in the shop. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
On the last morning, Y/N went back to Shizen’s place on her own. As she left, she sent a photo of the coins to Bucky.
They returned to New York on a Sunday morning, still reeling from jet lag and the dull November light that bathed Brooklyn. Mila fell asleep in the taxi, her head resting against the window, her notebook clutched to her chest. Léa, meanwhile, kept her eyes open, serene, watching the city go by. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers gently stroking the fabric of her trousers.
“You look tired,” he murmured, giving her a tender look.
“A bit. So do you. ”
He gently squeezed her thigh, then slid his hand towards her waist, caressing her with that constant attention that came so naturally to him.
“Have something to eat tonight. I know you barely touched the tray on the plane.”
Y/N placed her hand on his and squeezed it.
“All right. ”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it for a long time, without taking his eyes off the road.When they arrived at the flat, Mila woke up, went upstairs and rushed straight into her bedroom. Y/N heard her open the drawer where she kept her important things and carefully put her notes from Tokyo away.
A few minutes later, Mila came back out.
“I’ve put the notes from Tokyo in the drawer.”
“Right,” replied Y/N softly.
Mila paused for a moment.
“I’ve also got a question for George, now that I’m back.”
Y/N smiled.
“About the dovetail joints?”
“No. About something Kenji said. I want to check with George if it’s true in two different contexts. He said that the strongest joints improve with use. The wood tightens over time and becomes stronger.”
Y/N nodded, touched by her precision.
“That’s a good question. Send it to him tonight. ”
Mila looked satisfied and went back to her room. Léa came out of the bathroom, her face refreshed.
“Has Mila already sent a message to George?”
“Yes,” replied Y/N. “About joints getting better with use.”
Léa smiled.
“She’ll have a reply tomorrow morning at six forty.”
Bucky, who had just come up behind Y/N, slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
“Lea’s going to Priya’s tonight,” he murmured against her skin. “We’ve got the flat to ourselves for a while.”
Y/N leaned into him, feeling his warm hands on her stomach.
“Perfect. ”
That evening, Bucky stayed. Mila was already asleep, exhausted from the journey. In the quiet living room, they were alone with their teas. Bucky pulled Y/N onto the sofa and sat her between his legs, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand sliding under her jumper to gently stroke her stomach, the other running through her hair.
“The second collection… what are you thinking for the presentation?” he asked softly, his lips against her ear.
“Not Bushwick this time. Something different. Maybe Shizen.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then moved up to her jawline.
“It’s an important decision. Take your time. ”
Y/N closed her eyes, savouring the warmth of his body against hers.
“Is Robert all right?”
“Nadia watered him while we were away. She said that the plants of someone who lives with Thomas deserve to be watered.”
Y/N smiled and turned her head to kiss him. The kiss was tender, then deeper, their breaths mingling for a long time. When they pulled apart, Bucky held her tighter, a possessive hand on her hip.
“Robert’s had a third leaf since Friday.”
“During Tokyo…”
“Yes.”
He kissed her again, gently, then rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Things that get better with use… Mila’s right.”
Y/N leaned her head back against him.
“Yes. That goes for everything else too.”
They stayed like that for a long time, entwined in the silence of the living room, his hands caressing her skin beneath her jumper, his warm breath on her neck.
✧ LOOKING FOR A BETA READER ✧
Seeking a Beta Reader for two upcoming Bucky Barnes fics!
Hi everyone!
Just to be clear: this is NOT for my current fic 'Swipe to You'. Swipe to You is already completely finished on my side, and I will just continue to publish the remaining chapters as planned!
This request is for new projects that I am currently writing. They are not yet finished and not yet published, and I’m looking for a Beta Reader to help me along the way.
I am a French author, and writing in English is my way to practice and improve it! I would love some help with proofreading (grammar, spelling, and making the sentences sound more natural). I’m also completely open to your thoughts, advice, and constructive feedback on the plot and characters as I write.
FANDOM/CHARACTER. Marvel / Bucky Barnes
FIC 1 (~20 CHAPTERS). A post-Endgame story filled with heavy angst, drama, and secrets from the past resurfacing. It deals with memory loss, identity, and healing.
FIC 2 (~40 CHAPTERS). A lighter, emotional, and comforting story featuring a celebrity dynamic and a lovely slice-of-life romance.
Since I'm still writing them, we can work chapter by chapter at our own pace. If you love Bucky, love a good mix of deep angst and sweet romance, and want to join me on these new journeys, please send me an ask or a DM! I’ll be happy to credit you as my Beta when I start posting.
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Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +10.8k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
May arrived with longer daylight hours that lingered on Brooklyn’s facades, softening the edges of the buildings and stretching the shadows across the sidewalks.
Y/N was walking alongside Sofia, her mind still filled with the sketches she’d just finished retouching, when her gaze drifted automatically toward the large window of the restaurant across from Alpine. Bucky was there, sitting by the window, talking to a woman with dark hair. Documents were spread out between them. Nothing spectacular. Just a business meeting. Sofia continued on her way without a word. Y/N did the same. But something had settled inside her, light, almost imperceptible, like a seam pulling slightly on the fabric. She didn’t say anything to Bucky that evening. Not because she was trying to hide anything, but because she didn’t yet know if that feeling deserved a name.
Dans l’atelier de Bushwick, elle monta les trois étages, le sac lourd sur l’épaule. La lumière du soir filtrait à travers les trois fenêtres, teintant les tissus d’une lueur dorée. L’odeur du lin brut et de la laine mérinos l’accueillit, rassurante. Elle posa ses affaires sur la grande table en bois massif, passa la main sur le grain usé du plateau, et pensa à son père qui, lui aussi, caressait toujours le bois avant de commencer à couper. Ce geste simple la reliait à lui, à ces soirées où il travaillait tard dans leur petit appartement, vérifiant une dernière fois les coutures intérieures à la lumière d’une lampe basse.Elle travailla jusqu’à vingt heures. Le temps passa lentement, rythmé par le bruit régulier de l’aiguille et le murmure lointain de la rue en bas.
When she finally got home, the apartment smelled of the tea Mila had made. The little girl was sitting at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, the stationary horse taking shape with that almost solemn precision she’d come to possess. She looked up when Y/N walked in.
“Something’s wrong.”
Y/N set down her bag.I’m tired.
“It’s not just tiredness.”
Mila looked at her with that calmness that saw too much. Y/N hesitated, then shook her head.
“It’s nothing.”
“Okay.”
Mila went back to her drawing, accepting the incomplete answer without closing the door. Léa walked past in the hallway, cast a silent glance, then disappeared into her room. Y/N retreated to her own room, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up her phone.
That faint sensation was still there, lingering. Have a good evening, my love. The reply came almost immediately.
Have a good evening, sweetheart. Are you back from the studio?
Yes. How was your day?
Fine.
Had a meeting with the communications team at Altitude Partners at lunchtime. Long but useful.
Y/N stared at the screen for a moment, then simply typed: Okay. She put down her phone and looked at the ceiling of her bedroom. She thought about how Bucky had told her one night in the car that it had been over for three years and that it was really over, and how she had believed that completely because it was true. What she felt now was different, more vague, the realization that she truly cared about him and that truly caring about someone made things vulnerable. She fell asleep. The next morning, Bucky was waiting for her at the bottom of the building at eight o’clock. Not in the car. Standing in the street, two coffees from the corner bakery in his hands. The May light was long and soft on his face. He had that calm, almost tender expression, the one he wore when he sensed she needed something without her asking for it.
“You didn’t have to,” she said, taking the coffee.
“I know.”
They walked toward the subway.
The cold didn’t really feel cold anymore. Brooklyn was coming to life around them.
“Nora Vidal,” he said softly. “She’s been working at Altitude for two years. She’s professional, competent, and that’s all.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.”
“I’m telling you anyway.”
“Bucky.”
“Yes.”
“I trust you.”
“I know. And that’s why I’m telling you—because you deserve to know that’s really all there is to it.”
Y/N sipped her coffee as she walked. The words lingered with her for a long time, spoken with that quiet candour he’d picked up. He slipped his jacket over her shoulders when he felt her shiver slightly, even before she said so.
“It’s over, she said.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It was a split second of something I wanted to name.”
“It’s good that you named it.”
“I could have kept it to myself.”
“Yes. You were right not to.”
They reached the underground. He was going the other way. She took her coffee and looked at him. He placed his hand on her back, a gentle, possessive gesture, then kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you for coming this morning.”
“It made sense.”
“My love.”
“Yes.”
“It was thoughtful.”
“Both can be true.”
“I know.”
She kissed him on the subway stairs, a simple, sincere kiss, then went down to the platform. That evening, Bucky dropped by for dinner unannounced. A message at six o’clock:
I’m popping round tonight.
He arrived with ingredients for pancakes and a bottle of wine.
“You’ve got wine,” Mila remarked as he came in.
“For Lea.”
“Lea said that wine with pancakes is underrated.”
“I know.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“You listen.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She began preparing her cooking supplies with the seriousness of a sous-chef. Léa came in, spotted the bottle and looked at Bucky.
“You said it was underrated,” she said.
“I said that three weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“You waited for the right moment.”
“No. I’ve been waiting for an evening that deserved some wine.”
Léa looked at Y/N. Y/N looked at Bucky. He was already taking out the ingredients with the calmness of a man who did things without making a fuss. Léa went to fetch some glasses. They ate the pancakes with wine. Mila took a tiny sip “for comparison’s sake”. Bucky gently reminded her that she’d have to wait until she turned twenty-one. Mila calculated aloud that it would be in eleven years. Léa rolled her eyes but drank her glass with a small smile. Y/N watched them around the table: Mila with her precise calculations, Léa with her internship notes, Bucky pouring the wine with that natural attentiveness. These people in her kitchen on a May evening. These people were hers.
Sofia approved the first finished pieces one Friday morning in Alpine’s creative space. Y/N arrived at nine o’clock with the four pieces in separate cloth bags and placed them on the large table. Sofia took them out one by one. She examined them methodically, in silence, with that total concentration she reserved for things that deserved to be truly looked at. Camila was there too, standing against the wall with her coffee, present without taking up any space. Sofia finished with the signature dress. She held it up to the light, looked at the visible stitching at the neckline, turned the sleeves inside out, checked the hem. She placed the dress on the mannequin and stepped back.
“It’s ready.”
Just a couple of words. But coming from Sofia, it meant a whole lot.
“Yes,” she simply replied.
Y/N looked at the four pieces lying on the table, and the one on the mannequin. There they were, very real. Not just sketches on a sheet of paper, nor wobbly prototypes. No, this time, it was the real deal. Finished garments, neatly made, inside and out. It made the whole thing feel a bit unreal.
Sophia continued:
“The presentation’s in June. I’ve booked the venue in Bushwick for the sixth.”
“6 June?”
“Yes. It’s a Friday. You know full well that people go out on Friday nights.”
“And you booked it without even asking my opinion?”
Sofia took a sip of coffee, taking her time.
“I would have asked you if you’d said no. But I knew you’d say yes.”
Y/N let out a sigh.
“Right… fine.”
Sofia raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips:
“There you go.”
“I spoke to two journalists from the specialist press,” Camila continued. “Not the mainstream media, no — people who take the time to observe, to really understand what they’re seeing.”
She looked at her, a little surprised.
“You really did contact the press?”
“Yes. And both said they wanted to come.”
She thought back to the way Camila went about things, always gently, with that quiet efficiency that made her unique.
“Thank you.”
“It made sense,” replied Camila.
Y/N looked her straight in the eye.
“Stop saying that.”
Camila gave a wry smile.
“That’s what Bucky usually says.”
“I know. It’s contagious.”
“Yeah… actually, it’s not so bad.”
Sofia took out her phone and snapped a photo of the four items. She had a folder, a real one, on her phone. It was called ‘real things’. Y/N knew this because she’d caught a glimpse of her screen one day.
“You’re putting the photos in the ‘real things’ folder, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“How long has that folder been there?”
“Since I started in fashion. To remind me why I’m doing all this.”
Y/N thought about that. A folder of real things, in an industry that produced so few of them. A small collection of truth, tucked away in her phone.
“Is Thomas in there?”
“Thomas’s been in there since the very first sketch.”
Y/N didn’t reply. But she didn’t need to. The silence said it all.
That evening, Y/N went back to the studio alone. She switched on the light, and her gaze fell on the four pieces hanging on the back wall. They had come back from Alpine’s creative space, packed away in their canvas bags, and she had put them back exactly where they had been before. As if they’d never left.But something had changed. Sofia had said, ‘It’s ready,’ and now it really was ready, not just in the studio, but out in the world, for 6 June, for the journalists, for the people who would be coming. She sat on the sill of the middle window, Bucky’s spot, and looked at the four pieces.
The evening light streamed in through the windows, soft on the fabrics. Her phone vibrated.
Sofia sent me a photo of the four rooms this morning. They’re lovely, sweetheart. Really lovely.
Sofia sent you a photo?
She’s sending them to everyone, apparently. Camila told me the same thing. And my mum.
Y/N paused.
Your mum.
Yes. Sofia has her number . She sent her a photo and my mum replied with three dress emojis. Three dress emojis. Mila taught her the themed emojis. The dress has been her go-to emoji ever since Mila showed her.
She read the message and immediately thought of Winnifred , the one with the Thomas emoji and the photos of Sofia.
Your mum’s coming on 6 June. She asked this morning. I said yes.
And your dad?
He asked if the coat would be there. I’m bringing the coat. I’ll tell him. He’ll nod once.
Y/N put her phone down and stayed on the windowsill for a while longer, with the four pieces hanging on the wall and 6 June drawing nearer. And Winnifred Barnes with her three dress emojis. Those people watching her. Her people.
On Saturday, Mila showed Y/N the drawing she was working on. Not the final version, just the first few hours’ work on the final sheet. She brought it into the kitchen carefully, as if it were fragile, and laid it flat on the table. The horse was there. Not finished yet, just the first few lines, but already something more assertive, a line that knew where it was going.
“It’s not bad,” said Y/N.
“Yeah, I know. But something’s not quite right.”
“What is it?”
“The horse’s left eye. It needs to be looking out of the frame, but at the same time, it should have that kind of calm, composed look of a relaxed animal. The problem is, if I turn it too far off-screen, it looks on its guard, almost stressed. And if I make it too calm, well, it just stares into space, as if it couldn’t care less.”
Y/N looked at the eye in question. Mila had hit the nail on the head: it really was the trickiest balance to get right.
“Send the photo to Bucky,” said Y/N.
“I sent it to his dad first.”
“Obviously.”
Mila chuckled softly.
“He replied within twenty minutes, can you believe it? He told me that the horse’s eye, when it’s in passive surveillance mode — he calls it ‘diffuse attention’ — has a tiny bit of the white visible on the outer side. Not all of the white, mind you, just a hint.”
“Diffuse attention,” Y/N repeated.
“Yeah. The horse watches without looking directly, basically. A bit like someone listening to a conversation without appearing to, you know what I mean?”
Y/N remained silent for a moment, letting the idea sink in. Diffuse attention, that way of picking up on the essentials without ever staring directly at things. It reminded her of Thomas, his inner seams, those invisible threads that hold everything together even when you can’t see them.
“It’s exactly the same as Thomas,” she finally said.
“I know, that’s why it’s the right drawing.”
Léa came into the kitchen with her notes.
“George told me about diffuse attention.”
“You read my message.”
“You’d left your phone on the hall table.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to read it.”
“I wasn’t reading it, I was just looking at it.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“In this context, yes.”
Y/N drank her coffee, thinking that Léa and Mila would be having this sort of discussion for years to come, and that it was one of the truest things in her life.Her phone vibrated. George Barnes.
Eye in diffuse attention — slightly visible white on the outer edge. Mila will find the right balance. She has an eye for it.
Thanks. She’ll find it.
I know. Tell her the drawing’s going to be fine. She can trust me on that.
Y/N went into Mila’s room.
“George says the drawing’s going to be fine and that you can trust him.”
Mila picked up her thinnest pencil.
“I know. he really does watch.”
She started working on the left eye. Y/N stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Mila with her fine pencil and the horse watching something outside the frame.
On Tuesday evening, the workshop was quiet. Mila was staying at George and Winnifred’s, and Léa was at a friend’s house. Y/N had been working on the finishing touches for eighteen hours, hand-sewing the hems on the signature dress and the buttonholes on the coat, which she wanted to be perfect. The evening light bathed the space in a warm glow, the scent of fabric filled the air, and the distant sounds of Brooklyn drifted in through the half-open windows. At eight o’clock, her phone vibrated.
I’m at the bottom of the building.
Are you in the studio?
Yes.
I’m coming up.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs, that steady, precise rhythm she now recognised. He came in with two coffees, paused in the doorway and looked around the studio: the dim light, the four pieces on the wall, Y/N at the table finishing her work, Mila’s drawing on the left-hand wall.
“You worked late, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I wanted to finish those buttonholes tonight.”
“Are they done?”
“Yes.”
She gently set down her needle. He entered the room, placed a coffee next to her, then walked over to the wall where the clothes were hanging. He looked at them one by one, not just out of the corner of his eye, but really, with sincere attention. He stopped in front of the signature dress.
“The stitching is visible there.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve altered it.”
Y/N looked down at the dress.
“Just a millimetre to the right. I felt there was something slightly off, without being able to put my finger on it.”
“Now it’s perfect.”
“Yes.”
He turned towards her. She was still sitting at the table, with her coffee and her finishing touches, and there was something in her expression that wasn't fatigue, but something more open. He walked over to her. She stood up. He kissed her; not a quick peck, but something longer, his hand running through her hair, hers resting on his back. When she pulled away slightly, she whispered:
“The workshop’s all ours tonight.”
“Yeah.”
They stood there for quite a while, bathed in the soft, subdued light. Bucky held her close, his hands lingering on her shoulders, as if he wanted to etch the moment into his memory. His gaze lingered a second longer than usual. Then he simply pressed his lips to her forehead, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The air around them was thick, but not heavy: a gentle, warm tension that needed no words.
“You look well tonight,” he murmured.
“I am well.”
“Not just well.”
“No. Not just well.”
Not just fine. They spoke shortly afterwards. He sat on the windowsill in the middle, his usual spot, and she stayed close to him. He brought her a coffee before she’d even reached out, and tidied away the things she’d left lying on the table. They looked around the rooms in silence, then out at Brooklyn in the May night.
“In three weeks’ time, on 6 June,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
“Are you a bit scared?”
“No. Just the right amount of nervousness. The kind you feel before things that really matter.”
“The buttonholes are done.”
“I know.”
“And the visible seams… they fall exactly where they should.”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re ready.”
“I’ve actually been ready for a while. The presentation is just the moment when everyone discovers what’s already been there in the shadows. The final result, basically.”
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
He put his arm around her. She rested her head against his shoulder and thought about the things made for the people who wear them, not for the people who look at them. The music from a flat above continued, a distant trumpet. She closed her eyes and listened, committing tonight’s melody to memory: Bucky’s breathing, the sounds of Brooklyn, all of it together in the studio with Thomas around them. Her phone vibrated. She smiled in the dark. Mila.
Good evening.
I have a question about diffuse attention. Does it apply to humans as well?
Bucky felt his phone vibrate too. He picked up his own and read:
“She’s asking if diffuse attention applies to humans.”
“She’s going to ask your father that question tomorrow morning. ”
“He’ll reply at 6.40 am.”
Y/N replied to Mila.
Yes. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Goodnight.
Yeah. Goodnight.
Is Bucky there?
Yes.
Good.
Bucky’s mum said goodnight too 😺.
Y/N showed the message to Bucky. He read it.
“My mum sends her goodnights via Mila now. With the cat emoji.”
“She’s adopted the cat emoji for her evening messages ever since Mila told her it was the workshop emoji.”
“The workshop emoji.”
Mila had created a system of themed emojis for the different spaces. Y/N put down her phone and thought of Winnifred Barnes sending goodnight messages with the workshop cat emoji via Mila from Staten Island. It was one of the truest and most beautiful things in her life right now. She whispered,
“I love you, my love.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
The trumpet continued for a few more minutes, then stopped. Brooklyn carried on.
Two weeks before 6 June, Léa made an announcement at dinner. Without any preamble, she put down her fork and simply said that Amira had offered her the chance to extend her work placement until the end of August. There was a moment’s silence around the table. Mila looked up from her plate.
“That’s three weeks longer than planned.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll agree?”
“Yes.”
“Good”.
Mila picked up her fork again as if everything had been settled. Y/N looked at her sister. Léa was looking at her with the calmness of someone who’d already made up their mind and was waiting for the others to take note. Y/N felt a gentle warmth in her chest.
“When did Amira suggest this to you?”
“This morning. She said I’ve seen enough to understand the structure but not enough to see how the structure holds up against reality. She wants me to look at complex cases.”
“Complex cases.”
“Not in the sense of difficult. In the sense that reality doesn’t always match the principles.”
Y/N thought about seeing what’s really there rather than what one expects to see. Muybridge, diffuse attention, and now complex cases. Léa was building something systematically, brick by brick.
“You’ll be here for the 6th of June.”
“Yes. The internship starts on the 1st of July.”
“And NYU in September.”
“Yes. Amira said the two were compatible. She checked the calendars.”
Mila said from her plate:
“Amira checked the calendars for Léa.”
Bucky gave a slight, wry smile.
“She does that for people who are really worth putting on a calendar, you know.”
Mila nodded in that way you do when you’ve just taken in a piece of information and mentally filed Amira Hassan away in a very specific slot in your personal classification system.Léa took a sip of water.
“There’s something else.”
Y/N waited, saying nothing.
“Amira’s going to introduce me to a lawyer who specialises in intellectual property. She thinks it’s useful to understand how all this works, especially for someone like me who’s going to be moving between both worlds.”
“Psychology and copyright,” Y/N summarised.
“Yeah. She says creators need lawyers who get how people work, not just how the law applies.”
Y/N thought back to Thomas. To the clauses Amira had drafted. The clean exit clause. The right of first refusal. The amendment to the confidentiality clause. Protections tailor-made by someone who could read minds.
She murmured, almost to herself:
“It’s fair.”
“I know,” said Léa.
Bucky leaned in slightly towards Y/N and said in a low voice:
“Amira is building something with you.”
Lea replied calmly:
“Yes. I realised that this week.”
Mila just blurted it out like that, without even looking up from her plate:
“Honestly, it’s so much cooler when people build things with you, rather than just for you.”
For a moment, everyone around the table stared at her. But she, unfazed, carried on eating her pasta, as if she’d just stated the obvious, something mundane, almost insignificant.Léa smiled slightly.
“Yeah. That’s the real difference.”
“She always makes comments like that, you know,” Bucky leaned towards Y/N and whispered.
Y/N replied immediately, without drawing attention to herself:
“I know.”
“I can hear you, guys,” said Mila, still without looking up.
“We know,” Bucky said with a wry smile.
The next morning, Y/N arrived at the Alpine office around eight o’clock and immediately spotted Lindsey in the corridor, an iPad in her hand. She had that look… you know, the one someone has when they’re about to drop a bombshell.
“The journalist from that independent sustainable fashion magazine wants to meet you, before the presentation on 6 June.”
“She says that the conditions under which the clothes are made are a subject she covers systematically. She wants to see the place to understand how things really work.”
Y/N began to think about his Bushwick workshop. The shelves filled with rolls of fabric, the large solid-wood table covered in small marks and nicks, the sketches pinned all over the walls… and then Mila’s drawing, hanging on the other side. All of this made up her somewhat raw world, not at all ready to be displayed like a shop window.
“When does she want to come?”
“Next week, if that’s OK with you.”
“Alright.”
Lindsey smiled and said:
“Camila warned me you’d say yes.”
Y/N gave her a slight smile.
“Camila says that to everyone, you know.”
“Yes, but that’s because she’s always right.”
Lindsey headed back down the corridor. Y/N went to her desk and picked up her phone.
Lindsey told me about the journalist. She wants to see the workshop.
I know. Camila told me last night. Are you going to agree?
I’ve already said yes. I know. It seems like everyone knows about this before I do.
Everyone? Mila doesn’t know yet.
She’ll find out in ten minutes.
No doubt. She’s got her sources.
Y/N put her phone down with a smile and started her day.The journalist’s name was Clara Osei. She arrived at the studio one Thursday afternoon, with a notebook but no camera. Y/N noticed her straight away: the sort of person who comes to observe and listen first before showing anything. She looked around the workshop like everyone else: the shelves, the fabrics, the large table, the sketches at the back of the wall. Then she stopped in front of Mila’s drawing, hanging on the left.
“It’s a horse, see?”
“Yeah, I can see. My little sister drew it for her school presentation.”
Clara looks up:
“How old is she again?”
“Ten. Well, eleven in three weeks, to be precise.”
Clara looks back at the drawing, studying it for a moment.
“Look at its eye.”
“Yeah, it looks a bit distant, as if it’s looking somewhere else. It’s watching something outside the frame, but without focusing on anything in particular.”
“A bit like the inner seams, don’t you think?”
Y/N pauses, as if the words have just clicked.
“Yes. Definitely. Exactly like the inner seams.”
Clara jots something down in her notebook, the pencil moving swiftly.
“At ten, she’s already grasped the concept of the collection.”
“Actually, she’d understood it even before I explained it to her. It’s just her way of seeing things.”
Clara closes her notebook, stands up and walks over to the shelves. She runs her fingers over the raw Williamsburg linen, takes a moment to smell the bamboo silk, and examines the spools of thread one by one.
“You found these fabrics, didn’t you?”
“The Williamsburg linen, yes, that was me. The bamboo silk, on the other hand, was Sofia. She has a contact over there in Lyon.”
“But for Williamsburg, you went there on your own, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why on your own?”
Y/N paused for a moment to think. Not to give an easy answer, but the real one.
“Because I’d been looking for raw linen for months. And there are some things you only find when you look for them yourself. No one else would have recognised that exact shade.”
Clara jotted down a few more words.
“Your father was a tailor. ”
“Yes.”
“The collection is called Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“He was the one who taught you to take care with the inside seams.”
“He taught me that quality isn’t measured by price. It lies in the care you put into every detail.”
And that the inner seams are the signature of someone who respects their work.Clara closed her notebook.
“I’m going to be frank with you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re working with James Barnes, the CEO of Alpine. There’s a partnership. People are bound to say that’s what made Thomas possible.”
Y/N looked her straight in the eye.
“The partnership with Alpine made it possible to distribute the collection. But the perfect inner seams… I would have made them in my bedroom, all on my own. It’s not about money or resources, it’s about knowing what you’re really after.”
“And what are we after here, then?” asked Clara.
“Do things properly, even when no one’s watching,” replied Y/N.“Because the people who wear these clothes can feel it. They can tell the difference, even if they can’t put it into words.”
Clara opened her notebook again, the one with the slightly worn cover, and began writing non-stop. Y/N waited, staring into space. Then Clara looked up and said:
“The presentation is on 6 June. I’ll be there.”
“I know,” replied Y/N, her voice soft.
“Before that, I’m going to write a few words about Thomas. So people arrive knowing a bit of what to expect.”
“All right.”
“One more thing. Your sister’s drawing… it’ll be on display on 6 June, won’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And she’ll be coming too?”
“Yes,” murmured Y/N.
Clara nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Good”.
She paused in the doorway, turning back one last time.
“Your father, you know… he would have really loved this workshop”.
Y/N looked down for a moment, then replied:
“Yes”.
“I’ll say that on the day,” added Clara. “So that everyone knows.”
She pushed open the door and left. Y/N was left alone in the studio, suspended in that strange kind of silence where the words from earlier still seemed to hang in the air, like ghosts. She picked up her phone, almost without thinking.
The journalist had come; she’d seen everything, noted it all down. Apparently, she’s going to churn out her article before the presentation.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. She sent me a text on her way out to tell me the studio was real. That it all really existed.She also said that your sister, at ten years old, had already grasped the concept of the collection. That it was the most accurate thing anyone had said to her all week.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before typing her reply:
Mila’s going to be eleven in three weeks, my love.
Mila finished the drawing one Sunday morning. Y/N knew because Mila came out of her room at eleven o’clock with the sheet of paper in her hands—not rushing, not excited, but with that calm air of someone who had just finished something important and was still carrying it with her. She laid the sheet flat on the kitchen table. The horse was there, in a resting position with that diffuse focus George had described: the left eye with the white of it slightly visible on the outer side, the ears slightly back toward the right, one front leg extended a centimeter, the weight slightly on the left hind leg. Something outside the frame that you couldn’t see but knew was there. Y/N looked at the drawing for a long time.
“It’s done.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s really good.”
“I know. But it’s nice to hear you say it, you know.” ”
Lea walked in from the hallway. She looked at the drawing on the table. For a few seconds, she said nothing—that’s typical of her; she takes her time before speaking, carefully observing what she sees.
“The eye.”
“The unfocused gaze.”
“Exactly. ”
“It’s the most beautiful drawing you’ve ever done.”
“I know. It was the hardest.”
“The best things are often the hardest.”
“Not always.”
“Often.”
Mila thought for a moment.
“Often. Okay.”
Y/N grabbed her phone and took a photo of the drawing, from a good angle, perfectly framed, with the morning light from the kitchen falling just right. She sent it to Bucky, Sofia, Camila, and George. George was the first to reply, eight minutes later.
The eye is perfect. That little white spot on the outer edge, without overdoing it. That’s the hardest thing to get right, and she nailed it. Tell her it’s great work.
Y/N read the message to Mila.
“I know,” she said. “But it feels good that he noticed.”
Sofia replied after twelve minutes.
The drawing’s going in the hall. Next to the signature dress.
Camila, fifteen minutes later:
Yes. Next to the dress.
Bucky was the last to reply, twenty-two minutes later, which meant he’d really taken the time to look before writing.
It’s the horse watching over something we can’t see. Like Thomas. Mila’s found something important there.
Y/N showed the message to Mila.
“He really looked at it.”
“Yeah, just like George.”
“It must run in the family.”
“Yeah.”
Mila picked up the drawing with the utmost care, as if it might shatter between her fingers. She took it to her room and laid it flat on her desk. I heard her open her drawer, surely to arrange the pencils in the order she likes,that little ritual she keeps to wrap up a task, to say goodbye to what she’s just finished.
Three days before June 6, Clara Osei published her article. I read it on the subway, around seven in the morning, my phone glued to my hand. A long piece, four pages, with photos of the studio taken that famous Thursday afternoon. You could see the large solid-wood table, the shelves filled with fabrics, and Mila’s drawing hanging on the left wall.Clara had written about invisible seams, about Thomas Sr., about that Williamsburg linen found by chance, about Mila, who, at ten years old, had already grasped the concept behind the entire collection. She talked about what it means to do things right, even when no one is watching. And she didn’t mention Bucky once. Not once.Y/N read the article twice on the subway. At first, she didn’t send the link to anyone—she kept it to herself for a few minutes, that little habit we sometimes have of wanting to savor something before sharing it. The penultimate paragraph. Y/N opened the article and went to the penultimate paragraph. Clara had written that some clothes were made for the people who wore them and not for the people who looked at them, and that this was the difference between a garment you kept for ten years and one you wore twice. And that it was rare to find a designer who had learned this distinction before starting to design.
On June 6, in the early evening, New York was bathed in that warm, lingering June light, as if the sun were reluctant to set. In Bushwick, the venue was just two blocks from the studio. Y/N arrived at 5 p.m. with four pieces in cloth bags. Sofia was already there,she’d had the keys since the day before and had spent the morning getting everything ready with Camila. The venue, an industrial space with large windows and light-colored hardwood floors, had been transformed without going overboard. White racks lined one wall to display the pieces. A table held wine and a few simple items. And in the center, on a large white wall, hung Mila’s drawing, framed simply. Upon seeing it, Y/N froze.
“Camila found this frame this morning,” said Sofia. “A very simple frame, made of natural wood. It goes perfectly with the raw linen.”
Y/N glanced at the motionless horse, its gaze somewhat lost in space, hanging there in its rough wooden frame on the white wall. It was perfect, truly perfect. The kind of thing that just fits without needing any explanation.
“Mila doesn’t know yet that the drawing is framed,” Sofia added.
“She’ll see it tonight.”
From across the room, Camila chimed in:
“I ordered the frame on Monday, as soon as I saw the photo of the finished drawing. I couldn’t leave it unframed. ”
“Thank you,” replied Y/N.
“It made sense, didn’t it?”
Y/N looked at her without saying a word.
Camila stared at her. For a moment, they just stood there, and Y/N realized how much their “that makes sense” had become their secret language—that direct, no-nonsense way of speaking that was so typical of Camila.She took the four pieces out of their covers and hung them on the white racks. The merino wool jacket. The raw linen pants from Williamsburg. The signature dress, with its visible stitching. And the coat with natural horn buttons, model four from Lisbon. The four pieces bathed in the June light.Sofia watched them, standing in the middle of the room.
“There you go.”
“Yes,” said Camila.
People started arriving around 7 p.m.
First came the two journalists: Clara Osei, notebook in hand, and Jana, a photographer for a magazine featuring designer portraits, carrying a discreet camera. Next were the buyers Camila had contacted,three women and one man, who examined the clothes with that professional gaze—not cold, just precise. Then Amira Hassan, composed as always, Lindsey frozen for two minutes in front of the signature dress without moving, and two people from the Alpine creative collective, invited by Sofia. And the Barneses. Winnifred arrived with George and Rebecca. She, with that gaze that took everything in, hugging people before even taking off her coat. He, in an impeccable suit, occupied the space with a spare, clean presence. Rebecca, her eyes suddenly taking everything in. Winnifred saw Y/N and crossed the room straight away. She hugged her—a real hug, both arms, warmth.
“Your father would be proud,” she murmurs.
“Yes, he would,” Y/N replies.
Winnifred walks away toward the racks, with the air of a woman who really wants to see. George approaches Y/N. He examines the four garments hanging there, without moving from where he stands. His gaze settles on the coat.
“The buttons.”
“Natural horn. Supplier in Lisbon. Over time, they’ll take on a golden hue.”
George nods, just once, a brief nod. He steps closer to the coat and turns up the left sleeve. Y/N waits. He examines the inner seams for a few moments. Then he turns up the right sleeve. He looks again.
“That's good work.”
“Thank you very much.”
He nods again, then joins Winnifred near the other pieces.
Rebecca walked over to Y/N. She glanced at the coat still hanging on the hanger.
“He’s going to wear it until it falls apart.”
“That’s why it’s well-made,” Y/N replied.
“Yeah.”
Rebecca looked at her, her gaze direct.
“You did a good job.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m not just saying that to be polite.”
“I know.”
Rebecca nodded and went to get some wine.
Mila arrived with Léa at 7:20 p.m. As she entered, she stopped short in front of the framed drawing on the white wall. For a few seconds, she said nothing. Léa whispered:
“Camila found the frame.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t know what to say.”
“No.”
A silence fell between them. Léa gently placed her hand on Mila’s shoulder, a simple gesture that was rare for her. Mila finally said:
“The frame is beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“It goes well with the raw linen.”
“I know.”
“Camila made a good choice.”
She stepped closer to the drawing and examined it closely. The left eye with a bit of white showing, the ears pulled back, the front end adjusted by two millimeters. Those precise little details she’d spent months thinking about. Camila stepped forward.
“Is the frame okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“A good drawing deserves a frame; it makes sense.”
“Yes. That’s fair and thoughtful.”
Camila looked at her. There was something in her expression—that slight look of someone who’s just heard an unexpected phrase and appreciates it.
“Yes. It’s both.”
Bucky arrived at 7:30 p.m. He entered the room and paused in the doorway, as he always did at first: looking around before entering. He scanned the four pieces on the stands, Mila’s framed drawing, the people in the room, Y/N in the middle of it all. Then he stepped inside. He walked straight toward her. Not toward the artwork, not toward her parents. Toward her.
“How are you?”
“Fine. Really fine.”
“I can tell.”
“How?”
“The way you’re here. You’re at home.”
Y/N looked around at the space around her, the rooms, the people, Mila’s drawing, George, who was pointing something out on the jacket to Winnifred with the calm manner of a man explaining the seams to his wife.
“Yes. I’m home.”
He took her hand in the space between them, that natural touch. She left it there. Jana, the portrait magazine journalist, approached with her discreet camera.
“Can I take a few photos?”
“Yes.”
Jana took photos, not poses, real moments. George looking at the coat’s inner seams. Mila in front of her framed drawing. Sofia and Camila talking near the racks. Y/N and Bucky with their hands intertwined.
“The photo with Bucky,” Y/N told Jana. “The collection is Thomas’s. Not the partnership.”
“I know. I read Clara’s article.”
She took another photo, Y/N alone in front of the four pieces.
“There. That’s the one that counts.”
At one point during the evening, Y/N found herself alone in a corner of the space with Clara Osei.
“How are you feeling tonight?”
“The right way. Like I do before important things.”
“The presentation is already done. The pieces are here, and people are really looking at them.”
“Yes.”
“Your little sister. The sketch.”
“Yes.”
“She’s been looking at the models with a notebook for a while now.”
Y/N turned around. Mila was indeed standing near the racks, notebook and red pen in hand, jotting something down while observing the iconic dress. George was standing next to her, looking too.
“She’s taking notes.”
“What?”
“People’s reactions to the pieces. She’s probably developed a system.”
Clara opened her notebook. She jotted something down.
“I’m going to write a second article after the show. ”
“About Thomas.”
“About how a collection comes to life in the world when it’s done right. Not about the pieces, but about the people surrounding the pieces tonight.”
Y/N scanned the room. George and Mila were chatting near the dress, Léa was talking with Amira in a corner, Rebecca and Winnifred were standing in front of the drawing, Bucky was listening intently to a buyer, and Sofia and Camila were watching the people looking at the clothes. All these people gathered around the designs tonight. All these people, her people.
“Okay, fine,” she said.
The party ended at ten o’clock. The guests left one by one: the buyers with their business cards, the journalists with their notebooks, the Alpine team. Amira shook Y/N’s hand as she left:
“The exit clause is clean. Thomas is truly yours now.”
Lindsey called out as she walked by:
“The pieces are well made.”
It was the nicest compliment Lindsey could have given. That left only Y/N, Bucky, Lea, Mila, George, Winnifred, Rebecca, Sofia, and Camila. George walked over to Y/N, the coat in his hand.
“I can take it tonight.”
“Yes. It’s for you.”
” “How much?”
“It’s the first Thomas coat. It’s yours.”
George looked at her with that frank, serene gaze that was so characteristic of him.
“I’ll pay for the second one. ”
“Okay.”
He nodded and draped the coat over his arm with the care of someone holding something that deserves to be handled with delicacy. Winnifred hugged Y/N one last time before leaving, a real hug, with both arms, and whispered,
“Your father did a good job through you.”
Y/N didn’t say a word. There was no need. The Barnes had left. Sofia and Camila took the pieces down one by one, putting them back into their cloth bags with the kind of care you reserve for things that really matter. Sofia said:
“We’ll do the second collection again whenever you want.”
Camila added:
“The slit at the wrist.”
And they walked out. Léa and Mila were waiting in a corner. Mila had closed her notebook; she was done with the documentation. Y/N scanned the room: almost empty, Mila’s drawing still hanging on the wall in its rough-hewn wooden frame, the racks empty, the table cleared.Bucky said:
“Shall we go?”
“Yes.”
Mila grabbed her notebook and her bag. She took one last look at the drawing on the wall.
“It’s staying there for tonight.”
“We’ll leave him there until tomorrow morning. Sofia will come pick him up.”
“Perfect. He’ll have a peaceful night.”
They stepped out onto the street in Bushwick, into the June heat. Y/N, Bucky, Lea, and Mila with her notebook. Even at 10 p.m., the June light lingered, as if the sun refused to set.
“I noted the reactions of twenty-three people to the four pieces tonight,” Mila said as they walked down the street.
“Twenty-three. ”
“Nineteen looked at the dress first. Three started with the coat. One with the jacket. And zero with the pants.”
“Zero for the pants.”
“We’ll have to rethink the layout for the next presentation.”
“That’s a good point. ”
“George turned the coat’s sleeves up twice. Once when he saw it on the coat rack, and another time after Y/N told him to pick it up.”
“He wanted to check a second time,” Bucky said.
“Yeah. Just to be sure.”
The day after June 6th, Y/N woke up late. The June sunlight streamed gently through the window, casting a warm, golden glow on the hardwood floor. No alarm clock, no subway, no obligations at Alpine. She’d taken the day off, and everyone had accepted it without question. It was past ten o’clock when she opened her eyes. In the kitchen, she could already hear Mila bustling about, that distinct sound of someone organizing things methodically. She got up and went into the kitchen. Mila was at the table, notebook open, the previous day’s notes spread out before her, a cup of coffee already waiting for her.
“You made coffee,” said Y/N as she sat down.
“I knew you’d get up around this time. I guessed it.”
Y/N took the warm cup in her hands. The heat spread through her palms, giving her a pleasant sensation.
“What are you working on?”
“I’m analyzing the reactions to the presentation. I’ve had the data since last night, and I want to organize it before it loses its context.”
“The twenty-three people.”
“Twenty-four. I’d forgotten about Jana, who stared at the jacket for seven minutes without moving.”
Y/N took a sip and smiled inwardly. Mila had timed how long twenty-four people had spent looking at Thomas’s designs, and she was organizing that data into a professional report. The little one was growing up so fast. Her phone vibrated on the table.
Did you sleep well?
Yes. Mila timed Jana, who stood in front of the jacket for seven minutes.
I know. She sent me her preliminary analysis at seven this morning.
At seven.
Yes. With an executive summary on the first page.
Y/N put down the phone and looked at Mila.
“You sent her an executive summary?”
“I had important data. It couldn’t wait.”
Y/N didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say that would have been more fitting than silence. Léa came in at 10:30 with her internship notes. She sat down at the table and turned her phone toward Y/N.
“Jana's article was published this morning.”
Y/N read the article. It wasn’t long, just four photos and some text. The photo of her alone in front of the four pieces. The one of George rolling up the sleeve of his coat. The one of Mila in front of her framed drawing. And a photo she hadn’t seen before: her and Bucky, hands clasped, watching people look at the pieces.
“Jana wrote about you,” said Y/N, looking up at Lea.
“I know. I read it.”
“And?”
“She got it right.”
Léa went back to her notes. Mila continued her analysis. Y/N finished her coffee in the kitchen, bathed in June sunlight, with Thomas now featured in two articles and in the hands of twenty-four people who had actually looked at them. That afternoon, she went to the studio. Not to work, just to be there. She climbed the three flights of stairs, opened the door, and stepped into the silence. The racks were back, the pieces tucked into their cloth bags on the shelves. The back wall still bore the sketches. On the left wall, the hook was empty. Sofia had taken down Mila’s drawing that morning. Y/N sat on the ledge of the middle window, Bucky’s usual spot, and looked at the empty hook. The June light streamed in through the three windows, soft and warm on the worn hardwood floor. She thought of the drawing now hanging in Mila’s room, next to the index cards from her drawing sessions, as a way of keeping in sight where they had come from.
Her phone vibrated.
Sofia gave me back the drawing this morning. It’s in my room now. I made a spot for it.
Where?
On the wall next to my desk. Next to the index cards for the drawing program, sessions one through eight. That way I can see where I left off.
Y/N took a photo of the empty hook and sent it to Bucky.
The drawing is in Mila’s room now. The hook is empty. That means we need something else for the second collection.
She put down the phone and looked around the workshop: the full shelves, the large solid-wood table with its old marks, the three windows, the empty hook on the left. These things were waiting for what was to come. The orders arrived the following week. Seven in total. Y/N read them in the workshop one Tuesday evening, sitting at the large table. A woman had been searching for years for a garment that would truly last. A man wanted the coat for his father. She reread that email three times. Her father would have liked to know that his legacy lived on in these requests. She replied to each one personally, without using a template, taking the time to explain the lead times, the fabrics, and the interior seams that would be perfect. It took her two hours.
When she put her phone down, Bucky sent her a message.
Seven orders. One for a coat for someone’s father.
I know. Camila sent me the emails this morning.
You’re going to make that coat.
Yes.
With the same inner seams.
Of course.
Your father would be happy.
She stared for a moment at the seven names in her new notebook. Bucky arrived shortly after with a tray of food he’d ordered without her asking, knowing she often forgot to eat when she was working.
“You answered each one differently,” he said, setting the tray down next to her.
“Yes. It’s for the people who wear them.”
He sat down on the windowsill, his usual spot, and watched her eat. Then he stood up, tidied away what she’d left lying on the table, and brought her a glass of water before she even reached out for it. The following Thursday, Camila knocked on the doorframe of Y/N’s office at Alpine. She placed a sheet of paper on the table.
“Twenty-two stores have contacted Thomas since the articles came out. Five journalists. Three designers who want to collaborate.”
Y/N looked at the paper.
“We need to think about a structure,” Camila continued. “You can’t manage everything on your own from the studio.”
“I’ll hire someone.”
“I have someone in mind. Nadia. She worked with me in Milan. She understands what it’s like to build something small and real.”
“You’ve already thought of someone.”
“I’d anticipated it.” Camila left.
Y/N stayed for a moment, staring at the sheet of paper. Thomas now existed in the world, and the world was responding. That evening, Bucky came to the studio. He brought two coffees and sat on the windowsill.
“Twenty-two stores”, he said.
“Yes.”
“You look like someone who’s making a decision.”
“I’m deciding how Thomas grows. Not fast. Not for everyone. For the right people.”
He nodded, his hand sliding gently onto her shoulder and lingering there.
“Like the inner seams.”
“Yes. Growing up without losing what matters most.”
Nadia Ferro arrived the following Thursday at seven o’clock. She climbed the three flights of stairs without counting the steps and entered the workshop. She looked around without speaking right away, taking in the shelves, the fabrics, the large table.
“The shelves are organized by fabric type,” she said at last.
From heaviest to lightest. That makes sense. She touched the raw Williamsburg linen, then looked at the sketches for the second collection.
“The slit at the wrist. The logical continuation of the inner seams.”
Y/N looked at her.
“How do you know that?”
“I read the articles. And Camila explained the philosophy to me.”
Nadia sat down on the ledge of the middle window.
“What you need isn’t someone to talk about Thomas for you. You need someone to protect the time while Thomas takes shape. ”
She calmly explained her role: filtering requests, responding to the right people, letting Y/N create the clothes. Y/N listened, sensing that this woman understood exactly what she wanted to preserve.
“When do you start?” Y/N asked.
“If you say yes, I start Monday.”
“Okay, fine.”
Nadia stood up.
“The studio’s nice. Camila was right.”
She walked out. Y/N found herself alone in the evening light, her eyes fixed on the empty hook hanging on the left wall. Those things that waited for what was to come. Mila turned eleven on a Friday in June. No big party. Just dinner with the right people. Bucky arrived with a slightly lopsided chocolate cake and two books about horses.
“It’s lopsided,” Mila said when she saw the cake.
“Yes. But the layers are even. That’s what matters.”
George had sent a book about machines and horses. Mila read it carefully.
“He looked for it for three weeks,” said Y/N.
“That’s exactly right.”
That evening, in the hallway, Bucky hugged Y/N.
“She’s eleven now.”
“Yes.”
“She’s growing up.”
“Yes. It’s a little scary.”
“That’s normal.”
“You’re on the right track, my love.”
He held her close for a long moment, his hand resting on her back, his lips on her forehead. Those moments belonged to them alone, calm and intense.
July arrived. Lea left to go stay with Amira. The apartment felt different without her, but Mila adapted in her own way. She reorganized her schedule to include more sessions with Bucky. She sent messages to George about steam engines and received replies at 6:40 p.m. One evening, Bucky said something in the workshop.
“I added something this week in town.”
“What?”
“A workshop on the third floor in Bushwick. But this time, I gave the person who works there a name.” Y/N set down her needle. “Her name is Y/N.”
The silence was sweet, full of meaning. She moved closer, sitting down next to him on the windowsill.
“You put my name in your town.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known her name?”
“For a long time. I was waiting for the right moment to write it down. ”
She rested her head against his shoulder. He closed the notebook and held her close. The July light filtered through the three windows, warming the hardwood floor. They stayed like that, silent, present for one another, in this studio that so closely resembled what they were building together.
Nadia started the following Monday. She arrived at the studio at nine o’clock with a notebook and her phone, with the calm confidence of someone who had prepared without showing it. Y/N explained everything to her in two hours: the seven current orders, the twenty-two stores, the five journalists, the three staff members, how Thomas operated, and what it meant to make things for the people who wore them. Nadia listened without taking notes for the first hour. During the second, she took notes. At the end, she said,
“One question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Amira Hassan set up the partnership with Alpine.”
“Yes.”
“She’s available to answer any questions I might have about Thomas’s legal structure.”
“I’ll ask her.”
“No. I want to be able to send him questions directly if it’s urgent. With your permission.”
Y/N thought of Léa, who had contacted Amira from her own phone one evening; of Mila, who sent preliminary analyses to Bucky at seven in the morning; of the way people in her life acted directly when necessary.
“Okay. I’ll let her know tonight.”
“Thanks.”
Nadia closed her notebook.
“The seven orders. I’ll contact the clients to keep them updated on the deadlines. You’ll handle the clothing.”
“Yes.”
“As for the stores. I looked at the twenty-two this week. Fifteen aren’t a good fit for Thomas, too commercial, too focused on trends rather than sustainability. Seven are worth a real conversation.”
“Which ones?”
Nadia pulled out a sheet of paper and placed it on the table. Seven names with short descriptions: independent boutiques in Brooklyn, Portland, Chicago, and Paris. One in Tokyo. Y/N took the sheet and read it.
“The boutique in Paris.”
“Yes. It’s called Fond, and it only sells pieces made to last. Their slogan is ‘what we keep.’”
Y/N looked at the name.
“Fond.”
“What we hold dear.”
She thought about the things made for the people who wear them and how that name expressed the same idea in a different way.
“Contact them first.”
“That’s what I was going to do.”
“I know.”
Nadia picked up her bag.
“The shop in Tokyo too. They have a similar philosophy but for the Japanese market, quality as a cultural value, not as a marketing pitch.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning I’ll send an initial report on the ongoing contacts. Let me know if the format works for you.”
“Okay.”
Nadia left.
Y/N stayed in the studio with the list of the seven stores, the report due tomorrow morning, and Thomas, who was now growing up with someone to protect the time in which he was developing. She picked up her phone.
Nadia has started. She’s contacting Paris and Tokyo first.
Bucky replied.
I know. She sent me a kick-off memo this morning at eight o’clock. She’s just like Lindsey.
How so?
She acts before being asked and says things straight out.
That’s a quality.
Yes, my love. It’s a quality.
Two weeks after Nadia started, the Fond boutique in Paris replied. Y/N read the email in the studio one Thursday evening—not a generic response, but something actually written by a woman named Margot who had been running Fond for eight years. Margot had read the two articles by Clara and Jana. She had looked at the photos of the pieces. She wanted to see Thomas in person before deciding anything and was offering to come to New York in September if Y/N was available. Y/N read the email twice. She forwarded it to Nadia. Nadia replied within fifteen minutes.
I’ll tell her yes for September and ask her for her dates.
It’s the right boutique.
She picked up her phone and called Bucky. He picked up on the second ring.
“Sweetheart.”
“The Fond boutique in Paris. Margot wants to come in September to see Thomas.”
A moment of silence.
“In September.”
“Yes.”
“That was three months ago.”
“Yes.”
“You have time to process the seven orders and prepare a presentation for Margot.”
“Yes.”
“You seem calm. ”
“I am calm. I’m in the studio. I’m always calm here.”
“I know.”
“In the background. What we keep.”
“Yes.”
“It’s Thomas.”
“Yes, my love. It’s Thomas.”
She put down her phone, took out her new notebook, and wrote: Margot — Paris — September. And underneath: what we keep. She looked at those words on the page and thought of her father, who had done things right his whole life without many people knowing it, and of Thomas, who might one day exist in a shop in Paris called what we keep. These things passed down. These things that endure. The following Saturday, Bucky came to the studio with something. No coffee this time. A flat, simply wrapped box, which he set down on the large solid-wood table without explanation. Y/N looked at it.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
She thought back to her father, to his habit of turning clothes inside out to inspect the seams, a detail no one else noticed. George Barnes had done the same with Thomas’s coat, and it had touched her.
“I want to write back to him.”
“He’s waiting.”
“By letter.”
“He’ll appreciate it.”
She pulled a sheet of paper from her new notebook, grabbed a pen, and wrote quickly, just the essentials. She explained that her father had spent his life making perfect seams on the inside, so that those who wore his clothes could feel it without even seeing it. That George had understood that just by touching the coat, and that her father would have liked to know. And that the second coat would be for him whenever he wanted it.She folded the sheet and handed it to Bucky.
“I'll give it to him tonight.”
“Thank you, my love.”
“It makes sense.”
“It’s thoughtful.”
“Both.”
She laughed softly, and so did he. They stayed in the workshop, with George’s letter and the folded reply, Fond Paris en septembre, the seven orders in progress, and Thomas, who continued to take shape, stitch by stitch, from the inside out.Their own little things.
July arrived, and Léa left for Amira’s house. It wasn’t a grand departure. She packed her bag on Sunday evening using her usual method for practical matters: she folded her clothes in the right order and put her notes in a separate folder. Mila watched her from the doorway of her room without saying a word for twenty minutes. Léa said, without turning around:
“You have something to tell me.”
“No.”
“You’ve been standing there for twenty minutes.”
“I’m just watching.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“In this context, yes.”
Léa closed her suitcase. She turned to Mila.
“Three and a half weeks.”
“Twenty-four days.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve done the maths.”
“I know.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“I know that too.”
“I just wanted to say it.”
Léa picked up her suitcase and walked over to Mila in the doorway.
“I’ll send you a message every day.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I’ll do it anyway.”
“All right.”
Léa walked past her into the hallway. Y/N was in the kitchen. She could hear the two sisters in the hallway, those voices she now recognised by the way they filled the space. Léa entered the kitchen with her suitcase. She looked at Y/N.
“You’ve got everything.”
“Yes. Amira knows you’re arriving at ten.”
“Yes. She sent me the office code this morning.”
“The office code.”
“To get in before she arrives if I feel like it.”
She said that serious people arrive before everyone else. Y/N thought of Amira, who would answer the phone at seven in the morning and give the office code to her intern so she could arrive before everyone else if she fancied it. She hugged her sister, not for long, as Léa didn’t like long hugs, just long enough to say something without saying it. Léa returned the hug with that sparing, genuine manner.
“I’m proud of you.”
“I know.”
She picked up her suitcase and left. Without Léa, the flat felt different. Not empty, Mila was there and Y/N was there and Bucky often came round. But different in that particular way a space feels when it has lost a specific presence, that way Léa used to exist in the rooms: her notes on the table, her coffee in the kitchen at seven forty-five, her way of speaking directly that gave structure to conversations. Mila adapted in her own way. She rearranged her schedule for the tenth session to include more sessions with Bucky, not to make up for Lea’s absence, just because the timetable now allowed it. She sent a message to George Barnes on the first Tuesday without Lea with three questions about steam engines, and George replied at 6.40 the next day, as always. She said to Y/N one Wednesday morning:
“Lea sent me a message last night.”
“What did she say?”
“She said the office is quiet at half past eight and that’s the best time because you can see how things are organised before people start using them.”
“She arrives at half past eight every day.”
“Yes. She says Amira arrives at nine and that the twenty minutes in between are the best.”
Y/N thought of Léa in an empty office at half past eight, looking at how things were organised before people used them, that way of seeing structures before they were activated by people. Muybridge. Diffuse attention. And now this.
“She’s a quick learner.”
“She used to learn quickly. Now she’s learning in the right context.”
Y/N drank her coffee and thought that Mila was ten, eleven for the past two weeks, and that she said things like ‘learning in the right context’ with that calm, matter-of-fact manner. Her phone vibrated. Léa.
Message from the office, 9.03. First case this morning. Amira says I can observe her whilst she works. She says that watching without intervening is the first skill.
Watching without intervening.
Yes. Seeing what’s really there before deciding what to do. That’s Muybridge.
“Léa says that watching without intervening is Muybridge.”
Mila said in her programme:
“Yes, it’s the same. We really look before we draw. Amira really looks before she speaks.”
Y/N put down his phone. He realised that Léa, Mila, Amira, George, Muybridge, the inner seams and diffuse attention were all, in a way, the same thing viewed from different angles. That way of looking at what’s really there before deciding what to do with it.These things that eventually came together.
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +10.8k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
May arrived with longer daylight hours that lingered on Brooklyn’s facades, softening the edges of the buildings and stretching the shadows across the sidewalks.
Y/N was walking alongside Sofia, her mind still filled with the sketches she’d just finished retouching, when her gaze drifted automatically toward the large window of the restaurant across from Alpine. Bucky was there, sitting by the window, talking to a woman with dark hair. Documents were spread out between them. Nothing spectacular. Just a business meeting. Sofia continued on her way without a word. Y/N did the same. But something had settled inside her, light, almost imperceptible, like a seam pulling slightly on the fabric. She didn’t say anything to Bucky that evening. Not because she was trying to hide anything, but because she didn’t yet know if that feeling deserved a name.
Dans l’atelier de Bushwick, elle monta les trois étages, le sac lourd sur l’épaule. La lumière du soir filtrait à travers les trois fenêtres, teintant les tissus d’une lueur dorée. L’odeur du lin brut et de la laine mérinos l’accueillit, rassurante. Elle posa ses affaires sur la grande table en bois massif, passa la main sur le grain usé du plateau, et pensa à son père qui, lui aussi, caressait toujours le bois avant de commencer à couper. Ce geste simple la reliait à lui, à ces soirées où il travaillait tard dans leur petit appartement, vérifiant une dernière fois les coutures intérieures à la lumière d’une lampe basse.Elle travailla jusqu’à vingt heures. Le temps passa lentement, rythmé par le bruit régulier de l’aiguille et le murmure lointain de la rue en bas.
When she finally got home, the apartment smelled of the tea Mila had made. The little girl was sitting at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, the stationary horse taking shape with that almost solemn precision she’d come to possess. She looked up when Y/N walked in.
“Something’s wrong.”
Y/N set down her bag.I’m tired.
“It’s not just tiredness.”
Mila looked at her with that calmness that saw too much. Y/N hesitated, then shook her head.
“It’s nothing.”
“Okay.”
Mila went back to her drawing, accepting the incomplete answer without closing the door. Léa walked past in the hallway, cast a silent glance, then disappeared into her room. Y/N retreated to her own room, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up her phone.
That faint sensation was still there, lingering. Have a good evening, my love. The reply came almost immediately.
Have a good evening, sweetheart. Are you back from the studio?
Yes. How was your day?
Fine.
Had a meeting with the communications team at Altitude Partners at lunchtime. Long but useful.
Y/N stared at the screen for a moment, then simply typed: Okay. She put down her phone and looked at the ceiling of her bedroom. She thought about how Bucky had told her one night in the car that it had been over for three years and that it was really over, and how she had believed that completely because it was true. What she felt now was different, more vague, the realization that she truly cared about him and that truly caring about someone made things vulnerable. She fell asleep. The next morning, Bucky was waiting for her at the bottom of the building at eight o’clock. Not in the car. Standing in the street, two coffees from the corner bakery in his hands. The May light was long and soft on his face. He had that calm, almost tender expression, the one he wore when he sensed she needed something without her asking for it.
“You didn’t have to,” she said, taking the coffee.
“I know.”
They walked toward the subway.
The cold didn’t really feel cold anymore. Brooklyn was coming to life around them.
“Nora Vidal,” he said softly. “She’s been working at Altitude for two years. She’s professional, competent, and that’s all.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.”
“I’m telling you anyway.”
“Bucky.”
“Yes.”
“I trust you.”
“I know. And that’s why I’m telling you—because you deserve to know that’s really all there is to it.”
Y/N sipped her coffee as she walked. The words lingered with her for a long time, spoken with that quiet candour he’d picked up. He slipped his jacket over her shoulders when he felt her shiver slightly, even before she said so.
“It’s over, she said.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It was a split second of something I wanted to name.”
“It’s good that you named it.”
“I could have kept it to myself.”
“Yes. You were right not to.”
They reached the underground. He was going the other way. She took her coffee and looked at him. He placed his hand on her back, a gentle, possessive gesture, then kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you for coming this morning.”
“It made sense.”
“My love.”
“Yes.”
“It was thoughtful.”
“Both can be true.”
“I know.”
She kissed him on the subway stairs, a simple, sincere kiss, then went down to the platform. That evening, Bucky dropped by for dinner unannounced. A message at six o’clock:
I’m popping round tonight.
He arrived with ingredients for pancakes and a bottle of wine.
“You’ve got wine,” Mila remarked as he came in.
“For Lea.”
“Lea said that wine with pancakes is underrated.”
“I know.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“You listen.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She began preparing her cooking supplies with the seriousness of a sous-chef. Léa came in, spotted the bottle and looked at Bucky.
“You said it was underrated,” she said.
“I said that three weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“You waited for the right moment.”
“No. I’ve been waiting for an evening that deserved some wine.”
Léa looked at Y/N. Y/N looked at Bucky. He was already taking out the ingredients with the calmness of a man who did things without making a fuss. Léa went to fetch some glasses. They ate the pancakes with wine. Mila took a tiny sip “for comparison’s sake”. Bucky gently reminded her that she’d have to wait until she turned twenty-one. Mila calculated aloud that it would be in eleven years. Léa rolled her eyes but drank her glass with a small smile. Y/N watched them around the table: Mila with her precise calculations, Léa with her internship notes, Bucky pouring the wine with that natural attentiveness. These people in her kitchen on a May evening. These people were hers.
Sofia approved the first finished pieces one Friday morning in Alpine’s creative space. Y/N arrived at nine o’clock with the four pieces in separate cloth bags and placed them on the large table. Sofia took them out one by one. She examined them methodically, in silence, with that total concentration she reserved for things that deserved to be truly looked at. Camila was there too, standing against the wall with her coffee, present without taking up any space. Sofia finished with the signature dress. She held it up to the light, looked at the visible stitching at the neckline, turned the sleeves inside out, checked the hem. She placed the dress on the mannequin and stepped back.
“It’s ready.”
Just a couple of words. But coming from Sofia, it meant a whole lot.
“Yes,” she simply replied.
Y/N looked at the four pieces lying on the table, and the one on the mannequin. There they were, very real. Not just sketches on a sheet of paper, nor wobbly prototypes. No, this time, it was the real deal. Finished garments, neatly made, inside and out. It made the whole thing feel a bit unreal.
Sophia continued:
“The presentation’s in June. I’ve booked the venue in Bushwick for the sixth.”
“6 June?”
“Yes. It’s a Friday. You know full well that people go out on Friday nights.”
“And you booked it without even asking my opinion?”
Sofia took a sip of coffee, taking her time.
“I would have asked you if you’d said no. But I knew you’d say yes.”
Y/N let out a sigh.
“Right… fine.”
Sofia raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips:
“There you go.”
“I spoke to two journalists from the specialist press,” Camila continued. “Not the mainstream media, no — people who take the time to observe, to really understand what they’re seeing.”
She looked at her, a little surprised.
“You really did contact the press?”
“Yes. And both said they wanted to come.”
She thought back to the way Camila went about things, always gently, with that quiet efficiency that made her unique.
“Thank you.”
“It made sense,” replied Camila.
Y/N looked her straight in the eye.
“Stop saying that.”
Camila gave a wry smile.
“That’s what Bucky usually says.”
“I know. It’s contagious.”
“Yeah… actually, it’s not so bad.”
Sofia took out her phone and snapped a photo of the four items. She had a folder, a real one, on her phone. It was called ‘real things’. Y/N knew this because she’d caught a glimpse of her screen one day.
“You’re putting the photos in the ‘real things’ folder, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“How long has that folder been there?”
“Since I started in fashion. To remind me why I’m doing all this.”
Y/N thought about that. A folder of real things, in an industry that produced so few of them. A small collection of truth, tucked away in her phone.
“Is Thomas in there?”
“Thomas’s been in there since the very first sketch.”
Y/N didn’t reply. But she didn’t need to. The silence said it all.
That evening, Y/N went back to the studio alone. She switched on the light, and her gaze fell on the four pieces hanging on the back wall. They had come back from Alpine’s creative space, packed away in their canvas bags, and she had put them back exactly where they had been before. As if they’d never left.But something had changed. Sofia had said, ‘It’s ready,’ and now it really was ready, not just in the studio, but out in the world, for 6 June, for the journalists, for the people who would be coming. She sat on the sill of the middle window, Bucky’s spot, and looked at the four pieces.
The evening light streamed in through the windows, soft on the fabrics. Her phone vibrated.
Sofia sent me a photo of the four rooms this morning. They’re lovely, sweetheart. Really lovely.
Sofia sent you a photo?
She’s sending them to everyone, apparently. Camila told me the same thing. And my mum.
Y/N paused.
Your mum.
Yes. Sofia has her number . She sent her a photo and my mum replied with three dress emojis. Three dress emojis. Mila taught her the themed emojis. The dress has been her go-to emoji ever since Mila showed her.
She read the message and immediately thought of Winnifred , the one with the Thomas emoji and the photos of Sofia.
Your mum’s coming on 6 June. She asked this morning. I said yes.
And your dad?
He asked if the coat would be there. I’m bringing the coat. I’ll tell him. He’ll nod once.
Y/N put her phone down and stayed on the windowsill for a while longer, with the four pieces hanging on the wall and 6 June drawing nearer. And Winnifred Barnes with her three dress emojis. Those people watching her. Her people.
On Saturday, Mila showed Y/N the drawing she was working on. Not the final version, just the first few hours’ work on the final sheet. She brought it into the kitchen carefully, as if it were fragile, and laid it flat on the table. The horse was there. Not finished yet, just the first few lines, but already something more assertive, a line that knew where it was going.
“It’s not bad,” said Y/N.
“Yeah, I know. But something’s not quite right.”
“What is it?”
“The horse’s left eye. It needs to be looking out of the frame, but at the same time, it should have that kind of calm, composed look of a relaxed animal. The problem is, if I turn it too far off-screen, it looks on its guard, almost stressed. And if I make it too calm, well, it just stares into space, as if it couldn’t care less.”
Y/N looked at the eye in question. Mila had hit the nail on the head: it really was the trickiest balance to get right.
“Send the photo to Bucky,” said Y/N.
“I sent it to his dad first.”
“Obviously.”
Mila chuckled softly.
“He replied within twenty minutes, can you believe it? He told me that the horse’s eye, when it’s in passive surveillance mode — he calls it ‘diffuse attention’ — has a tiny bit of the white visible on the outer side. Not all of the white, mind you, just a hint.”
“Diffuse attention,” Y/N repeated.
“Yeah. The horse watches without looking directly, basically. A bit like someone listening to a conversation without appearing to, you know what I mean?”
Y/N remained silent for a moment, letting the idea sink in. Diffuse attention, that way of picking up on the essentials without ever staring directly at things. It reminded her of Thomas, his inner seams, those invisible threads that hold everything together even when you can’t see them.
“It’s exactly the same as Thomas,” she finally said.
“I know, that’s why it’s the right drawing.”
Léa came into the kitchen with her notes.
“George told me about diffuse attention.”
“You read my message.”
“You’d left your phone on the hall table.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to read it.”
“I wasn’t reading it, I was just looking at it.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“In this context, yes.”
Y/N drank her coffee, thinking that Léa and Mila would be having this sort of discussion for years to come, and that it was one of the truest things in her life.Her phone vibrated. George Barnes.
Eye in diffuse attention — slightly visible white on the outer edge. Mila will find the right balance. She has an eye for it.
Thanks. She’ll find it.
I know. Tell her the drawing’s going to be fine. She can trust me on that.
Y/N went into Mila’s room.
“George says the drawing’s going to be fine and that you can trust him.”
Mila picked up her thinnest pencil.
“I know. he really does watch.”
She started working on the left eye. Y/N stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Mila with her fine pencil and the horse watching something outside the frame.
On Tuesday evening, the workshop was quiet. Mila was staying at George and Winnifred’s, and Léa was at a friend’s house. Y/N had been working on the finishing touches for eighteen hours, hand-sewing the hems on the signature dress and the buttonholes on the coat, which she wanted to be perfect. The evening light bathed the space in a warm glow, the scent of fabric filled the air, and the distant sounds of Brooklyn drifted in through the half-open windows. At eight o’clock, her phone vibrated.
I’m at the bottom of the building.
Are you in the studio?
Yes.
I’m coming up.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs, that steady, precise rhythm she now recognised. He came in with two coffees, paused in the doorway and looked around the studio: the dim light, the four pieces on the wall, Y/N at the table finishing her work, Mila’s drawing on the left-hand wall.
“You worked late, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I wanted to finish those buttonholes tonight.”
“Are they done?”
“Yes.”
She gently set down her needle. He entered the room, placed a coffee next to her, then walked over to the wall where the clothes were hanging. He looked at them one by one, not just out of the corner of his eye, but really, with sincere attention. He stopped in front of the signature dress.
“The stitching is visible there.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve altered it.”
Y/N looked down at the dress.
“Just a millimetre to the right. I felt there was something slightly off, without being able to put my finger on it.”
“Now it’s perfect.”
“Yes.”
He turned towards her. She was still sitting at the table, with her coffee and her finishing touches, and there was something in her expression that wasn't fatigue, but something more open. He walked over to her. She stood up. He kissed her; not a quick peck, but something longer, his hand running through her hair, hers resting on his back. When she pulled away slightly, she whispered:
“The workshop’s all ours tonight.”
“Yeah.”
They stood there for quite a while, bathed in the soft, subdued light. Bucky held her close, his hands lingering on her shoulders, as if he wanted to etch the moment into his memory. His gaze lingered a second longer than usual. Then he simply pressed his lips to her forehead, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The air around them was thick, but not heavy: a gentle, warm tension that needed no words.
“You look well tonight,” he murmured.
“I am well.”
“Not just well.”
“No. Not just well.”
Not just fine. They spoke shortly afterwards. He sat on the windowsill in the middle, his usual spot, and she stayed close to him. He brought her a coffee before she’d even reached out, and tidied away the things she’d left lying on the table. They looked around the rooms in silence, then out at Brooklyn in the May night.
“In three weeks’ time, on 6 June,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
“Are you a bit scared?”
“No. Just the right amount of nervousness. The kind you feel before things that really matter.”
“The buttonholes are done.”
“I know.”
“And the visible seams… they fall exactly where they should.”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re ready.”
“I’ve actually been ready for a while. The presentation is just the moment when everyone discovers what’s already been there in the shadows. The final result, basically.”
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
He put his arm around her. She rested her head against his shoulder and thought about the things made for the people who wear them, not for the people who look at them. The music from a flat above continued, a distant trumpet. She closed her eyes and listened, committing tonight’s melody to memory: Bucky’s breathing, the sounds of Brooklyn, all of it together in the studio with Thomas around them. Her phone vibrated. She smiled in the dark. Mila.
Good evening.
I have a question about diffuse attention. Does it apply to humans as well?
Bucky felt his phone vibrate too. He picked up his own and read:
“She’s asking if diffuse attention applies to humans.”
“She’s going to ask your father that question tomorrow morning. ”
“He’ll reply at 6.40 am.”
Y/N replied to Mila.
Yes. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Goodnight.
Yeah. Goodnight.
Is Bucky there?
Yes.
Good.
Bucky’s mum said goodnight too 😺.
Y/N showed the message to Bucky. He read it.
“My mum sends her goodnights via Mila now. With the cat emoji.”
“She’s adopted the cat emoji for her evening messages ever since Mila told her it was the workshop emoji.”
“The workshop emoji.”
Mila had created a system of themed emojis for the different spaces. Y/N put down her phone and thought of Winnifred Barnes sending goodnight messages with the workshop cat emoji via Mila from Staten Island. It was one of the truest and most beautiful things in her life right now. She whispered,
“I love you, my love.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
The trumpet continued for a few more minutes, then stopped. Brooklyn carried on.
Two weeks before 6 June, Léa made an announcement at dinner. Without any preamble, she put down her fork and simply said that Amira had offered her the chance to extend her work placement until the end of August. There was a moment’s silence around the table. Mila looked up from her plate.
“That’s three weeks longer than planned.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll agree?”
“Yes.”
“Good”.
Mila picked up her fork again as if everything had been settled. Y/N looked at her sister. Léa was looking at her with the calmness of someone who’d already made up their mind and was waiting for the others to take note. Y/N felt a gentle warmth in her chest.
“When did Amira suggest this to you?”
“This morning. She said I’ve seen enough to understand the structure but not enough to see how the structure holds up against reality. She wants me to look at complex cases.”
“Complex cases.”
“Not in the sense of difficult. In the sense that reality doesn’t always match the principles.”
Y/N thought about seeing what’s really there rather than what one expects to see. Muybridge, diffuse attention, and now complex cases. Léa was building something systematically, brick by brick.
“You’ll be here for the 6th of June.”
“Yes. The internship starts on the 1st of July.”
“And NYU in September.”
“Yes. Amira said the two were compatible. She checked the calendars.”
Mila said from her plate:
“Amira checked the calendars for Léa.”
Bucky gave a slight, wry smile.
“She does that for people who are really worth putting on a calendar, you know.”
Mila nodded in that way you do when you’ve just taken in a piece of information and mentally filed Amira Hassan away in a very specific slot in your personal classification system.Léa took a sip of water.
“There’s something else.”
Y/N waited, saying nothing.
“Amira’s going to introduce me to a lawyer who specialises in intellectual property. She thinks it’s useful to understand how all this works, especially for someone like me who’s going to be moving between both worlds.”
“Psychology and copyright,” Y/N summarised.
“Yeah. She says creators need lawyers who get how people work, not just how the law applies.”
Y/N thought back to Thomas. To the clauses Amira had drafted. The clean exit clause. The right of first refusal. The amendment to the confidentiality clause. Protections tailor-made by someone who could read minds.
She murmured, almost to herself:
“It’s fair.”
“I know,” said Léa.
Bucky leaned in slightly towards Y/N and said in a low voice:
“Amira is building something with you.”
Lea replied calmly:
“Yes. I realised that this week.”
Mila just blurted it out like that, without even looking up from her plate:
“Honestly, it’s so much cooler when people build things with you, rather than just for you.”
For a moment, everyone around the table stared at her. But she, unfazed, carried on eating her pasta, as if she’d just stated the obvious, something mundane, almost insignificant.Léa smiled slightly.
“Yeah. That’s the real difference.”
“She always makes comments like that, you know,” Bucky leaned towards Y/N and whispered.
Y/N replied immediately, without drawing attention to herself:
“I know.”
“I can hear you, guys,” said Mila, still without looking up.
“We know,” Bucky said with a wry smile.
The next morning, Y/N arrived at the Alpine office around eight o’clock and immediately spotted Lindsey in the corridor, an iPad in her hand. She had that look… you know, the one someone has when they’re about to drop a bombshell.
“The journalist from that independent sustainable fashion magazine wants to meet you, before the presentation on 6 June.”
“She says that the conditions under which the clothes are made are a subject she covers systematically. She wants to see the place to understand how things really work.”
Y/N began to think about his Bushwick workshop. The shelves filled with rolls of fabric, the large solid-wood table covered in small marks and nicks, the sketches pinned all over the walls… and then Mila’s drawing, hanging on the other side. All of this made up her somewhat raw world, not at all ready to be displayed like a shop window.
“When does she want to come?”
“Next week, if that’s OK with you.”
“Alright.”
Lindsey smiled and said:
“Camila warned me you’d say yes.”
Y/N gave her a slight smile.
“Camila says that to everyone, you know.”
“Yes, but that’s because she’s always right.”
Lindsey headed back down the corridor. Y/N went to her desk and picked up her phone.
Lindsey told me about the journalist. She wants to see the workshop.
I know. Camila told me last night. Are you going to agree?
I’ve already said yes. I know. It seems like everyone knows about this before I do.
Everyone? Mila doesn’t know yet.
She’ll find out in ten minutes.
No doubt. She’s got her sources.
Y/N put her phone down with a smile and started her day.The journalist’s name was Clara Osei. She arrived at the studio one Thursday afternoon, with a notebook but no camera. Y/N noticed her straight away: the sort of person who comes to observe and listen first before showing anything. She looked around the workshop like everyone else: the shelves, the fabrics, the large table, the sketches at the back of the wall. Then she stopped in front of Mila’s drawing, hanging on the left.
“It’s a horse, see?”
“Yeah, I can see. My little sister drew it for her school presentation.”
Clara looks up:
“How old is she again?”
“Ten. Well, eleven in three weeks, to be precise.”
Clara looks back at the drawing, studying it for a moment.
“Look at its eye.”
“Yeah, it looks a bit distant, as if it’s looking somewhere else. It’s watching something outside the frame, but without focusing on anything in particular.”
“A bit like the inner seams, don’t you think?”
Y/N pauses, as if the words have just clicked.
“Yes. Definitely. Exactly like the inner seams.”
Clara jots something down in her notebook, the pencil moving swiftly.
“At ten, she’s already grasped the concept of the collection.”
“Actually, she’d understood it even before I explained it to her. It’s just her way of seeing things.”
Clara closes her notebook, stands up and walks over to the shelves. She runs her fingers over the raw Williamsburg linen, takes a moment to smell the bamboo silk, and examines the spools of thread one by one.
“You found these fabrics, didn’t you?”
“The Williamsburg linen, yes, that was me. The bamboo silk, on the other hand, was Sofia. She has a contact over there in Lyon.”
“But for Williamsburg, you went there on your own, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why on your own?”
Y/N paused for a moment to think. Not to give an easy answer, but the real one.
“Because I’d been looking for raw linen for months. And there are some things you only find when you look for them yourself. No one else would have recognised that exact shade.”
Clara jotted down a few more words.
“Your father was a tailor. ”
“Yes.”
“The collection is called Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“He was the one who taught you to take care with the inside seams.”
“He taught me that quality isn’t measured by price. It lies in the care you put into every detail.”
And that the inner seams are the signature of someone who respects their work.Clara closed her notebook.
“I’m going to be frank with you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re working with James Barnes, the CEO of Alpine. There’s a partnership. People are bound to say that’s what made Thomas possible.”
Y/N looked her straight in the eye.
“The partnership with Alpine made it possible to distribute the collection. But the perfect inner seams… I would have made them in my bedroom, all on my own. It’s not about money or resources, it’s about knowing what you’re really after.”
“And what are we after here, then?” asked Clara.
“Do things properly, even when no one’s watching,” replied Y/N.“Because the people who wear these clothes can feel it. They can tell the difference, even if they can’t put it into words.”
Clara opened her notebook again, the one with the slightly worn cover, and began writing non-stop. Y/N waited, staring into space. Then Clara looked up and said:
“The presentation is on 6 June. I’ll be there.”
“I know,” replied Y/N, her voice soft.
“Before that, I’m going to write a few words about Thomas. So people arrive knowing a bit of what to expect.”
“All right.”
“One more thing. Your sister’s drawing… it’ll be on display on 6 June, won’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And she’ll be coming too?”
“Yes,” murmured Y/N.
Clara nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Good”.
She paused in the doorway, turning back one last time.
“Your father, you know… he would have really loved this workshop”.
Y/N looked down for a moment, then replied:
“Yes”.
“I’ll say that on the day,” added Clara. “So that everyone knows.”
She pushed open the door and left. Y/N was left alone in the studio, suspended in that strange kind of silence where the words from earlier still seemed to hang in the air, like ghosts. She picked up her phone, almost without thinking.
The journalist had come; she’d seen everything, noted it all down. Apparently, she’s going to churn out her article before the presentation.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. She sent me a text on her way out to tell me the studio was real. That it all really existed.She also said that your sister, at ten years old, had already grasped the concept of the collection. That it was the most accurate thing anyone had said to her all week.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before typing her reply:
Mila’s going to be eleven in three weeks, my love.
Mila finished the drawing one Sunday morning. Y/N knew because Mila came out of her room at eleven o’clock with the sheet of paper in her hands—not rushing, not excited, but with that calm air of someone who had just finished something important and was still carrying it with her. She laid the sheet flat on the kitchen table. The horse was there, in a resting position with that diffuse focus George had described: the left eye with the white of it slightly visible on the outer side, the ears slightly back toward the right, one front leg extended a centimeter, the weight slightly on the left hind leg. Something outside the frame that you couldn’t see but knew was there. Y/N looked at the drawing for a long time.
“It’s done.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s really good.”
“I know. But it’s nice to hear you say it, you know.” ”
Lea walked in from the hallway. She looked at the drawing on the table. For a few seconds, she said nothing—that’s typical of her; she takes her time before speaking, carefully observing what she sees.
“The eye.”
“The unfocused gaze.”
“Exactly. ”
“It’s the most beautiful drawing you’ve ever done.”
“I know. It was the hardest.”
“The best things are often the hardest.”
“Not always.”
“Often.”
Mila thought for a moment.
“Often. Okay.”
Y/N grabbed her phone and took a photo of the drawing, from a good angle, perfectly framed, with the morning light from the kitchen falling just right. She sent it to Bucky, Sofia, Camila, and George. George was the first to reply, eight minutes later.
The eye is perfect. That little white spot on the outer edge, without overdoing it. That’s the hardest thing to get right, and she nailed it. Tell her it’s great work.
Y/N read the message to Mila.
“I know,” she said. “But it feels good that he noticed.”
Sofia replied after twelve minutes.
The drawing’s going in the hall. Next to the signature dress.
Camila, fifteen minutes later:
Yes. Next to the dress.
Bucky was the last to reply, twenty-two minutes later, which meant he’d really taken the time to look before writing.
It’s the horse watching over something we can’t see. Like Thomas. Mila’s found something important there.
Y/N showed the message to Mila.
“He really looked at it.”
“Yeah, just like George.”
“It must run in the family.”
“Yeah.”
Mila picked up the drawing with the utmost care, as if it might shatter between her fingers. She took it to her room and laid it flat on her desk. I heard her open her drawer, surely to arrange the pencils in the order she likes,that little ritual she keeps to wrap up a task, to say goodbye to what she’s just finished.
Three days before June 6, Clara Osei published her article. I read it on the subway, around seven in the morning, my phone glued to my hand. A long piece, four pages, with photos of the studio taken that famous Thursday afternoon. You could see the large solid-wood table, the shelves filled with fabrics, and Mila’s drawing hanging on the left wall.Clara had written about invisible seams, about Thomas Sr., about that Williamsburg linen found by chance, about Mila, who, at ten years old, had already grasped the concept behind the entire collection. She talked about what it means to do things right, even when no one is watching. And she didn’t mention Bucky once. Not once.Y/N read the article twice on the subway. At first, she didn’t send the link to anyone—she kept it to herself for a few minutes, that little habit we sometimes have of wanting to savor something before sharing it. The penultimate paragraph. Y/N opened the article and went to the penultimate paragraph. Clara had written that some clothes were made for the people who wore them and not for the people who looked at them, and that this was the difference between a garment you kept for ten years and one you wore twice. And that it was rare to find a designer who had learned this distinction before starting to design.
On June 6, in the early evening, New York was bathed in that warm, lingering June light, as if the sun were reluctant to set. In Bushwick, the venue was just two blocks from the studio. Y/N arrived at 5 p.m. with four pieces in cloth bags. Sofia was already there,she’d had the keys since the day before and had spent the morning getting everything ready with Camila. The venue, an industrial space with large windows and light-colored hardwood floors, had been transformed without going overboard. White racks lined one wall to display the pieces. A table held wine and a few simple items. And in the center, on a large white wall, hung Mila’s drawing, framed simply. Upon seeing it, Y/N froze.
“Camila found this frame this morning,” said Sofia. “A very simple frame, made of natural wood. It goes perfectly with the raw linen.”
Y/N glanced at the motionless horse, its gaze somewhat lost in space, hanging there in its rough wooden frame on the white wall. It was perfect, truly perfect. The kind of thing that just fits without needing any explanation.
“Mila doesn’t know yet that the drawing is framed,” Sofia added.
“She’ll see it tonight.”
From across the room, Camila chimed in:
“I ordered the frame on Monday, as soon as I saw the photo of the finished drawing. I couldn’t leave it unframed. ”
“Thank you,” replied Y/N.
“It made sense, didn’t it?”
Y/N looked at her without saying a word.
Camila stared at her. For a moment, they just stood there, and Y/N realized how much their “that makes sense” had become their secret language—that direct, no-nonsense way of speaking that was so typical of Camila.She took the four pieces out of their covers and hung them on the white racks. The merino wool jacket. The raw linen pants from Williamsburg. The signature dress, with its visible stitching. And the coat with natural horn buttons, model four from Lisbon. The four pieces bathed in the June light.Sofia watched them, standing in the middle of the room.
“There you go.”
“Yes,” said Camila.
People started arriving around 7 p.m.
First came the two journalists: Clara Osei, notebook in hand, and Jana, a photographer for a magazine featuring designer portraits, carrying a discreet camera. Next were the buyers Camila had contacted,three women and one man, who examined the clothes with that professional gaze—not cold, just precise. Then Amira Hassan, composed as always, Lindsey frozen for two minutes in front of the signature dress without moving, and two people from the Alpine creative collective, invited by Sofia. And the Barneses. Winnifred arrived with George and Rebecca. She, with that gaze that took everything in, hugging people before even taking off her coat. He, in an impeccable suit, occupied the space with a spare, clean presence. Rebecca, her eyes suddenly taking everything in. Winnifred saw Y/N and crossed the room straight away. She hugged her—a real hug, both arms, warmth.
“Your father would be proud,” she murmurs.
“Yes, he would,” Y/N replies.
Winnifred walks away toward the racks, with the air of a woman who really wants to see. George approaches Y/N. He examines the four garments hanging there, without moving from where he stands. His gaze settles on the coat.
“The buttons.”
“Natural horn. Supplier in Lisbon. Over time, they’ll take on a golden hue.”
George nods, just once, a brief nod. He steps closer to the coat and turns up the left sleeve. Y/N waits. He examines the inner seams for a few moments. Then he turns up the right sleeve. He looks again.
“That's good work.”
“Thank you very much.”
He nods again, then joins Winnifred near the other pieces.
Rebecca walked over to Y/N. She glanced at the coat still hanging on the hanger.
“He’s going to wear it until it falls apart.”
“That’s why it’s well-made,” Y/N replied.
“Yeah.”
Rebecca looked at her, her gaze direct.
“You did a good job.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m not just saying that to be polite.”
“I know.”
Rebecca nodded and went to get some wine.
Mila arrived with Léa at 7:20 p.m. As she entered, she stopped short in front of the framed drawing on the white wall. For a few seconds, she said nothing. Léa whispered:
“Camila found the frame.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t know what to say.”
“No.”
A silence fell between them. Léa gently placed her hand on Mila’s shoulder, a simple gesture that was rare for her. Mila finally said:
“The frame is beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“It goes well with the raw linen.”
“I know.”
“Camila made a good choice.”
She stepped closer to the drawing and examined it closely. The left eye with a bit of white showing, the ears pulled back, the front end adjusted by two millimeters. Those precise little details she’d spent months thinking about. Camila stepped forward.
“Is the frame okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“A good drawing deserves a frame; it makes sense.”
“Yes. That’s fair and thoughtful.”
Camila looked at her. There was something in her expression—that slight look of someone who’s just heard an unexpected phrase and appreciates it.
“Yes. It’s both.”
Bucky arrived at 7:30 p.m. He entered the room and paused in the doorway, as he always did at first: looking around before entering. He scanned the four pieces on the stands, Mila’s framed drawing, the people in the room, Y/N in the middle of it all. Then he stepped inside. He walked straight toward her. Not toward the artwork, not toward her parents. Toward her.
“How are you?”
“Fine. Really fine.”
“I can tell.”
“How?”
“The way you’re here. You’re at home.”
Y/N looked around at the space around her, the rooms, the people, Mila’s drawing, George, who was pointing something out on the jacket to Winnifred with the calm manner of a man explaining the seams to his wife.
“Yes. I’m home.”
He took her hand in the space between them, that natural touch. She left it there. Jana, the portrait magazine journalist, approached with her discreet camera.
“Can I take a few photos?”
“Yes.”
Jana took photos, not poses, real moments. George looking at the coat’s inner seams. Mila in front of her framed drawing. Sofia and Camila talking near the racks. Y/N and Bucky with their hands intertwined.
“The photo with Bucky,” Y/N told Jana. “The collection is Thomas’s. Not the partnership.”
“I know. I read Clara’s article.”
She took another photo, Y/N alone in front of the four pieces.
“There. That’s the one that counts.”
At one point during the evening, Y/N found herself alone in a corner of the space with Clara Osei.
“How are you feeling tonight?”
“The right way. Like I do before important things.”
“The presentation is already done. The pieces are here, and people are really looking at them.”
“Yes.”
“Your little sister. The sketch.”
“Yes.”
“She’s been looking at the models with a notebook for a while now.”
Y/N turned around. Mila was indeed standing near the racks, notebook and red pen in hand, jotting something down while observing the iconic dress. George was standing next to her, looking too.
“She’s taking notes.”
“What?”
“People’s reactions to the pieces. She’s probably developed a system.”
Clara opened her notebook. She jotted something down.
“I’m going to write a second article after the show. ”
“About Thomas.”
“About how a collection comes to life in the world when it’s done right. Not about the pieces, but about the people surrounding the pieces tonight.”
Y/N scanned the room. George and Mila were chatting near the dress, Léa was talking with Amira in a corner, Rebecca and Winnifred were standing in front of the drawing, Bucky was listening intently to a buyer, and Sofia and Camila were watching the people looking at the clothes. All these people gathered around the designs tonight. All these people, her people.
“Okay, fine,” she said.
The party ended at ten o’clock. The guests left one by one: the buyers with their business cards, the journalists with their notebooks, the Alpine team. Amira shook Y/N’s hand as she left:
“The exit clause is clean. Thomas is truly yours now.”
Lindsey called out as she walked by:
“The pieces are well made.”
It was the nicest compliment Lindsey could have given. That left only Y/N, Bucky, Lea, Mila, George, Winnifred, Rebecca, Sofia, and Camila. George walked over to Y/N, the coat in his hand.
“I can take it tonight.”
“Yes. It’s for you.”
” “How much?”
“It’s the first Thomas coat. It’s yours.”
George looked at her with that frank, serene gaze that was so characteristic of him.
“I’ll pay for the second one. ”
“Okay.”
He nodded and draped the coat over his arm with the care of someone holding something that deserves to be handled with delicacy. Winnifred hugged Y/N one last time before leaving, a real hug, with both arms, and whispered,
“Your father did a good job through you.”
Y/N didn’t say a word. There was no need. The Barnes had left. Sofia and Camila took the pieces down one by one, putting them back into their cloth bags with the kind of care you reserve for things that really matter. Sofia said:
“We’ll do the second collection again whenever you want.”
Camila added:
“The slit at the wrist.”
And they walked out. Léa and Mila were waiting in a corner. Mila had closed her notebook; she was done with the documentation. Y/N scanned the room: almost empty, Mila’s drawing still hanging on the wall in its rough-hewn wooden frame, the racks empty, the table cleared.Bucky said:
“Shall we go?”
“Yes.”
Mila grabbed her notebook and her bag. She took one last look at the drawing on the wall.
“It’s staying there for tonight.”
“We’ll leave him there until tomorrow morning. Sofia will come pick him up.”
“Perfect. He’ll have a peaceful night.”
They stepped out onto the street in Bushwick, into the June heat. Y/N, Bucky, Lea, and Mila with her notebook. Even at 10 p.m., the June light lingered, as if the sun refused to set.
“I noted the reactions of twenty-three people to the four pieces tonight,” Mila said as they walked down the street.
“Twenty-three. ”
“Nineteen looked at the dress first. Three started with the coat. One with the jacket. And zero with the pants.”
“Zero for the pants.”
“We’ll have to rethink the layout for the next presentation.”
“That’s a good point. ”
“George turned the coat’s sleeves up twice. Once when he saw it on the coat rack, and another time after Y/N told him to pick it up.”
“He wanted to check a second time,” Bucky said.
“Yeah. Just to be sure.”
The day after June 6th, Y/N woke up late. The June sunlight streamed gently through the window, casting a warm, golden glow on the hardwood floor. No alarm clock, no subway, no obligations at Alpine. She’d taken the day off, and everyone had accepted it without question. It was past ten o’clock when she opened her eyes. In the kitchen, she could already hear Mila bustling about, that distinct sound of someone organizing things methodically. She got up and went into the kitchen. Mila was at the table, notebook open, the previous day’s notes spread out before her, a cup of coffee already waiting for her.
“You made coffee,” said Y/N as she sat down.
“I knew you’d get up around this time. I guessed it.”
Y/N took the warm cup in her hands. The heat spread through her palms, giving her a pleasant sensation.
“What are you working on?”
“I’m analyzing the reactions to the presentation. I’ve had the data since last night, and I want to organize it before it loses its context.”
“The twenty-three people.”
“Twenty-four. I’d forgotten about Jana, who stared at the jacket for seven minutes without moving.”
Y/N took a sip and smiled inwardly. Mila had timed how long twenty-four people had spent looking at Thomas’s designs, and she was organizing that data into a professional report. The little one was growing up so fast. Her phone vibrated on the table.
Did you sleep well?
Yes. Mila timed Jana, who stood in front of the jacket for seven minutes.
I know. She sent me her preliminary analysis at seven this morning.
At seven.
Yes. With an executive summary on the first page.
Y/N put down the phone and looked at Mila.
“You sent her an executive summary?”
“I had important data. It couldn’t wait.”
Y/N didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say that would have been more fitting than silence. Léa came in at 10:30 with her internship notes. She sat down at the table and turned her phone toward Y/N.
“Jana's article was published this morning.”
Y/N read the article. It wasn’t long, just four photos and some text. The photo of her alone in front of the four pieces. The one of George rolling up the sleeve of his coat. The one of Mila in front of her framed drawing. And a photo she hadn’t seen before: her and Bucky, hands clasped, watching people look at the pieces.
“Jana wrote about you,” said Y/N, looking up at Lea.
“I know. I read it.”
“And?”
“She got it right.”
Léa went back to her notes. Mila continued her analysis. Y/N finished her coffee in the kitchen, bathed in June sunlight, with Thomas now featured in two articles and in the hands of twenty-four people who had actually looked at them. That afternoon, she went to the studio. Not to work, just to be there. She climbed the three flights of stairs, opened the door, and stepped into the silence. The racks were back, the pieces tucked into their cloth bags on the shelves. The back wall still bore the sketches. On the left wall, the hook was empty. Sofia had taken down Mila’s drawing that morning. Y/N sat on the ledge of the middle window, Bucky’s usual spot, and looked at the empty hook. The June light streamed in through the three windows, soft and warm on the worn hardwood floor. She thought of the drawing now hanging in Mila’s room, next to the index cards from her drawing sessions, as a way of keeping in sight where they had come from.
Her phone vibrated.
Sofia gave me back the drawing this morning. It’s in my room now. I made a spot for it.
Where?
On the wall next to my desk. Next to the index cards for the drawing program, sessions one through eight. That way I can see where I left off.
Y/N took a photo of the empty hook and sent it to Bucky.
The drawing is in Mila’s room now. The hook is empty. That means we need something else for the second collection.
She put down the phone and looked around the workshop: the full shelves, the large solid-wood table with its old marks, the three windows, the empty hook on the left. These things were waiting for what was to come. The orders arrived the following week. Seven in total. Y/N read them in the workshop one Tuesday evening, sitting at the large table. A woman had been searching for years for a garment that would truly last. A man wanted the coat for his father. She reread that email three times. Her father would have liked to know that his legacy lived on in these requests. She replied to each one personally, without using a template, taking the time to explain the lead times, the fabrics, and the interior seams that would be perfect. It took her two hours.
When she put her phone down, Bucky sent her a message.
Seven orders. One for a coat for someone’s father.
I know. Camila sent me the emails this morning.
You’re going to make that coat.
Yes.
With the same inner seams.
Of course.
Your father would be happy.
She stared for a moment at the seven names in her new notebook. Bucky arrived shortly after with a tray of food he’d ordered without her asking, knowing she often forgot to eat when she was working.
“You answered each one differently,” he said, setting the tray down next to her.
“Yes. It’s for the people who wear them.”
He sat down on the windowsill, his usual spot, and watched her eat. Then he stood up, tidied away what she’d left lying on the table, and brought her a glass of water before she even reached out for it. The following Thursday, Camila knocked on the doorframe of Y/N’s office at Alpine. She placed a sheet of paper on the table.
“Twenty-two stores have contacted Thomas since the articles came out. Five journalists. Three designers who want to collaborate.”
Y/N looked at the paper.
“We need to think about a structure,” Camila continued. “You can’t manage everything on your own from the studio.”
“I’ll hire someone.”
“I have someone in mind. Nadia. She worked with me in Milan. She understands what it’s like to build something small and real.”
“You’ve already thought of someone.”
“I’d anticipated it.” Camila left.
Y/N stayed for a moment, staring at the sheet of paper. Thomas now existed in the world, and the world was responding. That evening, Bucky came to the studio. He brought two coffees and sat on the windowsill.
“Twenty-two stores”, he said.
“Yes.”
“You look like someone who’s making a decision.”
“I’m deciding how Thomas grows. Not fast. Not for everyone. For the right people.”
He nodded, his hand sliding gently onto her shoulder and lingering there.
“Like the inner seams.”
“Yes. Growing up without losing what matters most.”
Nadia Ferro arrived the following Thursday at seven o’clock. She climbed the three flights of stairs without counting the steps and entered the workshop. She looked around without speaking right away, taking in the shelves, the fabrics, the large table.
“The shelves are organized by fabric type,” she said at last.
From heaviest to lightest. That makes sense. She touched the raw Williamsburg linen, then looked at the sketches for the second collection.
“The slit at the wrist. The logical continuation of the inner seams.”
Y/N looked at her.
“How do you know that?”
“I read the articles. And Camila explained the philosophy to me.”
Nadia sat down on the ledge of the middle window.
“What you need isn’t someone to talk about Thomas for you. You need someone to protect the time while Thomas takes shape. ”
She calmly explained her role: filtering requests, responding to the right people, letting Y/N create the clothes. Y/N listened, sensing that this woman understood exactly what she wanted to preserve.
“When do you start?” Y/N asked.
“If you say yes, I start Monday.”
“Okay, fine.”
Nadia stood up.
“The studio’s nice. Camila was right.”
She walked out. Y/N found herself alone in the evening light, her eyes fixed on the empty hook hanging on the left wall. Those things that waited for what was to come. Mila turned eleven on a Friday in June. No big party. Just dinner with the right people. Bucky arrived with a slightly lopsided chocolate cake and two books about horses.
“It’s lopsided,” Mila said when she saw the cake.
“Yes. But the layers are even. That’s what matters.”
George had sent a book about machines and horses. Mila read it carefully.
“He looked for it for three weeks,” said Y/N.
“That’s exactly right.”
That evening, in the hallway, Bucky hugged Y/N.
“She’s eleven now.”
“Yes.”
“She’s growing up.”
“Yes. It’s a little scary.”
“That’s normal.”
“You’re on the right track, my love.”
He held her close for a long moment, his hand resting on her back, his lips on her forehead. Those moments belonged to them alone, calm and intense.
July arrived. Lea left to go stay with Amira. The apartment felt different without her, but Mila adapted in her own way. She reorganized her schedule to include more sessions with Bucky. She sent messages to George about steam engines and received replies at 6:40 p.m. One evening, Bucky said something in the workshop.
“I added something this week in town.”
“What?”
“A workshop on the third floor in Bushwick. But this time, I gave the person who works there a name.” Y/N set down her needle. “Her name is Y/N.”
The silence was sweet, full of meaning. She moved closer, sitting down next to him on the windowsill.
“You put my name in your town.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known her name?”
“For a long time. I was waiting for the right moment to write it down. ”
She rested her head against his shoulder. He closed the notebook and held her close. The July light filtered through the three windows, warming the hardwood floor. They stayed like that, silent, present for one another, in this studio that so closely resembled what they were building together.
Nadia started the following Monday. She arrived at the studio at nine o’clock with a notebook and her phone, with the calm confidence of someone who had prepared without showing it. Y/N explained everything to her in two hours: the seven current orders, the twenty-two stores, the five journalists, the three staff members, how Thomas operated, and what it meant to make things for the people who wore them. Nadia listened without taking notes for the first hour. During the second, she took notes. At the end, she said,
“One question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Amira Hassan set up the partnership with Alpine.”
“Yes.”
“She’s available to answer any questions I might have about Thomas’s legal structure.”
“I’ll ask her.”
“No. I want to be able to send him questions directly if it’s urgent. With your permission.”
Y/N thought of Léa, who had contacted Amira from her own phone one evening; of Mila, who sent preliminary analyses to Bucky at seven in the morning; of the way people in her life acted directly when necessary.
“Okay. I’ll let her know tonight.”
“Thanks.”
Nadia closed her notebook.
“The seven orders. I’ll contact the clients to keep them updated on the deadlines. You’ll handle the clothing.”
“Yes.”
“As for the stores. I looked at the twenty-two this week. Fifteen aren’t a good fit for Thomas, too commercial, too focused on trends rather than sustainability. Seven are worth a real conversation.”
“Which ones?”
Nadia pulled out a sheet of paper and placed it on the table. Seven names with short descriptions: independent boutiques in Brooklyn, Portland, Chicago, and Paris. One in Tokyo. Y/N took the sheet and read it.
“The boutique in Paris.”
“Yes. It’s called Fond, and it only sells pieces made to last. Their slogan is ‘what we keep.’”
Y/N looked at the name.
“Fond.”
“What we hold dear.”
She thought about the things made for the people who wear them and how that name expressed the same idea in a different way.
“Contact them first.”
“That’s what I was going to do.”
“I know.”
Nadia picked up her bag.
“The shop in Tokyo too. They have a similar philosophy but for the Japanese market, quality as a cultural value, not as a marketing pitch.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning I’ll send an initial report on the ongoing contacts. Let me know if the format works for you.”
“Okay.”
Nadia left.
Y/N stayed in the studio with the list of the seven stores, the report due tomorrow morning, and Thomas, who was now growing up with someone to protect the time in which he was developing. She picked up her phone.
Nadia has started. She’s contacting Paris and Tokyo first.
Bucky replied.
I know. She sent me a kick-off memo this morning at eight o’clock. She’s just like Lindsey.
How so?
She acts before being asked and says things straight out.
That’s a quality.
Yes, my love. It’s a quality.
Two weeks after Nadia started, the Fond boutique in Paris replied. Y/N read the email in the studio one Thursday evening—not a generic response, but something actually written by a woman named Margot who had been running Fond for eight years. Margot had read the two articles by Clara and Jana. She had looked at the photos of the pieces. She wanted to see Thomas in person before deciding anything and was offering to come to New York in September if Y/N was available. Y/N read the email twice. She forwarded it to Nadia. Nadia replied within fifteen minutes.
I’ll tell her yes for September and ask her for her dates.
It’s the right boutique.
She picked up her phone and called Bucky. He picked up on the second ring.
“Sweetheart.”
“The Fond boutique in Paris. Margot wants to come in September to see Thomas.”
A moment of silence.
“In September.”
“Yes.”
“That was three months ago.”
“Yes.”
“You have time to process the seven orders and prepare a presentation for Margot.”
“Yes.”
“You seem calm. ”
“I am calm. I’m in the studio. I’m always calm here.”
“I know.”
“In the background. What we keep.”
“Yes.”
“It’s Thomas.”
“Yes, my love. It’s Thomas.”
She put down her phone, took out her new notebook, and wrote: Margot — Paris — September. And underneath: what we keep. She looked at those words on the page and thought of her father, who had done things right his whole life without many people knowing it, and of Thomas, who might one day exist in a shop in Paris called what we keep. These things passed down. These things that endure. The following Saturday, Bucky came to the studio with something. No coffee this time. A flat, simply wrapped box, which he set down on the large solid-wood table without explanation. Y/N looked at it.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
She thought back to her father, to his habit of turning clothes inside out to inspect the seams, a detail no one else noticed. George Barnes had done the same with Thomas’s coat, and it had touched her.
“I want to write back to him.”
“He’s waiting.”
“By letter.”
“He’ll appreciate it.”
She pulled a sheet of paper from her new notebook, grabbed a pen, and wrote quickly, just the essentials. She explained that her father had spent his life making perfect seams on the inside, so that those who wore his clothes could feel it without even seeing it. That George had understood that just by touching the coat, and that her father would have liked to know. And that the second coat would be for him whenever he wanted it.She folded the sheet and handed it to Bucky.
“I'll give it to him tonight.”
“Thank you, my love.”
“It makes sense.”
“It’s thoughtful.”
“Both.”
She laughed softly, and so did he. They stayed in the workshop, with George’s letter and the folded reply, Fond Paris en septembre, the seven orders in progress, and Thomas, who continued to take shape, stitch by stitch, from the inside out.Their own little things.
July arrived, and Léa left for Amira’s house. It wasn’t a grand departure. She packed her bag on Sunday evening using her usual method for practical matters: she folded her clothes in the right order and put her notes in a separate folder. Mila watched her from the doorway of her room without saying a word for twenty minutes. Léa said, without turning around:
“You have something to tell me.”
“No.”
“You’ve been standing there for twenty minutes.”
“I’m just watching.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“In this context, yes.”
Léa closed her suitcase. She turned to Mila.
“Three and a half weeks.”
“Twenty-four days.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve done the maths.”
“I know.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“I know that too.”
“I just wanted to say it.”
Léa picked up her suitcase and walked over to Mila in the doorway.
“I’ll send you a message every day.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I’ll do it anyway.”
“All right.”
Léa walked past her into the hallway. Y/N was in the kitchen. She could hear the two sisters in the hallway, those voices she now recognised by the way they filled the space. Léa entered the kitchen with her suitcase. She looked at Y/N.
“You’ve got everything.”
“Yes. Amira knows you’re arriving at ten.”
“Yes. She sent me the office code this morning.”
“The office code.”
“To get in before she arrives if I feel like it.”
She said that serious people arrive before everyone else. Y/N thought of Amira, who would answer the phone at seven in the morning and give the office code to her intern so she could arrive before everyone else if she fancied it. She hugged her sister, not for long, as Léa didn’t like long hugs, just long enough to say something without saying it. Léa returned the hug with that sparing, genuine manner.
“I’m proud of you.”
“I know.”
She picked up her suitcase and left. Without Léa, the flat felt different. Not empty, Mila was there and Y/N was there and Bucky often came round. But different in that particular way a space feels when it has lost a specific presence, that way Léa used to exist in the rooms: her notes on the table, her coffee in the kitchen at seven forty-five, her way of speaking directly that gave structure to conversations. Mila adapted in her own way. She rearranged her schedule for the tenth session to include more sessions with Bucky, not to make up for Lea’s absence, just because the timetable now allowed it. She sent a message to George Barnes on the first Tuesday without Lea with three questions about steam engines, and George replied at 6.40 the next day, as always. She said to Y/N one Wednesday morning:
“Lea sent me a message last night.”
“What did she say?”
“She said the office is quiet at half past eight and that’s the best time because you can see how things are organised before people start using them.”
“She arrives at half past eight every day.”
“Yes. She says Amira arrives at nine and that the twenty minutes in between are the best.”
Y/N thought of Léa in an empty office at half past eight, looking at how things were organised before people used them, that way of seeing structures before they were activated by people. Muybridge. Diffuse attention. And now this.
“She’s a quick learner.”
“She used to learn quickly. Now she’s learning in the right context.”
Y/N drank her coffee and thought that Mila was ten, eleven for the past two weeks, and that she said things like ‘learning in the right context’ with that calm, matter-of-fact manner. Her phone vibrated. Léa.
Message from the office, 9.03. First case this morning. Amira says I can observe her whilst she works. She says that watching without intervening is the first skill.
Watching without intervening.
Yes. Seeing what’s really there before deciding what to do. That’s Muybridge.
“Léa says that watching without intervening is Muybridge.”
Mila said in her programme:
“Yes, it’s the same. We really look before we draw. Amira really looks before she speaks.”
Y/N put down his phone. He realised that Léa, Mila, Amira, George, Muybridge, the inner seams and diffuse attention were all, in a way, the same thing viewed from different angles. That way of looking at what’s really there before deciding what to do with it.These things that eventually came together.
summary : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, just to fill the silence.
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +10.8k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
May arrived with longer daylight hours that lingered on Brooklyn’s facades, softening the edges of the buildings and stretching the shadows across the sidewalks.
Y/N was walking alongside Sofia, her mind still filled with the sketches she’d just finished retouching, when her gaze drifted automatically toward the large window of the restaurant across from Alpine. Bucky was there, sitting by the window, talking to a woman with dark hair. Documents were spread out between them. Nothing spectacular. Just a business meeting. Sofia continued on her way without a word. Y/N did the same. But something had settled inside her, light, almost imperceptible, like a seam pulling slightly on the fabric. She didn’t say anything to Bucky that evening. Not because she was trying to hide anything, but because she didn’t yet know if that feeling deserved a name.
Dans l’atelier de Bushwick, elle monta les trois étages, le sac lourd sur l’épaule. La lumière du soir filtrait à travers les trois fenêtres, teintant les tissus d’une lueur dorée. L’odeur du lin brut et de la laine mérinos l’accueillit, rassurante. Elle posa ses affaires sur la grande table en bois massif, passa la main sur le grain usé du plateau, et pensa à son père qui, lui aussi, caressait toujours le bois avant de commencer à couper. Ce geste simple la reliait à lui, à ces soirées où il travaillait tard dans leur petit appartement, vérifiant une dernière fois les coutures intérieures à la lumière d’une lampe basse.Elle travailla jusqu’à vingt heures. Le temps passa lentement, rythmé par le bruit régulier de l’aiguille et le murmure lointain de la rue en bas.
When she finally got home, the apartment smelled of the tea Mila had made. The little girl was sitting at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, the stationary horse taking shape with that almost solemn precision she’d come to possess. She looked up when Y/N walked in.
“Something’s wrong.”
Y/N set down her bag.I’m tired.
“It’s not just tiredness.”
Mila looked at her with that calmness that saw too much. Y/N hesitated, then shook her head.
“It’s nothing.”
“Okay.”
Mila went back to her drawing, accepting the incomplete answer without closing the door. Léa walked past in the hallway, cast a silent glance, then disappeared into her room. Y/N retreated to her own room, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up her phone.
That faint sensation was still there, lingering. Have a good evening, my love. The reply came almost immediately.
Have a good evening, sweetheart. Are you back from the studio?
Yes. How was your day?
Fine.
Had a meeting with the communications team at Altitude Partners at lunchtime. Long but useful.
Y/N stared at the screen for a moment, then simply typed: Okay. She put down her phone and looked at the ceiling of her bedroom. She thought about how Bucky had told her one night in the car that it had been over for three years and that it was really over, and how she had believed that completely because it was true. What she felt now was different, more vague, the realization that she truly cared about him and that truly caring about someone made things vulnerable. She fell asleep. The next morning, Bucky was waiting for her at the bottom of the building at eight o’clock. Not in the car. Standing in the street, two coffees from the corner bakery in his hands. The May light was long and soft on his face. He had that calm, almost tender expression, the one he wore when he sensed she needed something without her asking for it.
“You didn’t have to,” she said, taking the coffee.
“I know.”
They walked toward the subway.
The cold didn’t really feel cold anymore. Brooklyn was coming to life around them.
“Nora Vidal,” he said softly. “She’s been working at Altitude for two years. She’s professional, competent, and that’s all.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.”
“I’m telling you anyway.”
“Bucky.”
“Yes.”
“I trust you.”
“I know. And that’s why I’m telling you—because you deserve to know that’s really all there is to it.”
Y/N sipped her coffee as she walked. The words lingered with her for a long time, spoken with that quiet candour he’d picked up. He slipped his jacket over her shoulders when he felt her shiver slightly, even before she said so.
“It’s over, she said.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It was a split second of something I wanted to name.”
“It’s good that you named it.”
“I could have kept it to myself.”
“Yes. You were right not to.”
They reached the underground. He was going the other way. She took her coffee and looked at him. He placed his hand on her back, a gentle, possessive gesture, then kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you for coming this morning.”
“It made sense.”
“My love.”
“Yes.”
“It was thoughtful.”
“Both can be true.”
“I know.”
She kissed him on the subway stairs, a simple, sincere kiss, then went down to the platform. That evening, Bucky dropped by for dinner unannounced. A message at six o’clock:
I’m popping round tonight.
He arrived with ingredients for pancakes and a bottle of wine.
“You’ve got wine,” Mila remarked as he came in.
“For Lea.”
“Lea said that wine with pancakes is underrated.”
“I know.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“You listen.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She began preparing her cooking supplies with the seriousness of a sous-chef. Léa came in, spotted the bottle and looked at Bucky.
“You said it was underrated,” she said.
“I said that three weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“You waited for the right moment.”
“No. I’ve been waiting for an evening that deserved some wine.”
Léa looked at Y/N. Y/N looked at Bucky. He was already taking out the ingredients with the calmness of a man who did things without making a fuss. Léa went to fetch some glasses. They ate the pancakes with wine. Mila took a tiny sip “for comparison’s sake”. Bucky gently reminded her that she’d have to wait until she turned twenty-one. Mila calculated aloud that it would be in eleven years. Léa rolled her eyes but drank her glass with a small smile. Y/N watched them around the table: Mila with her precise calculations, Léa with her internship notes, Bucky pouring the wine with that natural attentiveness. These people in her kitchen on a May evening. These people were hers.
Sofia approved the first finished pieces one Friday morning in Alpine’s creative space. Y/N arrived at nine o’clock with the four pieces in separate cloth bags and placed them on the large table. Sofia took them out one by one. She examined them methodically, in silence, with that total concentration she reserved for things that deserved to be truly looked at. Camila was there too, standing against the wall with her coffee, present without taking up any space. Sofia finished with the signature dress. She held it up to the light, looked at the visible stitching at the neckline, turned the sleeves inside out, checked the hem. She placed the dress on the mannequin and stepped back.
“It’s ready.”
Just a couple of words. But coming from Sofia, it meant a whole lot.
“Yes,” she simply replied.
Y/N looked at the four pieces lying on the table, and the one on the mannequin. There they were, very real. Not just sketches on a sheet of paper, nor wobbly prototypes. No, this time, it was the real deal. Finished garments, neatly made, inside and out. It made the whole thing feel a bit unreal.
Sophia continued:
“The presentation’s in June. I’ve booked the venue in Bushwick for the sixth.”
“6 June?”
“Yes. It’s a Friday. You know full well that people go out on Friday nights.”
“And you booked it without even asking my opinion?”
Sofia took a sip of coffee, taking her time.
“I would have asked you if you’d said no. But I knew you’d say yes.”
Y/N let out a sigh.
“Right… fine.”
Sofia raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips:
“There you go.”
“I spoke to two journalists from the specialist press,” Camila continued. “Not the mainstream media, no — people who take the time to observe, to really understand what they’re seeing.”
She looked at her, a little surprised.
“You really did contact the press?”
“Yes. And both said they wanted to come.”
She thought back to the way Camila went about things, always gently, with that quiet efficiency that made her unique.
“Thank you.”
“It made sense,” replied Camila.
Y/N looked her straight in the eye.
“Stop saying that.”
Camila gave a wry smile.
“That’s what Bucky usually says.”
“I know. It’s contagious.”
“Yeah… actually, it’s not so bad.”
Sofia took out her phone and snapped a photo of the four items. She had a folder, a real one, on her phone. It was called ‘real things’. Y/N knew this because she’d caught a glimpse of her screen one day.
“You’re putting the photos in the ‘real things’ folder, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“How long has that folder been there?”
“Since I started in fashion. To remind me why I’m doing all this.”
Y/N thought about that. A folder of real things, in an industry that produced so few of them. A small collection of truth, tucked away in her phone.
“Is Thomas in there?”
“Thomas’s been in there since the very first sketch.”
Y/N didn’t reply. But she didn’t need to. The silence said it all.
That evening, Y/N went back to the studio alone. She switched on the light, and her gaze fell on the four pieces hanging on the back wall. They had come back from Alpine’s creative space, packed away in their canvas bags, and she had put them back exactly where they had been before. As if they’d never left.But something had changed. Sofia had said, ‘It’s ready,’ and now it really was ready, not just in the studio, but out in the world, for 6 June, for the journalists, for the people who would be coming. She sat on the sill of the middle window, Bucky’s spot, and looked at the four pieces.
The evening light streamed in through the windows, soft on the fabrics. Her phone vibrated.
Sofia sent me a photo of the four rooms this morning. They’re lovely, sweetheart. Really lovely.
Sofia sent you a photo?
She’s sending them to everyone, apparently. Camila told me the same thing. And my mum.
Y/N paused.
Your mum.
Yes. Sofia has her number . She sent her a photo and my mum replied with three dress emojis. Three dress emojis. Mila taught her the themed emojis. The dress has been her go-to emoji ever since Mila showed her.
She read the message and immediately thought of Winnifred , the one with the Thomas emoji and the photos of Sofia.
Your mum’s coming on 6 June. She asked this morning. I said yes.
And your dad?
He asked if the coat would be there. I’m bringing the coat. I’ll tell him. He’ll nod once.
Y/N put her phone down and stayed on the windowsill for a while longer, with the four pieces hanging on the wall and 6 June drawing nearer. And Winnifred Barnes with her three dress emojis. Those people watching her. Her people.
On Saturday, Mila showed Y/N the drawing she was working on. Not the final version, just the first few hours’ work on the final sheet. She brought it into the kitchen carefully, as if it were fragile, and laid it flat on the table. The horse was there. Not finished yet, just the first few lines, but already something more assertive, a line that knew where it was going.
“It’s not bad,” said Y/N.
“Yeah, I know. But something’s not quite right.”
“What is it?”
“The horse’s left eye. It needs to be looking out of the frame, but at the same time, it should have that kind of calm, composed look of a relaxed animal. The problem is, if I turn it too far off-screen, it looks on its guard, almost stressed. And if I make it too calm, well, it just stares into space, as if it couldn’t care less.”
Y/N looked at the eye in question. Mila had hit the nail on the head: it really was the trickiest balance to get right.
“Send the photo to Bucky,” said Y/N.
“I sent it to his dad first.”
“Obviously.”
Mila chuckled softly.
“He replied within twenty minutes, can you believe it? He told me that the horse’s eye, when it’s in passive surveillance mode — he calls it ‘diffuse attention’ — has a tiny bit of the white visible on the outer side. Not all of the white, mind you, just a hint.”
“Diffuse attention,” Y/N repeated.
“Yeah. The horse watches without looking directly, basically. A bit like someone listening to a conversation without appearing to, you know what I mean?”
Y/N remained silent for a moment, letting the idea sink in. Diffuse attention, that way of picking up on the essentials without ever staring directly at things. It reminded her of Thomas, his inner seams, those invisible threads that hold everything together even when you can’t see them.
“It’s exactly the same as Thomas,” she finally said.
“I know, that’s why it’s the right drawing.”
Léa came into the kitchen with her notes.
“George told me about diffuse attention.”
“You read my message.”
“You’d left your phone on the hall table.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to read it.”
“I wasn’t reading it, I was just looking at it.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“In this context, yes.”
Y/N drank her coffee, thinking that Léa and Mila would be having this sort of discussion for years to come, and that it was one of the truest things in her life.Her phone vibrated. George Barnes.
Eye in diffuse attention — slightly visible white on the outer edge. Mila will find the right balance. She has an eye for it.
Thanks. She’ll find it.
I know. Tell her the drawing’s going to be fine. She can trust me on that.
Y/N went into Mila’s room.
“George says the drawing’s going to be fine and that you can trust him.”
Mila picked up her thinnest pencil.
“I know. he really does watch.”
She started working on the left eye. Y/N stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Mila with her fine pencil and the horse watching something outside the frame.
On Tuesday evening, the workshop was quiet. Mila was staying at George and Winnifred’s, and Léa was at a friend’s house. Y/N had been working on the finishing touches for eighteen hours, hand-sewing the hems on the signature dress and the buttonholes on the coat, which she wanted to be perfect. The evening light bathed the space in a warm glow, the scent of fabric filled the air, and the distant sounds of Brooklyn drifted in through the half-open windows. At eight o’clock, her phone vibrated.
I’m at the bottom of the building.
Are you in the studio?
Yes.
I’m coming up.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs, that steady, precise rhythm she now recognised. He came in with two coffees, paused in the doorway and looked around the studio: the dim light, the four pieces on the wall, Y/N at the table finishing her work, Mila’s drawing on the left-hand wall.
“You worked late, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I wanted to finish those buttonholes tonight.”
“Are they done?”
“Yes.”
She gently set down her needle. He entered the room, placed a coffee next to her, then walked over to the wall where the clothes were hanging. He looked at them one by one, not just out of the corner of his eye, but really, with sincere attention. He stopped in front of the signature dress.
“The stitching is visible there.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve altered it.”
Y/N looked down at the dress.
“Just a millimetre to the right. I felt there was something slightly off, without being able to put my finger on it.”
“Now it’s perfect.”
“Yes.”
He turned towards her. She was still sitting at the table, with her coffee and her finishing touches, and there was something in her expression that wasn't fatigue, but something more open. He walked over to her. She stood up. He kissed her; not a quick peck, but something longer, his hand running through her hair, hers resting on his back. When she pulled away slightly, she whispered:
“The workshop’s all ours tonight.”
“Yeah.”
They stood there for quite a while, bathed in the soft, subdued light. Bucky held her close, his hands lingering on her shoulders, as if he wanted to etch the moment into his memory. His gaze lingered a second longer than usual. Then he simply pressed his lips to her forehead, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The air around them was thick, but not heavy: a gentle, warm tension that needed no words.
“You look well tonight,” he murmured.
“I am well.”
“Not just well.”
“No. Not just well.”
Not just fine. They spoke shortly afterwards. He sat on the windowsill in the middle, his usual spot, and she stayed close to him. He brought her a coffee before she’d even reached out, and tidied away the things she’d left lying on the table. They looked around the rooms in silence, then out at Brooklyn in the May night.
“In three weeks’ time, on 6 June,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
“Are you a bit scared?”
“No. Just the right amount of nervousness. The kind you feel before things that really matter.”
“The buttonholes are done.”
“I know.”
“And the visible seams… they fall exactly where they should.”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re ready.”
“I’ve actually been ready for a while. The presentation is just the moment when everyone discovers what’s already been there in the shadows. The final result, basically.”
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
He put his arm around her. She rested her head against his shoulder and thought about the things made for the people who wear them, not for the people who look at them. The music from a flat above continued, a distant trumpet. She closed her eyes and listened, committing tonight’s melody to memory: Bucky’s breathing, the sounds of Brooklyn, all of it together in the studio with Thomas around them. Her phone vibrated. She smiled in the dark. Mila.
Good evening.
I have a question about diffuse attention. Does it apply to humans as well?
Bucky felt his phone vibrate too. He picked up his own and read:
“She’s asking if diffuse attention applies to humans.”
“She’s going to ask your father that question tomorrow morning. ”
“He’ll reply at 6.40 am.”
Y/N replied to Mila.
Yes. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Goodnight.
Yeah. Goodnight.
Is Bucky there?
Yes.
Good.
Bucky’s mum said goodnight too 😺.
Y/N showed the message to Bucky. He read it.
“My mum sends her goodnights via Mila now. With the cat emoji.”
“She’s adopted the cat emoji for her evening messages ever since Mila told her it was the workshop emoji.”
“The workshop emoji.”
Mila had created a system of themed emojis for the different spaces. Y/N put down her phone and thought of Winnifred Barnes sending goodnight messages with the workshop cat emoji via Mila from Staten Island. It was one of the truest and most beautiful things in her life right now. She whispered,
“I love you, my love.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
The trumpet continued for a few more minutes, then stopped. Brooklyn carried on.
Two weeks before 6 June, Léa made an announcement at dinner. Without any preamble, she put down her fork and simply said that Amira had offered her the chance to extend her work placement until the end of August. There was a moment’s silence around the table. Mila looked up from her plate.
“That’s three weeks longer than planned.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll agree?”
“Yes.”
“Good”.
Mila picked up her fork again as if everything had been settled. Y/N looked at her sister. Léa was looking at her with the calmness of someone who’d already made up their mind and was waiting for the others to take note. Y/N felt a gentle warmth in her chest.
“When did Amira suggest this to you?”
“This morning. She said I’ve seen enough to understand the structure but not enough to see how the structure holds up against reality. She wants me to look at complex cases.”
“Complex cases.”
“Not in the sense of difficult. In the sense that reality doesn’t always match the principles.”
Y/N thought about seeing what’s really there rather than what one expects to see. Muybridge, diffuse attention, and now complex cases. Léa was building something systematically, brick by brick.
“You’ll be here for the 6th of June.”
“Yes. The internship starts on the 1st of July.”
“And NYU in September.”
“Yes. Amira said the two were compatible. She checked the calendars.”
Mila said from her plate:
“Amira checked the calendars for Léa.”
Bucky gave a slight, wry smile.
“She does that for people who are really worth putting on a calendar, you know.”
Mila nodded in that way you do when you’ve just taken in a piece of information and mentally filed Amira Hassan away in a very specific slot in your personal classification system.Léa took a sip of water.
“There’s something else.”
Y/N waited, saying nothing.
“Amira’s going to introduce me to a lawyer who specialises in intellectual property. She thinks it’s useful to understand how all this works, especially for someone like me who’s going to be moving between both worlds.”
“Psychology and copyright,” Y/N summarised.
“Yeah. She says creators need lawyers who get how people work, not just how the law applies.”
Y/N thought back to Thomas. To the clauses Amira had drafted. The clean exit clause. The right of first refusal. The amendment to the confidentiality clause. Protections tailor-made by someone who could read minds.
She murmured, almost to herself:
“It’s fair.”
“I know,” said Léa.
Bucky leaned in slightly towards Y/N and said in a low voice:
“Amira is building something with you.”
Lea replied calmly:
“Yes. I realised that this week.”
Mila just blurted it out like that, without even looking up from her plate:
“Honestly, it’s so much cooler when people build things with you, rather than just for you.”
For a moment, everyone around the table stared at her. But she, unfazed, carried on eating her pasta, as if she’d just stated the obvious, something mundane, almost insignificant.Léa smiled slightly.
“Yeah. That’s the real difference.”
“She always makes comments like that, you know,” Bucky leaned towards Y/N and whispered.
Y/N replied immediately, without drawing attention to herself:
“I know.”
“I can hear you, guys,” said Mila, still without looking up.
“We know,” Bucky said with a wry smile.
The next morning, Y/N arrived at the Alpine office around eight o’clock and immediately spotted Lindsey in the corridor, an iPad in her hand. She had that look… you know, the one someone has when they’re about to drop a bombshell.
“The journalist from that independent sustainable fashion magazine wants to meet you, before the presentation on 6 June.”
“She says that the conditions under which the clothes are made are a subject she covers systematically. She wants to see the place to understand how things really work.”
Y/N began to think about his Bushwick workshop. The shelves filled with rolls of fabric, the large solid-wood table covered in small marks and nicks, the sketches pinned all over the walls… and then Mila’s drawing, hanging on the other side. All of this made up her somewhat raw world, not at all ready to be displayed like a shop window.
“When does she want to come?”
“Next week, if that’s OK with you.”
“Alright.”
Lindsey smiled and said:
“Camila warned me you’d say yes.”
Y/N gave her a slight smile.
“Camila says that to everyone, you know.”
“Yes, but that’s because she’s always right.”
Lindsey headed back down the corridor. Y/N went to her desk and picked up her phone.
Lindsey told me about the journalist. She wants to see the workshop.
I know. Camila told me last night. Are you going to agree?
I’ve already said yes. I know. It seems like everyone knows about this before I do.
Everyone? Mila doesn’t know yet.
She’ll find out in ten minutes.
No doubt. She’s got her sources.
Y/N put her phone down with a smile and started her day.The journalist’s name was Clara Osei. She arrived at the studio one Thursday afternoon, with a notebook but no camera. Y/N noticed her straight away: the sort of person who comes to observe and listen first before showing anything. She looked around the workshop like everyone else: the shelves, the fabrics, the large table, the sketches at the back of the wall. Then she stopped in front of Mila’s drawing, hanging on the left.
“It’s a horse, see?”
“Yeah, I can see. My little sister drew it for her school presentation.”
Clara looks up:
“How old is she again?”
“Ten. Well, eleven in three weeks, to be precise.”
Clara looks back at the drawing, studying it for a moment.
“Look at its eye.”
“Yeah, it looks a bit distant, as if it’s looking somewhere else. It’s watching something outside the frame, but without focusing on anything in particular.”
“A bit like the inner seams, don’t you think?”
Y/N pauses, as if the words have just clicked.
“Yes. Definitely. Exactly like the inner seams.”
Clara jots something down in her notebook, the pencil moving swiftly.
“At ten, she’s already grasped the concept of the collection.”
“Actually, she’d understood it even before I explained it to her. It’s just her way of seeing things.”
Clara closes her notebook, stands up and walks over to the shelves. She runs her fingers over the raw Williamsburg linen, takes a moment to smell the bamboo silk, and examines the spools of thread one by one.
“You found these fabrics, didn’t you?”
“The Williamsburg linen, yes, that was me. The bamboo silk, on the other hand, was Sofia. She has a contact over there in Lyon.”
“But for Williamsburg, you went there on your own, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why on your own?”
Y/N paused for a moment to think. Not to give an easy answer, but the real one.
“Because I’d been looking for raw linen for months. And there are some things you only find when you look for them yourself. No one else would have recognised that exact shade.”
Clara jotted down a few more words.
“Your father was a tailor. ”
“Yes.”
“The collection is called Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“He was the one who taught you to take care with the inside seams.”
“He taught me that quality isn’t measured by price. It lies in the care you put into every detail.”
And that the inner seams are the signature of someone who respects their work.Clara closed her notebook.
“I’m going to be frank with you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re working with James Barnes, the CEO of Alpine. There’s a partnership. People are bound to say that’s what made Thomas possible.”
Y/N looked her straight in the eye.
“The partnership with Alpine made it possible to distribute the collection. But the perfect inner seams… I would have made them in my bedroom, all on my own. It’s not about money or resources, it’s about knowing what you’re really after.”
“And what are we after here, then?” asked Clara.
“Do things properly, even when no one’s watching,” replied Y/N.“Because the people who wear these clothes can feel it. They can tell the difference, even if they can’t put it into words.”
Clara opened her notebook again, the one with the slightly worn cover, and began writing non-stop. Y/N waited, staring into space. Then Clara looked up and said:
“The presentation is on 6 June. I’ll be there.”
“I know,” replied Y/N, her voice soft.
“Before that, I’m going to write a few words about Thomas. So people arrive knowing a bit of what to expect.”
“All right.”
“One more thing. Your sister’s drawing… it’ll be on display on 6 June, won’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And she’ll be coming too?”
“Yes,” murmured Y/N.
Clara nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Good”.
She paused in the doorway, turning back one last time.
“Your father, you know… he would have really loved this workshop”.
Y/N looked down for a moment, then replied:
“Yes”.
“I’ll say that on the day,” added Clara. “So that everyone knows.”
She pushed open the door and left. Y/N was left alone in the studio, suspended in that strange kind of silence where the words from earlier still seemed to hang in the air, like ghosts. She picked up her phone, almost without thinking.
The journalist had come; she’d seen everything, noted it all down. Apparently, she’s going to churn out her article before the presentation.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. She sent me a text on her way out to tell me the studio was real. That it all really existed.She also said that your sister, at ten years old, had already grasped the concept of the collection. That it was the most accurate thing anyone had said to her all week.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before typing her reply:
Mila’s going to be eleven in three weeks, my love.
Mila finished the drawing one Sunday morning. Y/N knew because Mila came out of her room at eleven o’clock with the sheet of paper in her hands—not rushing, not excited, but with that calm air of someone who had just finished something important and was still carrying it with her. She laid the sheet flat on the kitchen table. The horse was there, in a resting position with that diffuse focus George had described: the left eye with the white of it slightly visible on the outer side, the ears slightly back toward the right, one front leg extended a centimeter, the weight slightly on the left hind leg. Something outside the frame that you couldn’t see but knew was there. Y/N looked at the drawing for a long time.
“It’s done.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s really good.”
“I know. But it’s nice to hear you say it, you know.” ”
Lea walked in from the hallway. She looked at the drawing on the table. For a few seconds, she said nothing—that’s typical of her; she takes her time before speaking, carefully observing what she sees.
“The eye.”
“The unfocused gaze.”
“Exactly. ”
“It’s the most beautiful drawing you’ve ever done.”
“I know. It was the hardest.”
“The best things are often the hardest.”
“Not always.”
“Often.”
Mila thought for a moment.
“Often. Okay.”
Y/N grabbed her phone and took a photo of the drawing, from a good angle, perfectly framed, with the morning light from the kitchen falling just right. She sent it to Bucky, Sofia, Camila, and George. George was the first to reply, eight minutes later.
The eye is perfect. That little white spot on the outer edge, without overdoing it. That’s the hardest thing to get right, and she nailed it. Tell her it’s great work.
Y/N read the message to Mila.
“I know,” she said. “But it feels good that he noticed.”
Sofia replied after twelve minutes.
The drawing’s going in the hall. Next to the signature dress.
Camila, fifteen minutes later:
Yes. Next to the dress.
Bucky was the last to reply, twenty-two minutes later, which meant he’d really taken the time to look before writing.
It’s the horse watching over something we can’t see. Like Thomas. Mila’s found something important there.
Y/N showed the message to Mila.
“He really looked at it.”
“Yeah, just like George.”
“It must run in the family.”
“Yeah.”
Mila picked up the drawing with the utmost care, as if it might shatter between her fingers. She took it to her room and laid it flat on her desk. I heard her open her drawer, surely to arrange the pencils in the order she likes,that little ritual she keeps to wrap up a task, to say goodbye to what she’s just finished.
Three days before June 6, Clara Osei published her article. I read it on the subway, around seven in the morning, my phone glued to my hand. A long piece, four pages, with photos of the studio taken that famous Thursday afternoon. You could see the large solid-wood table, the shelves filled with fabrics, and Mila’s drawing hanging on the left wall.Clara had written about invisible seams, about Thomas Sr., about that Williamsburg linen found by chance, about Mila, who, at ten years old, had already grasped the concept behind the entire collection. She talked about what it means to do things right, even when no one is watching. And she didn’t mention Bucky once. Not once.Y/N read the article twice on the subway. At first, she didn’t send the link to anyone—she kept it to herself for a few minutes, that little habit we sometimes have of wanting to savor something before sharing it. The penultimate paragraph. Y/N opened the article and went to the penultimate paragraph. Clara had written that some clothes were made for the people who wore them and not for the people who looked at them, and that this was the difference between a garment you kept for ten years and one you wore twice. And that it was rare to find a designer who had learned this distinction before starting to design.
On June 6, in the early evening, New York was bathed in that warm, lingering June light, as if the sun were reluctant to set. In Bushwick, the venue was just two blocks from the studio. Y/N arrived at 5 p.m. with four pieces in cloth bags. Sofia was already there,she’d had the keys since the day before and had spent the morning getting everything ready with Camila. The venue, an industrial space with large windows and light-colored hardwood floors, had been transformed without going overboard. White racks lined one wall to display the pieces. A table held wine and a few simple items. And in the center, on a large white wall, hung Mila’s drawing, framed simply. Upon seeing it, Y/N froze.
“Camila found this frame this morning,” said Sofia. “A very simple frame, made of natural wood. It goes perfectly with the raw linen.”
Y/N glanced at the motionless horse, its gaze somewhat lost in space, hanging there in its rough wooden frame on the white wall. It was perfect, truly perfect. The kind of thing that just fits without needing any explanation.
“Mila doesn’t know yet that the drawing is framed,” Sofia added.
“She’ll see it tonight.”
From across the room, Camila chimed in:
“I ordered the frame on Monday, as soon as I saw the photo of the finished drawing. I couldn’t leave it unframed. ”
“Thank you,” replied Y/N.
“It made sense, didn’t it?”
Y/N looked at her without saying a word.
Camila stared at her. For a moment, they just stood there, and Y/N realized how much their “that makes sense” had become their secret language—that direct, no-nonsense way of speaking that was so typical of Camila.She took the four pieces out of their covers and hung them on the white racks. The merino wool jacket. The raw linen pants from Williamsburg. The signature dress, with its visible stitching. And the coat with natural horn buttons, model four from Lisbon. The four pieces bathed in the June light.Sofia watched them, standing in the middle of the room.
“There you go.”
“Yes,” said Camila.
People started arriving around 7 p.m.
First came the two journalists: Clara Osei, notebook in hand, and Jana, a photographer for a magazine featuring designer portraits, carrying a discreet camera. Next were the buyers Camila had contacted,three women and one man, who examined the clothes with that professional gaze—not cold, just precise. Then Amira Hassan, composed as always, Lindsey frozen for two minutes in front of the signature dress without moving, and two people from the Alpine creative collective, invited by Sofia. And the Barneses. Winnifred arrived with George and Rebecca. She, with that gaze that took everything in, hugging people before even taking off her coat. He, in an impeccable suit, occupied the space with a spare, clean presence. Rebecca, her eyes suddenly taking everything in. Winnifred saw Y/N and crossed the room straight away. She hugged her—a real hug, both arms, warmth.
“Your father would be proud,” she murmurs.
“Yes, he would,” Y/N replies.
Winnifred walks away toward the racks, with the air of a woman who really wants to see. George approaches Y/N. He examines the four garments hanging there, without moving from where he stands. His gaze settles on the coat.
“The buttons.”
“Natural horn. Supplier in Lisbon. Over time, they’ll take on a golden hue.”
George nods, just once, a brief nod. He steps closer to the coat and turns up the left sleeve. Y/N waits. He examines the inner seams for a few moments. Then he turns up the right sleeve. He looks again.
“That's good work.”
“Thank you very much.”
He nods again, then joins Winnifred near the other pieces.
Rebecca walked over to Y/N. She glanced at the coat still hanging on the hanger.
“He’s going to wear it until it falls apart.”
“That’s why it’s well-made,” Y/N replied.
“Yeah.”
Rebecca looked at her, her gaze direct.
“You did a good job.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m not just saying that to be polite.”
“I know.”
Rebecca nodded and went to get some wine.
Mila arrived with Léa at 7:20 p.m. As she entered, she stopped short in front of the framed drawing on the white wall. For a few seconds, she said nothing. Léa whispered:
“Camila found the frame.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t know what to say.”
“No.”
A silence fell between them. Léa gently placed her hand on Mila’s shoulder, a simple gesture that was rare for her. Mila finally said:
“The frame is beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“It goes well with the raw linen.”
“I know.”
“Camila made a good choice.”
She stepped closer to the drawing and examined it closely. The left eye with a bit of white showing, the ears pulled back, the front end adjusted by two millimeters. Those precise little details she’d spent months thinking about. Camila stepped forward.
“Is the frame okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“A good drawing deserves a frame; it makes sense.”
“Yes. That’s fair and thoughtful.”
Camila looked at her. There was something in her expression—that slight look of someone who’s just heard an unexpected phrase and appreciates it.
“Yes. It’s both.”
Bucky arrived at 7:30 p.m. He entered the room and paused in the doorway, as he always did at first: looking around before entering. He scanned the four pieces on the stands, Mila’s framed drawing, the people in the room, Y/N in the middle of it all. Then he stepped inside. He walked straight toward her. Not toward the artwork, not toward her parents. Toward her.
“How are you?”
“Fine. Really fine.”
“I can tell.”
“How?”
“The way you’re here. You’re at home.”
Y/N looked around at the space around her, the rooms, the people, Mila’s drawing, George, who was pointing something out on the jacket to Winnifred with the calm manner of a man explaining the seams to his wife.
“Yes. I’m home.”
He took her hand in the space between them, that natural touch. She left it there. Jana, the portrait magazine journalist, approached with her discreet camera.
“Can I take a few photos?”
“Yes.”
Jana took photos, not poses, real moments. George looking at the coat’s inner seams. Mila in front of her framed drawing. Sofia and Camila talking near the racks. Y/N and Bucky with their hands intertwined.
“The photo with Bucky,” Y/N told Jana. “The collection is Thomas’s. Not the partnership.”
“I know. I read Clara’s article.”
She took another photo, Y/N alone in front of the four pieces.
“There. That’s the one that counts.”
At one point during the evening, Y/N found herself alone in a corner of the space with Clara Osei.
“How are you feeling tonight?”
“The right way. Like I do before important things.”
“The presentation is already done. The pieces are here, and people are really looking at them.”
“Yes.”
“Your little sister. The sketch.”
“Yes.”
“She’s been looking at the models with a notebook for a while now.”
Y/N turned around. Mila was indeed standing near the racks, notebook and red pen in hand, jotting something down while observing the iconic dress. George was standing next to her, looking too.
“She’s taking notes.”
“What?”
“People’s reactions to the pieces. She’s probably developed a system.”
Clara opened her notebook. She jotted something down.
“I’m going to write a second article after the show. ”
“About Thomas.”
“About how a collection comes to life in the world when it’s done right. Not about the pieces, but about the people surrounding the pieces tonight.”
Y/N scanned the room. George and Mila were chatting near the dress, Léa was talking with Amira in a corner, Rebecca and Winnifred were standing in front of the drawing, Bucky was listening intently to a buyer, and Sofia and Camila were watching the people looking at the clothes. All these people gathered around the designs tonight. All these people, her people.
“Okay, fine,” she said.
The party ended at ten o’clock. The guests left one by one: the buyers with their business cards, the journalists with their notebooks, the Alpine team. Amira shook Y/N’s hand as she left:
“The exit clause is clean. Thomas is truly yours now.”
Lindsey called out as she walked by:
“The pieces are well made.”
It was the nicest compliment Lindsey could have given. That left only Y/N, Bucky, Lea, Mila, George, Winnifred, Rebecca, Sofia, and Camila. George walked over to Y/N, the coat in his hand.
“I can take it tonight.”
“Yes. It’s for you.”
” “How much?”
“It’s the first Thomas coat. It’s yours.”
George looked at her with that frank, serene gaze that was so characteristic of him.
“I’ll pay for the second one. ”
“Okay.”
He nodded and draped the coat over his arm with the care of someone holding something that deserves to be handled with delicacy. Winnifred hugged Y/N one last time before leaving, a real hug, with both arms, and whispered,
“Your father did a good job through you.”
Y/N didn’t say a word. There was no need. The Barnes had left. Sofia and Camila took the pieces down one by one, putting them back into their cloth bags with the kind of care you reserve for things that really matter. Sofia said:
“We’ll do the second collection again whenever you want.”
Camila added:
“The slit at the wrist.”
And they walked out. Léa and Mila were waiting in a corner. Mila had closed her notebook; she was done with the documentation. Y/N scanned the room: almost empty, Mila’s drawing still hanging on the wall in its rough-hewn wooden frame, the racks empty, the table cleared.Bucky said:
“Shall we go?”
“Yes.”
Mila grabbed her notebook and her bag. She took one last look at the drawing on the wall.
“It’s staying there for tonight.”
“We’ll leave him there until tomorrow morning. Sofia will come pick him up.”
“Perfect. He’ll have a peaceful night.”
They stepped out onto the street in Bushwick, into the June heat. Y/N, Bucky, Lea, and Mila with her notebook. Even at 10 p.m., the June light lingered, as if the sun refused to set.
“I noted the reactions of twenty-three people to the four pieces tonight,” Mila said as they walked down the street.
“Twenty-three. ”
“Nineteen looked at the dress first. Three started with the coat. One with the jacket. And zero with the pants.”
“Zero for the pants.”
“We’ll have to rethink the layout for the next presentation.”
“That’s a good point. ”
“George turned the coat’s sleeves up twice. Once when he saw it on the coat rack, and another time after Y/N told him to pick it up.”
“He wanted to check a second time,” Bucky said.
“Yeah. Just to be sure.”
The day after June 6th, Y/N woke up late. The June sunlight streamed gently through the window, casting a warm, golden glow on the hardwood floor. No alarm clock, no subway, no obligations at Alpine. She’d taken the day off, and everyone had accepted it without question. It was past ten o’clock when she opened her eyes. In the kitchen, she could already hear Mila bustling about, that distinct sound of someone organizing things methodically. She got up and went into the kitchen. Mila was at the table, notebook open, the previous day’s notes spread out before her, a cup of coffee already waiting for her.
“You made coffee,” said Y/N as she sat down.
“I knew you’d get up around this time. I guessed it.”
Y/N took the warm cup in her hands. The heat spread through her palms, giving her a pleasant sensation.
“What are you working on?”
“I’m analyzing the reactions to the presentation. I’ve had the data since last night, and I want to organize it before it loses its context.”
“The twenty-three people.”
“Twenty-four. I’d forgotten about Jana, who stared at the jacket for seven minutes without moving.”
Y/N took a sip and smiled inwardly. Mila had timed how long twenty-four people had spent looking at Thomas’s designs, and she was organizing that data into a professional report. The little one was growing up so fast. Her phone vibrated on the table.
Did you sleep well?
Yes. Mila timed Jana, who stood in front of the jacket for seven minutes.
I know. She sent me her preliminary analysis at seven this morning.
At seven.
Yes. With an executive summary on the first page.
Y/N put down the phone and looked at Mila.
“You sent her an executive summary?”
“I had important data. It couldn’t wait.”
Y/N didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say that would have been more fitting than silence. Léa came in at 10:30 with her internship notes. She sat down at the table and turned her phone toward Y/N.
“Jana's article was published this morning.”
Y/N read the article. It wasn’t long, just four photos and some text. The photo of her alone in front of the four pieces. The one of George rolling up the sleeve of his coat. The one of Mila in front of her framed drawing. And a photo she hadn’t seen before: her and Bucky, hands clasped, watching people look at the pieces.
“Jana wrote about you,” said Y/N, looking up at Lea.
“I know. I read it.”
“And?”
“She got it right.”
Léa went back to her notes. Mila continued her analysis. Y/N finished her coffee in the kitchen, bathed in June sunlight, with Thomas now featured in two articles and in the hands of twenty-four people who had actually looked at them. That afternoon, she went to the studio. Not to work, just to be there. She climbed the three flights of stairs, opened the door, and stepped into the silence. The racks were back, the pieces tucked into their cloth bags on the shelves. The back wall still bore the sketches. On the left wall, the hook was empty. Sofia had taken down Mila’s drawing that morning. Y/N sat on the ledge of the middle window, Bucky’s usual spot, and looked at the empty hook. The June light streamed in through the three windows, soft and warm on the worn hardwood floor. She thought of the drawing now hanging in Mila’s room, next to the index cards from her drawing sessions, as a way of keeping in sight where they had come from.
Her phone vibrated.
Sofia gave me back the drawing this morning. It’s in my room now. I made a spot for it.
Where?
On the wall next to my desk. Next to the index cards for the drawing program, sessions one through eight. That way I can see where I left off.
Y/N took a photo of the empty hook and sent it to Bucky.
The drawing is in Mila’s room now. The hook is empty. That means we need something else for the second collection.
She put down the phone and looked around the workshop: the full shelves, the large solid-wood table with its old marks, the three windows, the empty hook on the left. These things were waiting for what was to come. The orders arrived the following week. Seven in total. Y/N read them in the workshop one Tuesday evening, sitting at the large table. A woman had been searching for years for a garment that would truly last. A man wanted the coat for his father. She reread that email three times. Her father would have liked to know that his legacy lived on in these requests. She replied to each one personally, without using a template, taking the time to explain the lead times, the fabrics, and the interior seams that would be perfect. It took her two hours.
When she put her phone down, Bucky sent her a message.
Seven orders. One for a coat for someone’s father.
I know. Camila sent me the emails this morning.
You’re going to make that coat.
Yes.
With the same inner seams.
Of course.
Your father would be happy.
She stared for a moment at the seven names in her new notebook. Bucky arrived shortly after with a tray of food he’d ordered without her asking, knowing she often forgot to eat when she was working.
“You answered each one differently,” he said, setting the tray down next to her.
“Yes. It’s for the people who wear them.”
He sat down on the windowsill, his usual spot, and watched her eat. Then he stood up, tidied away what she’d left lying on the table, and brought her a glass of water before she even reached out for it. The following Thursday, Camila knocked on the doorframe of Y/N’s office at Alpine. She placed a sheet of paper on the table.
“Twenty-two stores have contacted Thomas since the articles came out. Five journalists. Three designers who want to collaborate.”
Y/N looked at the paper.
“We need to think about a structure,” Camila continued. “You can’t manage everything on your own from the studio.”
“I’ll hire someone.”
“I have someone in mind. Nadia. She worked with me in Milan. She understands what it’s like to build something small and real.”
“You’ve already thought of someone.”
“I’d anticipated it.” Camila left.
Y/N stayed for a moment, staring at the sheet of paper. Thomas now existed in the world, and the world was responding. That evening, Bucky came to the studio. He brought two coffees and sat on the windowsill.
“Twenty-two stores”, he said.
“Yes.”
“You look like someone who’s making a decision.”
“I’m deciding how Thomas grows. Not fast. Not for everyone. For the right people.”
He nodded, his hand sliding gently onto her shoulder and lingering there.
“Like the inner seams.”
“Yes. Growing up without losing what matters most.”
Nadia Ferro arrived the following Thursday at seven o’clock. She climbed the three flights of stairs without counting the steps and entered the workshop. She looked around without speaking right away, taking in the shelves, the fabrics, the large table.
“The shelves are organized by fabric type,” she said at last.
From heaviest to lightest. That makes sense. She touched the raw Williamsburg linen, then looked at the sketches for the second collection.
“The slit at the wrist. The logical continuation of the inner seams.”
Y/N looked at her.
“How do you know that?”
“I read the articles. And Camila explained the philosophy to me.”
Nadia sat down on the ledge of the middle window.
“What you need isn’t someone to talk about Thomas for you. You need someone to protect the time while Thomas takes shape. ”
She calmly explained her role: filtering requests, responding to the right people, letting Y/N create the clothes. Y/N listened, sensing that this woman understood exactly what she wanted to preserve.
“When do you start?” Y/N asked.
“If you say yes, I start Monday.”
“Okay, fine.”
Nadia stood up.
“The studio’s nice. Camila was right.”
She walked out. Y/N found herself alone in the evening light, her eyes fixed on the empty hook hanging on the left wall. Those things that waited for what was to come. Mila turned eleven on a Friday in June. No big party. Just dinner with the right people. Bucky arrived with a slightly lopsided chocolate cake and two books about horses.
“It’s lopsided,” Mila said when she saw the cake.
“Yes. But the layers are even. That’s what matters.”
George had sent a book about machines and horses. Mila read it carefully.
“He looked for it for three weeks,” said Y/N.
“That’s exactly right.”
That evening, in the hallway, Bucky hugged Y/N.
“She’s eleven now.”
“Yes.”
“She’s growing up.”
“Yes. It’s a little scary.”
“That’s normal.”
“You’re on the right track, my love.”
He held her close for a long moment, his hand resting on her back, his lips on her forehead. Those moments belonged to them alone, calm and intense.
July arrived. Lea left to go stay with Amira. The apartment felt different without her, but Mila adapted in her own way. She reorganized her schedule to include more sessions with Bucky. She sent messages to George about steam engines and received replies at 6:40 p.m. One evening, Bucky said something in the workshop.
“I added something this week in town.”
“What?”
“A workshop on the third floor in Bushwick. But this time, I gave the person who works there a name.” Y/N set down her needle. “Her name is Y/N.”
The silence was sweet, full of meaning. She moved closer, sitting down next to him on the windowsill.
“You put my name in your town.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known her name?”
“For a long time. I was waiting for the right moment to write it down. ”
She rested her head against his shoulder. He closed the notebook and held her close. The July light filtered through the three windows, warming the hardwood floor. They stayed like that, silent, present for one another, in this studio that so closely resembled what they were building together.
Nadia started the following Monday. She arrived at the studio at nine o’clock with a notebook and her phone, with the calm confidence of someone who had prepared without showing it. Y/N explained everything to her in two hours: the seven current orders, the twenty-two stores, the five journalists, the three staff members, how Thomas operated, and what it meant to make things for the people who wore them. Nadia listened without taking notes for the first hour. During the second, she took notes. At the end, she said,
“One question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Amira Hassan set up the partnership with Alpine.”
“Yes.”
“She’s available to answer any questions I might have about Thomas’s legal structure.”
“I’ll ask her.”
“No. I want to be able to send him questions directly if it’s urgent. With your permission.”
Y/N thought of Léa, who had contacted Amira from her own phone one evening; of Mila, who sent preliminary analyses to Bucky at seven in the morning; of the way people in her life acted directly when necessary.
“Okay. I’ll let her know tonight.”
“Thanks.”
Nadia closed her notebook.
“The seven orders. I’ll contact the clients to keep them updated on the deadlines. You’ll handle the clothing.”
“Yes.”
“As for the stores. I looked at the twenty-two this week. Fifteen aren’t a good fit for Thomas, too commercial, too focused on trends rather than sustainability. Seven are worth a real conversation.”
“Which ones?”
Nadia pulled out a sheet of paper and placed it on the table. Seven names with short descriptions: independent boutiques in Brooklyn, Portland, Chicago, and Paris. One in Tokyo. Y/N took the sheet and read it.
“The boutique in Paris.”
“Yes. It’s called Fond, and it only sells pieces made to last. Their slogan is ‘what we keep.’”
Y/N looked at the name.
“Fond.”
“What we hold dear.”
She thought about the things made for the people who wear them and how that name expressed the same idea in a different way.
“Contact them first.”
“That’s what I was going to do.”
“I know.”
Nadia picked up her bag.
“The shop in Tokyo too. They have a similar philosophy but for the Japanese market, quality as a cultural value, not as a marketing pitch.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning I’ll send an initial report on the ongoing contacts. Let me know if the format works for you.”
“Okay.”
Nadia left.
Y/N stayed in the studio with the list of the seven stores, the report due tomorrow morning, and Thomas, who was now growing up with someone to protect the time in which he was developing. She picked up her phone.
Nadia has started. She’s contacting Paris and Tokyo first.
Bucky replied.
I know. She sent me a kick-off memo this morning at eight o’clock. She’s just like Lindsey.
How so?
She acts before being asked and says things straight out.
That’s a quality.
Yes, my love. It’s a quality.
Two weeks after Nadia started, the Fond boutique in Paris replied. Y/N read the email in the studio one Thursday evening—not a generic response, but something actually written by a woman named Margot who had been running Fond for eight years. Margot had read the two articles by Clara and Jana. She had looked at the photos of the pieces. She wanted to see Thomas in person before deciding anything and was offering to come to New York in September if Y/N was available. Y/N read the email twice. She forwarded it to Nadia. Nadia replied within fifteen minutes.
I’ll tell her yes for September and ask her for her dates.
It’s the right boutique.
She picked up her phone and called Bucky. He picked up on the second ring.
“Sweetheart.”
“The Fond boutique in Paris. Margot wants to come in September to see Thomas.”
A moment of silence.
“In September.”
“Yes.”
“That was three months ago.”
“Yes.”
“You have time to process the seven orders and prepare a presentation for Margot.”
“Yes.”
“You seem calm. ”
“I am calm. I’m in the studio. I’m always calm here.”
“I know.”
“In the background. What we keep.”
“Yes.”
“It’s Thomas.”
“Yes, my love. It’s Thomas.”
She put down her phone, took out her new notebook, and wrote: Margot — Paris — September. And underneath: what we keep. She looked at those words on the page and thought of her father, who had done things right his whole life without many people knowing it, and of Thomas, who might one day exist in a shop in Paris called what we keep. These things passed down. These things that endure. The following Saturday, Bucky came to the studio with something. No coffee this time. A flat, simply wrapped box, which he set down on the large solid-wood table without explanation. Y/N looked at it.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
She thought back to her father, to his habit of turning clothes inside out to inspect the seams, a detail no one else noticed. George Barnes had done the same with Thomas’s coat, and it had touched her.
“I want to write back to him.”
“He’s waiting.”
“By letter.”
“He’ll appreciate it.”
She pulled a sheet of paper from her new notebook, grabbed a pen, and wrote quickly, just the essentials. She explained that her father had spent his life making perfect seams on the inside, so that those who wore his clothes could feel it without even seeing it. That George had understood that just by touching the coat, and that her father would have liked to know. And that the second coat would be for him whenever he wanted it.She folded the sheet and handed it to Bucky.
“I'll give it to him tonight.”
“Thank you, my love.”
“It makes sense.”
“It’s thoughtful.”
“Both.”
She laughed softly, and so did he. They stayed in the workshop, with George’s letter and the folded reply, Fond Paris en septembre, the seven orders in progress, and Thomas, who continued to take shape, stitch by stitch, from the inside out.Their own little things.
July arrived, and Léa left for Amira’s house. It wasn’t a grand departure. She packed her bag on Sunday evening using her usual method for practical matters: she folded her clothes in the right order and put her notes in a separate folder. Mila watched her from the doorway of her room without saying a word for twenty minutes. Léa said, without turning around:
“You have something to tell me.”
“No.”
“You’ve been standing there for twenty minutes.”
“I’m just watching.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“In this context, yes.”
Léa closed her suitcase. She turned to Mila.
“Three and a half weeks.”
“Twenty-four days.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve done the maths.”
“I know.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“I know that too.”
“I just wanted to say it.”
Léa picked up her suitcase and walked over to Mila in the doorway.
“I’ll send you a message every day.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I’ll do it anyway.”
“All right.”
Léa walked past her into the hallway. Y/N was in the kitchen. She could hear the two sisters in the hallway, those voices she now recognised by the way they filled the space. Léa entered the kitchen with her suitcase. She looked at Y/N.
“You’ve got everything.”
“Yes. Amira knows you’re arriving at ten.”
“Yes. She sent me the office code this morning.”
“The office code.”
“To get in before she arrives if I feel like it.”
She said that serious people arrive before everyone else. Y/N thought of Amira, who would answer the phone at seven in the morning and give the office code to her intern so she could arrive before everyone else if she fancied it. She hugged her sister, not for long, as Léa didn’t like long hugs, just long enough to say something without saying it. Léa returned the hug with that sparing, genuine manner.
“I’m proud of you.”
“I know.”
She picked up her suitcase and left. Without Léa, the flat felt different. Not empty, Mila was there and Y/N was there and Bucky often came round. But different in that particular way a space feels when it has lost a specific presence, that way Léa used to exist in the rooms: her notes on the table, her coffee in the kitchen at seven forty-five, her way of speaking directly that gave structure to conversations. Mila adapted in her own way. She rearranged her schedule for the tenth session to include more sessions with Bucky, not to make up for Lea’s absence, just because the timetable now allowed it. She sent a message to George Barnes on the first Tuesday without Lea with three questions about steam engines, and George replied at 6.40 the next day, as always. She said to Y/N one Wednesday morning:
“Lea sent me a message last night.”
“What did she say?”
“She said the office is quiet at half past eight and that’s the best time because you can see how things are organised before people start using them.”
“She arrives at half past eight every day.”
“Yes. She says Amira arrives at nine and that the twenty minutes in between are the best.”
Y/N thought of Léa in an empty office at half past eight, looking at how things were organised before people used them, that way of seeing structures before they were activated by people. Muybridge. Diffuse attention. And now this.
“She’s a quick learner.”
“She used to learn quickly. Now she’s learning in the right context.”
Y/N drank her coffee and thought that Mila was ten, eleven for the past two weeks, and that she said things like ‘learning in the right context’ with that calm, matter-of-fact manner. Her phone vibrated. Léa.
Message from the office, 9.03. First case this morning. Amira says I can observe her whilst she works. She says that watching without intervening is the first skill.
Watching without intervening.
Yes. Seeing what’s really there before deciding what to do. That’s Muybridge.
“Léa says that watching without intervening is Muybridge.”
Mila said in her programme:
“Yes, it’s the same. We really look before we draw. Amira really looks before she speaks.”
Y/N put down his phone. He realised that Léa, Mila, Amira, George, Muybridge, the inner seams and diffuse attention were all, in a way, the same thing viewed from different angles. That way of looking at what’s really there before deciding what to do with it.These things that eventually came together.
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Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : 8.5k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
Spring in New York is a bit of a madhouse.
You see, there are days when it’s almost warm, the sun beating down on the red bricks of Bushwick, and then suddenly, in the evening, a cold wind blows up from the East River to remind you that summer isn’t here yet. Bucky used to say it reminded him of Robert, their horse, who always hesitated before heading towards the light of the paddock.The studio, for its part, had changed. Yet the walls, the large wooden table and the three windows were still the same. But everything that lived within those walls was different. New spools of thread on the shelves, sketches pinned up with hastily scribbled notes, neatly folded scraps of fabric.
The prototype of the merino wool jacket lay waiting, silent, against the far wall. The first pieces of the signature dress, cut from Lyon bamboo silk, had been lying on the table since Monday. Fragile. Almost vulnerable. Waiting to become something.Y/N pushed open the door that Tuesday, just after 6.30 pm. The cold still clung to her skin. She closed the door behind her, set down her bag, and froze for a moment. The scent of the fabrics – soft wool, light silk, raw linen – enveloped her. Like a return to childhood, in her father’s workshop, watching him work in silence. His large, patient hands guided the needle, each stitch like a secret.That was when she saw the sheet of paper slipped under the door. Not a letter. A pencil drawing on a page from a notebook. A horse lying on its side, legs slightly bent, ears at rest. That posture of absolute trust known as the lateral decubitus position. In the bottom right-hand corner, Mila’s fine, precise handwriting:
For the workshop. Session eight. — M.
Y/N picked up the piece of paper, then stood rooted to the spot in the doorway, her heart tightening. The paper was ice-cold, as if it had just come from outside. Mila had come alone. She’d taken the tube, climbed the three flights of stairs, slipped her drawing under the door, and left without a sound. Without waiting for a glance, without expecting a thank you. Just thinking about it, Y/N felt a wave of tenderness mixed with sadness wash over her. She took out her phone, her fingers still numb.
Did you come all the way to Bushwick?
The reply came straight away.
Yes. Léa walked me to the street, but she didn’t come up. The drawing’s for the workshop.
Y/N smiled gently.
It’s quite a long way, though.
Forty-two minutes. I timed it.
Of course she’d timed it.
Y/N looked at the horse again. The posture was spot on, the technique already solid. But above all, there was a sense of peace in the animal’s body, that calm way of surrendering to the space around it.
It’s really beautiful, Mila. Really.
Bucky always said that lying on your side was the hardest position. I wanted to show you that I could do it. Have a lovely evening.
Y/N pinned the drawing to the left-hand wall, a little way away from her father’s sketches. She took a step back to get a better look. This drawing deserved its own spot, its own light; there was no need to tuck it away next to the others.
Her phone vibrated again. Bucky.
Did Mila give you the drawing?
Yes. But how do you already know that?
She sent me a message as she was getting off the tube. She’d even timed the whole journey, there and back. Eighty-four minutes, spot on.
Y/N stood in front of the middle window. Outside, the street was slowly growing dark, and the shop windows were lighting up one by one in the twilight. It was still that March chill that stings your cheeks. She pictured Mila rushing down the subway stairs, her drawing rolled up under her arm, small but determined.
She really gets attached.
Bucky’s reply came, calm and measured.
Yes… she’s getting attached. But she’s also doing something brave. Both can be true at the same time.
Y/N put her phone down. She picked up the pieces of bamboo silk and held them up to the light streaming through the window. The last ray of evening sunlight caught the fabric, giving it a golden, almost liquid sheen. She gently ran her hand over the cut edges. A memory came back to her in a flash: her father leaning over a table just like that, whispering to her that she should let the fabric decide a little before forcing it. She set to work, her movements slow, time stretching quietly around her. An hour later, the lift stopped on her floor. Decisive footsteps in the corridor. Sofia entered, her long black coat still cold from outside. She scanned the room and froze on Mila’s drawing.
“Is that her?” she asked in a low voice.
“Yes. The eighth session. In the side view.”
Sofia walked over to the wall. She stood there, looking at the horse without saying a word. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the ears, then on the gentle, tranquil curve of the neck.
“The cuts are precise. You’ve taken your time.”
“Silk is unforgiving.”
Sofia laid the fabric down with a delicacy one wouldn’t expect from her.
“Are you sewing on Saturday morning?”
Y/N looked up.
“Yes.”
Sofia was silent for a moment, then simply said:
“I’ll come.”
Y/N hesitated.
“You don’t have to…”
“I know,” replied Sofia.
Her voice was deeper than usual.
“But I’m coming anyway. It’s the first signature dress. Someone has to be there.”
They exchanged a glance. In Sofia’s eyes, behind the confidence she always displayed, Y/N sensed something more vulnerable, a small crack she jealously kept hidden.
“Camila might want to come too,” Y/N suggested softly.
“Give her a call.”
Y/N sent a message. The reply came quickly:
Camila would be there at half past eight.
When Sofia left, leaving behind the subtle scent of her coat, Y/N found herself alone. She picked up her phone.
Sofia and Camila are coming over on Saturday morning to look at the dress.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. They’ve both told me.
A wave of gentle warmth washed over Y/N’s chest.
I was going to tell you about it tonight.
I know, sweetheart.
She paused before writing, sounding a little more sincere:
My love… they got there before you.
It’s not bad, actually.
Yeah… not bad.
She hung up and picked up her needle again. Outside, the March chill still lingered. Inside, something fragile was coming to life, stitch by stitch.Later, when she got back to Park Slope, the flat was quiet. Léa was reading on the sofa. Mila was already asleep. Y/N took off her shoes, feeling the full weight of the day on her shoulders. She went into the kitchen for a glass of water and froze.On the table, in a simple glass, was a small bouquet of wildflowers. No note. Just the flowers, fresh, leaning slightly. Bucky had dropped by. For no particular reason. Just because he knew that days like this need a little discreet beauty.Y/N picked up the bouquet, bringing her face close to the petals. Their light fragrance brought a lump to her throat.
She murmured softly,
“He thinks of me even when he’s not here.”
She stood there for a long time in the kitchen, in the soft light, holding the flowers close to her. A tenderness she couldn’t always put into words filled her heart.
On Saturday morning, Bushwick was bathed in a softer light than usual. Y/N pushed open the studio door at around 8.40 am, a tray of hot coffees in her hand. Her fingers were still frozen from the tube, but strangely, she felt rather calm. The dress was waiting for her on the table, with the pieces of bamboo silk laid out exactly as she’d left them.Camila was already there, leaning against the corridor wall, coffee in hand. She must have arrived quite a while ago. Her cheeks were bright red from the cold, and it was clear she’d been waiting for some time.
“You’re early,” Y/N said with a smile.
Camila shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“I know. I couldn’t stay at home. I wanted to be here before it started.”
They walked into the studio together. The morning light streamed across the large wooden table, making the spools of thread glisten. Camila put down her bag, then glanced at Mila’s drawing hanging on the left.
“She came on her own, didn’t she?”
“Yeah. Forty-two minutes on the tube. She timed it.”
Camila shook her head, touched.
“That kid… she never does things by halves.”
Sofia arrived at nine o’clock sharp – as always, never late. She came in, glanced at the pieces of silk spread out on the table and at Mila’s sketch, then headed straight for the windowsill in the middle. You know, the spot where Bucky used to sit. She took the coffee Y/N handed her as she passed.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
Y/N sat down at the large table, picked up the first piece of silk and her needle. A gentle silence settled over the room, almost reverent. No one spoke. Sofia and Camila watched, knowing that some things are best done without a word.
After a moment, Camila spoke softly, as if not to break the concentration.
“The visible stitching at the neckline… will you do that last?”
Y/N nodded without looking up.
“Yes. If I do it too early, everything else will have to be adjusted to fit. Doing it last will bring it all together.”
Camila took a sip of coffee.
“That makes sense. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
Sofia said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes. She watched Y/N’s hands with an almost protective gaze.
Y/N carried on sewing. The bamboo silk glided beneath her fingers, cool and supple. Each stitch was laid with the patience her father had passed on to her. A fleeting memory flashed through her mind: him, bent over a jacket one winter evening, telling her in a low voice that the inner seams had to be perfect, even if no one would ever see them. Y/N carried on sewing. The bamboo silk glided beneath her fingers, cool and supple. Each stitch was laid with the patience her father had passed on to her. A fleeting memory flashed through her mind: him, bent over a jacket one winter evening, telling her in a low voice that the inner seams had to be perfect, even if no one would ever see them.
“That is where the truth of the garment lies.”
Her phone went beep beep on the edge of the table. She smiled straight away when she saw it was Bucky.
“Everything okay?” he’d typed.
She replied with one hand, whilst continuing to sew.
“Yeah, all good. I’m just sewing, nothing crazy. ”
She put the phone down. Two seconds later, Sofia said, in a very calm voice:
“By the way, you called him ‘my love’ earlier, in your message.”
Y/N looked up, a little surprised.
“Oh yeah… it just slipped out this week.”
Sofia watched her for a while, then a soft little smile crossed her face.
“That’s lovely. It suits you.”
Camila, for her part, said nothing, but you could tell she was holding her cup a little differently.The phone vibrated again.
Take your time. I’ll pop round tonight.
Y/N replied simply:
All right.
She put the phone down and picked up her needle again. Silence fell once more, broken only by the soft sound of the thread gliding through the fabric.
The morning passed quietly, as if in a bubble of concentration. By about one o’clock in the afternoon, the dress was finally starting to take shape. Well, it wasn’t quite finished yet – there were still the hems to do and that seam at the neckline that was sticking out a bit – but at least it was standing up. Y/N stood up, grabbed the dress and headed for the full-length mirror.She slipped it on very gently, almost cautiously.In the workshop, the silence grew heavier. Sofia and Camila were watching her intently, without saying a word. The silk glided over her, falling with a natural elegance to mid-calf. In the light from the middle window, the fabric cast soft reflections.Sofia was the first to speak, in a low voice.
“The right shoulder… there, that’s perfect.”
Y/N made a small adjustment.
“There, that’s it,” said Sofia, looking satisfied.
Camila tilted her head to one side.
“And the length is just right.”
Y/N stared at herself in the mirror for a long time. The dress was there, light against her skin, moving with her every gesture. Her father, on the other hand, would have slipped his hand inside to check the seams. A simple nod of the head, and that was enough. She took it off gently, put it on a hanger, then hung it on the wall, right next to Mila’s drawing. The horse lying on its side and the signature dress. Two things telling the same story: what really matters is often not visible from the outside.Sofia jumped to her feet and grabbed her bag with a decisive movement.
“Now the collection is taking shape. No more mere sketches. It’s real now.”
Y/N nodded quietly.
“Yes.”
Sofia stared at her for a long moment, before adding, her voice lower:
“Your father would have been proud. Not because it’s beautiful to look at. But because it’s sincere.”
She left without waiting for a reply.
Camila stayed a moment longer. She approached the dress gently, brushing the fabric with her fingertips, as if she wanted to soak up its story.
“The first person to wear it will feel it: this garment was designed for her. Not for others to look at her. But for her to feel good in it. ”
Y/N felt a lump form in her throat.
“That’s exactly what I want.”
Camila gave her a gentle smile.
“I know.”
Then she left too, leaving the room in a silence heavy with emotion.Y/N found herself alone in the studio. She sat on the edge of the table, her gaze drifting between the dress and Mila’s sketch. Outside, Bushwick went about its business: raised voices, a siren in the distance, the wind rattling against the windows. But inside, there was silence. She picked up her phone and called Bucky.He picked up after two rings.
“Sweetheart.”
Just hearing his voice, all the tension in her shoulders eased at once.
“The structure of the dress is finished. It’s really holding up well.”
She heard him smile on the other end of the line.
“And you, how are you feeling?”
Y/N closed her eyes for a moment.
“Fine. Really fine. A bit nervous too, I’m not going to lie.”
“That’s normal. It’s a big deal. I’ll pop round tonight, I’ll bring some pancakes. And Mila’ll want to celebrate in her own way, you know her.”
Y/N let out a little laugh.
“You know me too well. Thanks, love.”
A gentle silence settled in. Then his voice returned, a little deeper, a little softer.
“That’s the first time you’ve ever said that to me on the phone.”
“I know. It just came out.”
“I like it when it comes naturally. See you tonight, sweetheart.”
She hung up and pottered about the studio for a while, taking her time. Then she turned off the lights and made her way down the three flights of stairs. Outside, the March air greeted her, but it seemed less biting than it had been earlier.By evening, the flat already smelled of pancake batter when Bucky arrived. Mila was overexcited; she was telling him everything she’d learnt about wildlife photography that week, down to the smallest detail. Bucky was really listening to her, asking specific questions, nodding with that calmness that made him seem so attentive.At one point, Mila looked up at Y/N.
“Is the dress finished?”
“The structure is. We’ll do the visible stitching next Saturday. Will you be coming?”
Mila nodded earnestly.
“It’s the signature piece. I want to be there.”
Y/N felt a wave of tenderness wash over her.
After dinner, once Mila and Léa had gone to bed, Bucky and Y/N were left alone in the living room. He pulled her close to him on the sofa, his arm around her shoulders. His fingers slowly traced her arm.
“How was it really today?” he asked in a low voice.
Y/N rested her head against his chest.
“Fine. But intense. Sofia was there. Camila too. They were there for me. It’s affecting me more than I thought it would.”
Bucky pressed his lips to her forehead, then let them drift down to her temple. He held her a little tighter against him.
“You’re not alone in all this anymore.”
Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the day’s tension slowly dissolve in his warmth.
“Thank you for being here. Even when you don’t say anything.”
He didn’t reply straight away. He simply held her, his hand sliding down her back with deliberate slowness. The air between them was thick with that gentle tension they knew so well.
“Are you coming along on Saturday for the visible stitching?” she finally asked.
“Only if you want me to. I know it means a lot to you.”
Y/N looked up at him.
“I want you to be there. Not to sew, just to be there. Mila wants you to come too. ”
Bucky smiled and kissed her forehead.
“Then I’ll come. Afterwards, we’ll go and eat pancakes. Mila’s going to insist.”
Y/N laughed softly against him.
“You’re starting to know her well.”
“A bit, yes. She’s just like you. When she decides something’s important, she goes all out. ”
They stayed embraced for a long time. Bucky held her tight, with a possessive tenderness, then kissed her lightly on the temple as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Stay a little longer tonight,” she whispered.
“I’ll stay.”
That night, once everyone was asleep, they stayed on the sofa. Bucky pulled her close, his hands slipping under her jumper to stroke her bare back. The air between them was thick, electric, yet restrained. He knew how to be intense without ever being pushy.
“My love…” whispered Y/N against his lips.
“Yes?”
“Don’t ever change.”
He smiled against her mouth.
“I promise.”
The following Saturday, the Bushwick workshop seemed livelier than ever. The March light streamed in through the three windows, bright and cold, making the spools of thread and the pieces of fabric still spread out on the large table glisten. Y/N arrived early, her heart beating a little faster than usual. Today, she was going to sew the visible seam on the signature dress. The finishing touch. The one that would say it all without overdoing it. She had barely hung up her coat when Sofia walked in, right on time, as always. She was wearing a long black coat that still smelled of the cold outside.
“Hello,” said Sofia simply.
Her gaze swept across the room and settled on the dress already hanging on its hanger.
“Is it ready?”
“Almost,” replied Y/N. “Just the visible stitching left.”
Camila arrived a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, carrying two more coffees.
“I thought you might want another one.”
Mila came in just after, her notebook clutched tightly to her chest, with Léa close behind. Mila’s cheeks were rosy from walking quickly. She looked at the dress with an almost solemn concentration.
“It’s today,” she murmured.
“Yes,” said Y/N, smiling.
“You came.”
Bucky was the last to arrive. He slipped in quietly, leaning against the wall by the door, as if he knew that spot was reserved for him. He didn’t say anything straight away. He simply looked at Y/N, that gaze lasting a second too long and always making her chest feel warm.Y/N took the dress off the hanger and held it up to the light. The bamboo silk took on a golden hue, almost as if it were alive. At the neckline, an empty space awaited the final stitch.Sofia approached quietly.
“Whenever you’re ready. We’re here.”
Y/N sat down at the large table, needle in hand. A deep, respectful silence fell. No one spoke. Mila was scribbling in her notebook, Léa was drinking her coffee by the window, Camila was studying the sketches on the wall. Sofia remained motionless on the windowsill. Bucky, for his part, was watching Y/N.She could sense him without looking up. A calm, constant presence that never disturbed but filled the entire space.
The minutes passed. Fifty-two, to be exact. Each stitch was placed with almost religious attention. It was the only visible seam in the entire collection: an intentional line running across the neckline and sloping gently down the shoulder. Thomas’s signature.When she cut the thread, Y/N set down the needle and breathed in slowly.
“It’s done,” she murmured.
She stood up, slipped on the dress and stood in front of the mirror. There was a brief silence. Then Sofia spoke.
“Look at the shoulder. It falls just right.”
Y/N tugged the fabric slightly.
“There,” said Sofia, satisfied.
Camila nodded in agreement.
“The length is spot on. And the seam… it says a lot without being over the top.”
Mila, her nose buried in her notebook, remarked:
“The proportions are right. The side seam works. They complement each other.”
Léa, who hadn’t said a word until then, murmured:
“Dad would have slipped his hand inside. To check the hidden seams. Then he would have just nodded.”
Y/N felt her eyes sting. She looked at her reflection. The dress was there. It draped beautifully, the silk shimmering in the light, and that visible seam—discreet yet strong.Bucky approached gently. He didn’t touch the dress. He simply placed a hand on her lower back, a light but sure gesture.
“Thomas,” he said in a low voice.
A single word. But it carried everything they had built.
Y/N turned to him, her eyes shining.
“Thank you for being here.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then rested his forehead against hers for a second.
“Of course I’m here.”
Mila, without looking up from her notebook, remarked,
“Bucky said ‘of course’.”
“We got that, Mila.”
Mila shrugged slightly.
“I was taking notes. It’s important.”
Sofia picked up her bag, ready to leave.
“The dress comes out first in the collection. Always.”
She paused, then added in her typically direct manner:
“For the launch, I’m thinking June. First week. Before everyone goes on holiday. What do you think?”
Y/N nodded.
“June. Sounds good to me.”
Camila looked at the dress one last time.
“Your father would have known it was right just by turning the dress over. He wouldn’t have needed anything else.”
She went out. Sofia followed her shortly afterwards. Léa placed her hand on Mila’s shoulder.
“We’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”
Once alone, Y/N and Bucky stayed in the studio for a while. The morning light streamed gently through the three windows, cold but beautiful. Mila’s dress and drawing hung side by side on the wall.
Bucky slipped his hand into hers.
“June,” he murmured.
“June,” Y/N repeated. “Four months. It feels both far away and very close.”
He squeezed her fingers.
“You’ve got time. And you’re not alone.”
Y/N rested her head on his shoulder.
“My love… I was scared while I was sewing. I thought of my father. I was afraid I wouldn’t be up to it.”
Bucky kissed her forehead, staying there for a long moment.
“You are. And even if you doubt it, I’m here to remind you. Every day if I have to.”
They walked down the three flights of stairs together. Out on the street, Léa and Mila were waiting for them. Mila was holding her notebook under her arm. Léa had her hands in the pockets of her coat. Mila asked straight away,
“Where are we eating?”
Léa replied without hesitation,
“The café on the corner. They have croissants on Saturday mornings.”
Mila nodded.
“That’s why I suggested it.”
Bucky slipped his hand into Y/N’s as they walked. That simple gesture, so natural in front of everyone, stirred a deep warmth in Y/N’s chest. He spoke of her with the calmness of someone who knows. Who belongs. At the café, they sat down at a small table. Bucky ordered without asking: caramel crêpes for Mila, apple crêpes for Léa, and for Y/N the chocolate one she particularly liked. Mila tucked into her crêpe with enthusiasm.
“The dress is stunning. You can barely see the stitching, but you can feel it. Just like the things that really matter.”
Léa was sipping her coffee quietly.
“You’ve done a great job, Y/N. I’m proud of you.”
Y/N felt a lump form in her throat.
“Thank you, Léa. That means a lot to me, really.”
Bucky gently placed his hand on her thigh, under the table. Discreet, but possessive.
“I’m proud too. Very proud.”
After the meal, they went back to Park Slope. It had been a busy day, but a lovely one. That evening, once Mila and Léa were in bed, they found themselves alone on the sofa.He pulled her close without saying a word. His arms wrapped completely around her. His hands slid slowly down her back, warm and reassuring.
“Today was important,” Y/N murmured against his chest.
“Yes. And you were perfect.”
She looked up at him.
“I was scared, for a moment. When everyone was looking at the dress. I thought of my father. I was afraid I wouldn’t live up to what he’d passed on to me.”
Bucky stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.
“You’re important to me. Even if you have doubts, I’m here for you. I’ll tell you that every day if I have to.”
He held her tighter, then kissed her forehead. A few seconds later, he kissed her properly, with all the intensity he usually kept hidden deep inside. His hands slipped under her jumper, brushing her skin gently, slowly. The air between them grew warmer, heavier.
“Stay tonight,” she whispered.
“I’ll stay.”
They spent the evening snuggled up against each other, talking a little, silent a lot. Bucky brought her some tea without her having to ask. He picked up the blanket she’d let fall. He noted in the back of his mind that she liked it when he massaged her shoulders after a long day.Later, in bed, he held her close, his strong body pressed against hers. His mouth brushed her neck.
“You’ll be fine,” he whispered. “Your presentation will be brilliant. Because you’re the one who put it together.”
On Monday morning, the atmosphere at Alpine was quieter than usual. Y/N had just settled down at her desk when Lindsey walked past her without stopping. She placed a thin white envelope on the edge of the table, with that discreet little gesture she always used for important matters.Y/N opened it gently. Just two paragraphs. The first said she was officially appointed permanent executive assistant, with a pay rise. The second stated that it took effect immediately and that a meeting with HR was scheduled for Thursday.She read the lines twice, feeling a weight slowly lift from her chest.
She grabbed her phone.
“Lindsey’s just given me the letter for the permanent post.”
Bucky replied straight away.
“I know. I signed it on Friday evening. Well done, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.”
Y/N smiled, her fingers hovering over the screen.
“You signed it on Friday evening?”
“Yes. After you’d left. Lindsey wanted to give it to you herself this morning. That’s just her style. ”
Y/N put the phone down for a moment, her eyes on the envelope. She thought back on how far she’d come since joining Alpine, the tough times, the doubts, and Bucky, always there without ever imposing himself. She stood up and went to knock on Lindsey’s door, which was already open. Lindsey looked up from her screen.
“Thanks,” Y/N simply said.
Lindsey nodded.
“Take the time to read the confidentiality clause before signing on Thursday. Amira can check it over if you like.”
“I’ll send it to her tonight.”
Lindsey gave a small smile.
“Good.”
Y/N went back to her desk and sat down. Her life now consisted of several layers that existed simultaneously: her permanent job at Alpine, the Thomas collection taking shape, the studio in Bushwick, Bucky, Léa preparing for her internship at Amira, and Mila and her sketchbooks. It all seemed to hold together, fragile and solid at the same time. That Wednesday evening, Bucky turned up at the studio without really giving any warning. He’d sent a message at five o’clock:
I’ll pop round tonight.
All right .
He arrived at seven o’clock with two coffees and a different look in his eyes. Y/N sensed it straight away.
“What’s going on?” she asked, putting down her needle.
Bucky set the coffees on the table and moved closer to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and massaged them gently.
“Nothing serious. But I wanted to tell you in person. Nathalie, an investor on the board, spoke up this morning. She says the Thomas collection creates a potential conflict of interest with Alpine.”
Y/N tensed slightly.
“The same argument as Hale?”
“Almost. Framed differently to avoid Hale’s mistakes. She’s done her homework.”
Y/N glanced at the wall of sketches, then at the dress hanging on its hanger.
“Does Amira know?”
“I rang her this morning. She reckons the argument doesn’t hold water legally. The partnership is above board; apparently, she can prove it in twelve minutes.”
Y/N let out a small, somewhat dry laugh.
“Just like with Hale.”
“Yeah.”
Bucky stayed close to her, his hands still resting on her shoulders. He said nothing more, but his mere presence was enough. He moved a little closer, as he always did when he sensed she needed him.
“Will you let me know straight away, as soon as it happens?”
“Yes. Not in the evening. Right away. I called Amira this morning and sent you a message at five o’clock.”
Y/N turned towards him, resting her forehead against his chest.
“That’s good. Keep it up.”
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her gently.
“I will. I don’t want you to carry this burden alone.”
They stayed like that for a while. Then Y/N picked up her needle again. Bucky settled down on the windowsill in the middle of the room, his coffee in hand. He wasn’t disturbing her, but he was there, just in the same room.After a moment, she murmured:
“The presentation in June. Nathalie’s going to say it’s just marketing for Alpine.”
“Probably.”
“And Amira will reply that Thomas is an independent brand with his own contract.”
Bucky smiled slightly.
“In twelve minutes. Less if she’s in a good mood.”
Y/N continued sewing in silence for a few minutes. Outside, Bushwick was living its March night: the sound of cars, someone honking in the distance, the smell of food wafting from a restaurant.
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“There’s a place down the street that does sandwiches until nine. It’s good.”
On Thursday evening, Léa sent her final comments to Amira. Five pages she’d been working on for two weeks. When she came out of her room, she had that calm look of someone who’d just done something important without making a big deal of it. Y/N was on the sofa with her sketches for June.
“I’ve sent the document to Amira,” said Léa.
“The five pages?”
“Yes. I started over three times.”
Y/N put down her papers.
“Why three times?”
Léa shrugged slightly.
“The first two versions analysed what Amira wanted me to see. The third… it analysed what was really there.”
Y/N looked at her for a long time.
“That’s the difference you’ve learnt.”
“Yes. What we think we see versus what’s really there. It’s a bit like Muybridge.”
Y/N smiled.
“Yes. It’s Muybridge.”
Later that evening, Y/N’s phone vibrated. Amira.
“Léa has just sent her observations. She’s spotted things that third-year interns miss. I wanted you to know.”
Y/N went and knocked on Lea’s door.
“Come in.”
Lea was at her desk, George’s book open in front of her.
“Amira texted me. She says you’ve spotted things that third-year interns miss.”
Lea was silent for a few seconds. Something flashed across her face – not loud pride, but a quiet confirmation of something she’d been hoping for.
“Right,” she said simply.
Y/N smiled.
“Okay, is that all?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. I just wanted you to know.”
Léa nodded and went back to her notes. Before leaving, Y/N added:
“You started over three times.” “The third time was the charm.”
“Yes.”
Y/N closed the door gently and went back to the living room. She sent a message to Bucky.
Amira has written to Léa. She says her observations are at the level of third-year trainees.
Bucky replied quickly.
I know. Amira sent me a message too. She says Léa has the perspective she’s been looking for for ten years.
The look?
Seeing what’s really there rather than what you expect. It’s rare, according to her.
Y/N smiled in the dark.
It’s Muybridge.
Yes. It’s Muybridge.
The next morning, at breakfast, Mila laid her schedule on the table with that serious expression she wore for important matters.
“I have a proposal.”
Y/N took a sip of coffee.
“Tell me. ”
“For Thomas’s presentation in June. I want to do a drawing. Not the horse lying on its side. Something new. A horse at a standstill. A resting position. Ears slightly back. It’s watching something we can’t see. Like the inner seams. We know it’s there, even if we can’t see it.” Y/N set down her cup slowly. “That’s right. Absolutely right.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“I need six weeks for a drawing of this quality. It’s March now. That’s plenty of time for June.”
Lea walked into the kitchen just then.
“Has Mila suggested anything?”
Y/N smiled.
“A drawing for the presentation. A horse watching over something we can’t see.”
Léa looked at Mila.
“That’s good.”
Mila drank her orange juice.
“I know. But thanks for saying so.”
On Thursday morning, George replied to Mila. It wasn’t just a quick note: four detailed paragraphs, written in his usual concise style. He answered all her questions about Muybridge, corrected a small error regarding the zoopraxiscope with a precise source, and finished by saying he was available for any further questions about the machines.Mila read the email three times in her room, then went into the kitchen where Y/N was finishing his coffee before heading off to the office.
“Bucky’s dad has replied,” she announced.
Y/N looked up.
“I know. Bucky told me.”
“He’s corrected a mistake in my notes. ”
“That’s good. It shows he takes your work seriously.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“I’ll reply to him tonight. I’ve got seven questions about the machines. I’ve read the notebook he gave me. The notes in the margins raise quite a few points.”
Y/N put down her cup and watched her little sister. Mila was growing up so fast. She was immersing herself in this world – the horses, the drawings, George with a calm, serious intensity that touched Y/N deeply.
“Seven questions?”
“Yes. Very specific ones.”
Y/N grabbed her bag with a smile.
“George is going to love this. He’s mad about specific questions.”
In the Alpine lift, she sent a message to Bucky.
Mila has seven questions about the machines for your dad.
The reply came almost instantly.
I know. He texted me this morning; he was eagerly awaiting his answer.
He was waiting?
Yeah. He said his questions about Muybridge were really sharp and he was hoping for the same with the machines.
Y/N smiled in the lift. George and Mila were going to build something together, through patient emails and precise questions. Nobody had planned anything. That’s why it was so beautiful.
On Friday evening, Bucky arrived with something under his arm. Not pancakes, not coffee. A large-format book with a plain cover: American Industrial Photography 1880–1920. He placed it on the kitchen table without a word. Mila, who was walking down the hallway, stopped dead in her tracks.
“Is this for me?”
Bucky nodded.
“It’s for the Term Nine bibliography. There are photos of machines and workhorses.”
Mila took the book in both hands, turned it over, read the spine, then opened it in the middle. She turned the pages in silence, her eyes shining.
“They’re both in it,” she murmured.
“Yes. It was a time of transition. Machines were starting to replace horses in industry.”
Mila closed the book carefully.
“He'll find that interesting.”
Bucky smiled gently.
“I know. That’s why I bought two copies. One for you. One for him.”
Mila looked up, surprised.
“You thought of your dad when you bought this book.”
“Yes.”
Mila was silent for a moment, then simply said,
“That’s nice.”
She went into her room, clutching the book to her chest. Léa came out of the kitchen with her coffee and looked at Bucky.
“You’ve bought two copies of the same book, one for a ten-year-old girl and one for your sixty-year-old father.”
Bucky shrugged slightly.
“They’re asking the same questions.”
Léa took a sip of coffee.
“Yes. That’s true.”
Y/N, from the hallway, watched the scene. She approached Bucky, stood on tiptoe and kissed him briefly, but tenderly.
“That’s thoughtful,” she murmured.
He placed a hand on her back.
“It makes sense.”
Y/N smiled against his lips.
“It’s both.”
He laughed softly, that low laugh that vibrated in his chest, and kissed her again, more slowly this time. Lea went back into the kitchen, muttering that she hadn’t heard a thing.
On Saturday morning, Y/N got up at seven o’clock. Not to go to the studio this time. She made some coffee, sat down at the kitchen table with a new sketchbook and her sketches, and thought of Thomas, her father, and the coat she’d promised George Barnes. She opened the sketchbook to a blank page and wrote at the top: George Barnes’s coat. Then she began to draw. Not a quick sketch. A proper drawing. She thought of George: his economical way of holding himself, that quiet precision with which he occupied space without ever taking up too much of it. She thought of the way he walked in the garden with his empty teacup, of the hands he put in his pockets when he was thinking. A sturdy coat.
Buttons made of natural Lisbon horn that would develop a beautiful patina over time. And, of course, flawless interior stitching. Mila came in at 7.42 with her timetable. She stopped when she saw Y/N bent over the notebook.
“You’re drawing.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“George’s coat.”
Mila put down her timetable and stepped closer. She looked at the sketch in silence for a few seconds, with that characteristic, meticulous attention of hers.
“The pockets are deep.”
“He puts his hands in his pockets when he’s thinking.”
Mila nodded.
“I know. I’ve documented it.”
Y/N looked up, amused and touched.
“You’ve documented how George puts his hands in his pockets?”
“I’ve documented the usual behaviours of every member of the Barnes family. It’s in my notebook from session seven.”
Y/N looked at her little sister and felt a wave of quiet love wash over her. Mila did things her own way: serious, precise, wholehearted.
“Do you want to look at the sketch with me?”
“Yes.”
They worked together for an hour. Y/N drew, whilst Mila asked specific questions about proportions and materials. At one point, Mila pointed to the collar.
“George always tucks his jacket collar in when he goes out into the garden. A high collar would be more practical for him.”
Y/N altered the collar on the drawing.
“Better,” said Mila.
“Thank you.”
Mila shrugged.
“It makes sense to consult the people who have the information.”
Saturday morning continued in this way, calm and gentle, in the Park Slope kitchen. George Barnes’s coat was taking shape page by page, thanks to Mila’s precise questions and Y/N’s quiet memories of her father. Later that day, Bucky arrived at the flat. He found Y/N still poring over her sketches. He approached silently, placed his hands on her shoulders and massaged them gently.
“You’ve been working for a long time.”
“A little.”
He leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck.
“Your hands are cold.”
Before she could reply, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Then he went to make her a cup of hot tea without asking. Y/N watched him, her heart full.
“My love… you do this all the time.”
He returned with the cup and set it down in front of her before she even reached out.
“Because I can tell when you need something. And I want you to keep creating without tiring yourself out too much.”
He sat down beside her, close by, his thigh against hers. Together they looked at the sketch of the coat.
“My father’s going to love it,” he said softly.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. Because you made it for him. Not to impress anyone. For him.”
Y/N rested her head against his shoulder.
“Thank you for being here. In the same room. Even when you don’t say anything.”
Bucky slipped an arm around her waist and held her gently close.
“This is where I belong now.”
On the last Saturday in April, Y/N finished George’s coat. She was alone in the workshop all morning, the windows open to the distant sounds of Bushwick. The finishing touches were long and meticulous: perfect hems, neat buttonholes, and the natural horn buttons from Lisbon – model four – sewn on one by one, with the care her father had taught her. When the last button was in place, she laid the coat on the table and looked at it for a long time. Then she turned it over. The inside seams were impeccable, invisible from the outside, yet sturdy, made to last. A memory flashed through her mind: her father, one Friday evening, finishing a coat and folding it carefully before leaving it to rest overnight, as if it too deserved a rest. She picked up her phone.
Your father’s coat is finished.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I’ll tell him tonight.
Wait.
Why?
I want to give it to him myself.
All right. When?
The next time we visit Staten Island.
My father’s going to say it’s too much.
And he’ll accept it anyway. Because things done for the right people deserve to be accepted.
You’re the one who said that.
It’s both of us.
She folded the coat carefully, using the method her father had taught her: fabric against fabric, without any creases. She slipped it into the cloth bag she had prepared, with a small label sewn inside on which she had simply written: Thomas. Then she took a photo of the folded coat and sent it to the discreet folder on her phone where she kept a few pictures of her father. She added a silent message:
This is for someone who does things properly.
She switched off the lights in the workshop and walked down the three flights of stairs. It was a mild April evening, almost warm. With her coat bag under her arm, she walked to the underground, thinking that certain things were passed on in this way: through invisible seams, through silent gestures, through coats made to last. The following Tuesday, the buttons from Lisbon arrived. Twenty pieces of each style in a carefully packed cardboard box, accompanied by a handwritten note from the supplier in Portuguese, which Camila translated at lunchtime.
The horn this season is exceptional. These buttons will age beautifully. Take your time choosing.
That evening, Y/N placed the four models on the large table in the studio. She held them up one by one to the light streaming through the middle window. The fourth was the obvious choice: the one that would take on a golden patina over time, the one that would carry the memory of the person wearing it. She photographed the four models and sent the photo to Sofia and Camila. Sofia replied in eight minutes:
The fourth.
Camille replied in eleven minutes:
The fourth. The golden patina goes perfectly with the bamboo silk and Williamsburg linen.
Y/N then sent the photo to Mila. The reply came in four minutes:
The fourth one. The other three are fine, but this one changes with time, just like the important things.
Y/N smiled. That was exactly what she’d thought. She called Bucky.
“Sweetheart.The Lisbon buttons are here. I’ve chosen.The fourth one.”
She laughed softly.
“How do you know?”
“Because Mila sent me the photo with a red arrow and a note: ‘This one changes over time, just like the important things.’”
“Does she annotate photos now?”
“For the last two weeks. She discovered the feature on her phone.”
Y/N laughs more heartily this time.
“The supplier said to take your time choosing.”
“How long did you take?”
“Thirty seconds.”
“That’s enough when it’s obvious.”
“Yes, my love. That’s enough.”
She put her phone down, took out her notebook and jotted down: Buttons – natural Lisbon horn, model four, develops a golden patina over time. Just like the important things. The following week, Mila began the final drawing. Y/N knew this because her little sister came out of her room one Thursday evening with a detailed sketch and placed it on the kitchen table without a word. Not the finished drawing, but a very advanced version: the horse at a standstill, ears slightly back, the right foreleg adjusted by two millimetres according to George’s comments. Y/N looked at the sketch for a long time.
“When are you starting?”
“This weekend. I need steady light. In the morning between ten and noon, the light in my room is constant.”
Léa walked past in the hallway. “She’s studied the light in her room.”
Mila shrugged.
“It makes sense to optimise your working conditions.”
Y/N smiled.
“That’s good, Mila. Really good.”
Mila was silent for a moment, then added,
“It’s good to hear that.”
Lea called out from the hallway,
“She said thank you before we even asked her to.”
Mila smiled slightly.
“I’m learning.”
Later that evening, Y/N’s phone vibrated. A message from George , rare and to the point.
Good evening. Mila sent me the final sketch this morning. The right front leg is spot on. Tell her that the position of the ears is the hardest part to get right, and she’s nailed it.
Y/N went into Mila’s room.
“George’s sent you a message. ”
“I know. He sent it to me too.”
“He sent one to me as well. Just to make sure the message got through.”
Mila nodded.
“He says the position of the ears is the hardest part.”
Y/N leaned against the doorframe.
“And?”
“And it’s important. The ears reveal the state of mind. If the state of mind is right, everything else is right.”
Y/N was silent for a moment, watching her little sister, who was almost eleven, so naturally linking a horse’s ears to the philosophy of a fashion collection.
“I’m proud of you.”
Mila looked up.
“I know.”
Then, after two seconds:
“Thank you.”
On Friday evening, Bucky arrived with a small wooden box. Mila spotted it straight away.
“What’s that?”
“Buttons.”
Mila opened the box. Twenty antique buttons made of natural horn, with that distinctive patina of objects that have been worn for a long time.
“They’re old,” she said.
“Yes. They came from my grandfather’s coat. He wore it for thirty years. I wanted you to see what the patina really looks like over time.”
Y/N took a button in her hand. It felt pleasantly heavy, steeped in history.
“How did he wear it?” she asked.
“In winter, to go to work. My father says he wore it for thirty years without ever complaining.”
Mila closed the box carefully.
“Thirty years—that’s a well-made garment.”
Bucky nodded.
“Yes. Just like Thomas will be.”
Y/N looked at Bucky over the table.
“Thank you. That’s so thoughtful.”
He smiled gently.
“It makes sense.”
Mila, from her notebook, murmured,
“It’s both. ”
Lea, from her bedroom, said without raising her voice,
“We both know what’s going on here.”
Mila replied without hesitation,
“We’re watching.”
Lea laughed softly.
“It’s the same thing.”
Y/N sipped her coffee with a smile. Bucky took a sip of his. The Park Slope kitchen went about its usual Friday evening, yet filled with something warm and genuine. The next day, Y/N carried each item into the studio on her own. She had waited until Bucky was at a late meeting, Mila was at a friend’s house, and Léa was at the library. Some things were best done in complete silence. She started with the merino wool jacket. She slipped it on and moved naturally: she walked over to the shelves, sat on the windowsill, raised her arms. The sleeves fit perfectly. The deep pockets were exactly where they should be. Then came the raw linen trousers from Williamsburg. The fabric had body but was breathable. It moved with every gesture without resistance. Next came the signature dress. The bamboo silk glided over her skin. The visible seam at the shoulder said everything it needed to say. Y/N stood in front of the mirror for a long time.
“This is for you,” she whispered softly in the empty workshop, thinking of her father.
Finally, the coat. The structure was already in place. She slipped it on and turned the sleeves up one by one. The inside seams were perfect. She hung all the pieces back on the back wall and sat down at the large table, her hands flat on the wood.
“They’re good,” she murmured to herself. “Really good.”
She sent a message to Bucky.
I’ve just tried on all four pieces. They look good. Really good.
He replied from his meeting:
And?
They drape nicely on the body.
I know.
How do you know? You haven’t tried them on.
I know because you told me. And because you text me about the important things.
Y/N smiled in the empty workshop.
The inside seams of the coat are perfect.
Your father would have known that by turning the sleeve inside out.
Yes.
That’s enough.
That’s enough.
She put down the phone and stayed there a while longer, surrounded by Thomas on the wall and the light that was slowly fading. Her father was there, in every stitch, in every silence.
summary : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, just to fill the silence.
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : 8.5k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
Spring in New York is a bit of a madhouse.
You see, there are days when it’s almost warm, the sun beating down on the red bricks of Bushwick, and then suddenly, in the evening, a cold wind blows up from the East River to remind you that summer isn’t here yet. Bucky used to say it reminded him of Robert, their horse, who always hesitated before heading towards the light of the paddock.The studio, for its part, had changed. Yet the walls, the large wooden table and the three windows were still the same. But everything that lived within those walls was different. New spools of thread on the shelves, sketches pinned up with hastily scribbled notes, neatly folded scraps of fabric.
The prototype of the merino wool jacket lay waiting, silent, against the far wall. The first pieces of the signature dress, cut from Lyon bamboo silk, had been lying on the table since Monday. Fragile. Almost vulnerable. Waiting to become something.Y/N pushed open the door that Tuesday, just after 6.30 pm. The cold still clung to her skin. She closed the door behind her, set down her bag, and froze for a moment. The scent of the fabrics – soft wool, light silk, raw linen – enveloped her. Like a return to childhood, in her father’s workshop, watching him work in silence. His large, patient hands guided the needle, each stitch like a secret.That was when she saw the sheet of paper slipped under the door. Not a letter. A pencil drawing on a page from a notebook. A horse lying on its side, legs slightly bent, ears at rest. That posture of absolute trust known as the lateral decubitus position. In the bottom right-hand corner, Mila’s fine, precise handwriting:
For the workshop. Session eight. — M.
Y/N picked up the piece of paper, then stood rooted to the spot in the doorway, her heart tightening. The paper was ice-cold, as if it had just come from outside. Mila had come alone. She’d taken the tube, climbed the three flights of stairs, slipped her drawing under the door, and left without a sound. Without waiting for a glance, without expecting a thank you. Just thinking about it, Y/N felt a wave of tenderness mixed with sadness wash over her. She took out her phone, her fingers still numb.
Did you come all the way to Bushwick?
The reply came straight away.
Yes. Léa walked me to the street, but she didn’t come up. The drawing’s for the workshop.
Y/N smiled gently.
It’s quite a long way, though.
Forty-two minutes. I timed it.
Of course she’d timed it.
Y/N looked at the horse again. The posture was spot on, the technique already solid. But above all, there was a sense of peace in the animal’s body, that calm way of surrendering to the space around it.
It’s really beautiful, Mila. Really.
Bucky always said that lying on your side was the hardest position. I wanted to show you that I could do it. Have a lovely evening.
Y/N pinned the drawing to the left-hand wall, a little way away from her father’s sketches. She took a step back to get a better look. This drawing deserved its own spot, its own light; there was no need to tuck it away next to the others.
Her phone vibrated again. Bucky.
Did Mila give you the drawing?
Yes. But how do you already know that?
She sent me a message as she was getting off the tube. She’d even timed the whole journey, there and back. Eighty-four minutes, spot on.
Y/N stood in front of the middle window. Outside, the street was slowly growing dark, and the shop windows were lighting up one by one in the twilight. It was still that March chill that stings your cheeks. She pictured Mila rushing down the subway stairs, her drawing rolled up under her arm, small but determined.
She really gets attached.
Bucky’s reply came, calm and measured.
Yes… she’s getting attached. But she’s also doing something brave. Both can be true at the same time.
Y/N put her phone down. She picked up the pieces of bamboo silk and held them up to the light streaming through the window. The last ray of evening sunlight caught the fabric, giving it a golden, almost liquid sheen. She gently ran her hand over the cut edges. A memory came back to her in a flash: her father leaning over a table just like that, whispering to her that she should let the fabric decide a little before forcing it. She set to work, her movements slow, time stretching quietly around her. An hour later, the lift stopped on her floor. Decisive footsteps in the corridor. Sofia entered, her long black coat still cold from outside. She scanned the room and froze on Mila’s drawing.
“Is that her?” she asked in a low voice.
“Yes. The eighth session. In the side view.”
Sofia walked over to the wall. She stood there, looking at the horse without saying a word. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the ears, then on the gentle, tranquil curve of the neck.
“The cuts are precise. You’ve taken your time.”
“Silk is unforgiving.”
Sofia laid the fabric down with a delicacy one wouldn’t expect from her.
“Are you sewing on Saturday morning?”
Y/N looked up.
“Yes.”
Sofia was silent for a moment, then simply said:
“I’ll come.”
Y/N hesitated.
“You don’t have to…”
“I know,” replied Sofia.
Her voice was deeper than usual.
“But I’m coming anyway. It’s the first signature dress. Someone has to be there.”
They exchanged a glance. In Sofia’s eyes, behind the confidence she always displayed, Y/N sensed something more vulnerable, a small crack she jealously kept hidden.
“Camila might want to come too,” Y/N suggested softly.
“Give her a call.”
Y/N sent a message. The reply came quickly:
Camila would be there at half past eight.
When Sofia left, leaving behind the subtle scent of her coat, Y/N found herself alone. She picked up her phone.
Sofia and Camila are coming over on Saturday morning to look at the dress.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. They’ve both told me.
A wave of gentle warmth washed over Y/N’s chest.
I was going to tell you about it tonight.
I know, sweetheart.
She paused before writing, sounding a little more sincere:
My love… they got there before you.
It’s not bad, actually.
Yeah… not bad.
She hung up and picked up her needle again. Outside, the March chill still lingered. Inside, something fragile was coming to life, stitch by stitch.Later, when she got back to Park Slope, the flat was quiet. Léa was reading on the sofa. Mila was already asleep. Y/N took off her shoes, feeling the full weight of the day on her shoulders. She went into the kitchen for a glass of water and froze.On the table, in a simple glass, was a small bouquet of wildflowers. No note. Just the flowers, fresh, leaning slightly. Bucky had dropped by. For no particular reason. Just because he knew that days like this need a little discreet beauty.Y/N picked up the bouquet, bringing her face close to the petals. Their light fragrance brought a lump to her throat.
She murmured softly,
“He thinks of me even when he’s not here.”
She stood there for a long time in the kitchen, in the soft light, holding the flowers close to her. A tenderness she couldn’t always put into words filled her heart.
On Saturday morning, Bushwick was bathed in a softer light than usual. Y/N pushed open the studio door at around 8.40 am, a tray of hot coffees in her hand. Her fingers were still frozen from the tube, but strangely, she felt rather calm. The dress was waiting for her on the table, with the pieces of bamboo silk laid out exactly as she’d left them.Camila was already there, leaning against the corridor wall, coffee in hand. She must have arrived quite a while ago. Her cheeks were bright red from the cold, and it was clear she’d been waiting for some time.
“You’re early,” Y/N said with a smile.
Camila shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“I know. I couldn’t stay at home. I wanted to be here before it started.”
They walked into the studio together. The morning light streamed across the large wooden table, making the spools of thread glisten. Camila put down her bag, then glanced at Mila’s drawing hanging on the left.
“She came on her own, didn’t she?”
“Yeah. Forty-two minutes on the tube. She timed it.”
Camila shook her head, touched.
“That kid… she never does things by halves.”
Sofia arrived at nine o’clock sharp – as always, never late. She came in, glanced at the pieces of silk spread out on the table and at Mila’s sketch, then headed straight for the windowsill in the middle. You know, the spot where Bucky used to sit. She took the coffee Y/N handed her as she passed.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
Y/N sat down at the large table, picked up the first piece of silk and her needle. A gentle silence settled over the room, almost reverent. No one spoke. Sofia and Camila watched, knowing that some things are best done without a word.
After a moment, Camila spoke softly, as if not to break the concentration.
“The visible stitching at the neckline… will you do that last?”
Y/N nodded without looking up.
“Yes. If I do it too early, everything else will have to be adjusted to fit. Doing it last will bring it all together.”
Camila took a sip of coffee.
“That makes sense. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
Sofia said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes. She watched Y/N’s hands with an almost protective gaze.
Y/N carried on sewing. The bamboo silk glided beneath her fingers, cool and supple. Each stitch was laid with the patience her father had passed on to her. A fleeting memory flashed through her mind: him, bent over a jacket one winter evening, telling her in a low voice that the inner seams had to be perfect, even if no one would ever see them. Y/N carried on sewing. The bamboo silk glided beneath her fingers, cool and supple. Each stitch was laid with the patience her father had passed on to her. A fleeting memory flashed through her mind: him, bent over a jacket one winter evening, telling her in a low voice that the inner seams had to be perfect, even if no one would ever see them.
“That is where the truth of the garment lies.”
Her phone went beep beep on the edge of the table. She smiled straight away when she saw it was Bucky.
“Everything okay?” he’d typed.
She replied with one hand, whilst continuing to sew.
“Yeah, all good. I’m just sewing, nothing crazy. ”
She put the phone down. Two seconds later, Sofia said, in a very calm voice:
“By the way, you called him ‘my love’ earlier, in your message.”
Y/N looked up, a little surprised.
“Oh yeah… it just slipped out this week.”
Sofia watched her for a while, then a soft little smile crossed her face.
“That’s lovely. It suits you.”
Camila, for her part, said nothing, but you could tell she was holding her cup a little differently.The phone vibrated again.
Take your time. I’ll pop round tonight.
Y/N replied simply:
All right.
She put the phone down and picked up her needle again. Silence fell once more, broken only by the soft sound of the thread gliding through the fabric.
The morning passed quietly, as if in a bubble of concentration. By about one o’clock in the afternoon, the dress was finally starting to take shape. Well, it wasn’t quite finished yet – there were still the hems to do and that seam at the neckline that was sticking out a bit – but at least it was standing up. Y/N stood up, grabbed the dress and headed for the full-length mirror.She slipped it on very gently, almost cautiously.In the workshop, the silence grew heavier. Sofia and Camila were watching her intently, without saying a word. The silk glided over her, falling with a natural elegance to mid-calf. In the light from the middle window, the fabric cast soft reflections.Sofia was the first to speak, in a low voice.
“The right shoulder… there, that’s perfect.”
Y/N made a small adjustment.
“There, that’s it,” said Sofia, looking satisfied.
Camila tilted her head to one side.
“And the length is just right.”
Y/N stared at herself in the mirror for a long time. The dress was there, light against her skin, moving with her every gesture. Her father, on the other hand, would have slipped his hand inside to check the seams. A simple nod of the head, and that was enough. She took it off gently, put it on a hanger, then hung it on the wall, right next to Mila’s drawing. The horse lying on its side and the signature dress. Two things telling the same story: what really matters is often not visible from the outside.Sofia jumped to her feet and grabbed her bag with a decisive movement.
“Now the collection is taking shape. No more mere sketches. It’s real now.”
Y/N nodded quietly.
“Yes.”
Sofia stared at her for a long moment, before adding, her voice lower:
“Your father would have been proud. Not because it’s beautiful to look at. But because it’s sincere.”
She left without waiting for a reply.
Camila stayed a moment longer. She approached the dress gently, brushing the fabric with her fingertips, as if she wanted to soak up its story.
“The first person to wear it will feel it: this garment was designed for her. Not for others to look at her. But for her to feel good in it. ”
Y/N felt a lump form in her throat.
“That’s exactly what I want.”
Camila gave her a gentle smile.
“I know.”
Then she left too, leaving the room in a silence heavy with emotion.Y/N found herself alone in the studio. She sat on the edge of the table, her gaze drifting between the dress and Mila’s sketch. Outside, Bushwick went about its business: raised voices, a siren in the distance, the wind rattling against the windows. But inside, there was silence. She picked up her phone and called Bucky.He picked up after two rings.
“Sweetheart.”
Just hearing his voice, all the tension in her shoulders eased at once.
“The structure of the dress is finished. It’s really holding up well.”
She heard him smile on the other end of the line.
“And you, how are you feeling?”
Y/N closed her eyes for a moment.
“Fine. Really fine. A bit nervous too, I’m not going to lie.”
“That’s normal. It’s a big deal. I’ll pop round tonight, I’ll bring some pancakes. And Mila’ll want to celebrate in her own way, you know her.”
Y/N let out a little laugh.
“You know me too well. Thanks, love.”
A gentle silence settled in. Then his voice returned, a little deeper, a little softer.
“That’s the first time you’ve ever said that to me on the phone.”
“I know. It just came out.”
“I like it when it comes naturally. See you tonight, sweetheart.”
She hung up and pottered about the studio for a while, taking her time. Then she turned off the lights and made her way down the three flights of stairs. Outside, the March air greeted her, but it seemed less biting than it had been earlier.By evening, the flat already smelled of pancake batter when Bucky arrived. Mila was overexcited; she was telling him everything she’d learnt about wildlife photography that week, down to the smallest detail. Bucky was really listening to her, asking specific questions, nodding with that calmness that made him seem so attentive.At one point, Mila looked up at Y/N.
“Is the dress finished?”
“The structure is. We’ll do the visible stitching next Saturday. Will you be coming?”
Mila nodded earnestly.
“It’s the signature piece. I want to be there.”
Y/N felt a wave of tenderness wash over her.
After dinner, once Mila and Léa had gone to bed, Bucky and Y/N were left alone in the living room. He pulled her close to him on the sofa, his arm around her shoulders. His fingers slowly traced her arm.
“How was it really today?” he asked in a low voice.
Y/N rested her head against his chest.
“Fine. But intense. Sofia was there. Camila too. They were there for me. It’s affecting me more than I thought it would.”
Bucky pressed his lips to her forehead, then let them drift down to her temple. He held her a little tighter against him.
“You’re not alone in all this anymore.”
Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the day’s tension slowly dissolve in his warmth.
“Thank you for being here. Even when you don’t say anything.”
He didn’t reply straight away. He simply held her, his hand sliding down her back with deliberate slowness. The air between them was thick with that gentle tension they knew so well.
“Are you coming along on Saturday for the visible stitching?” she finally asked.
“Only if you want me to. I know it means a lot to you.”
Y/N looked up at him.
“I want you to be there. Not to sew, just to be there. Mila wants you to come too. ”
Bucky smiled and kissed her forehead.
“Then I’ll come. Afterwards, we’ll go and eat pancakes. Mila’s going to insist.”
Y/N laughed softly against him.
“You’re starting to know her well.”
“A bit, yes. She’s just like you. When she decides something’s important, she goes all out. ”
They stayed embraced for a long time. Bucky held her tight, with a possessive tenderness, then kissed her lightly on the temple as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Stay a little longer tonight,” she whispered.
“I’ll stay.”
That night, once everyone was asleep, they stayed on the sofa. Bucky pulled her close, his hands slipping under her jumper to stroke her bare back. The air between them was thick, electric, yet restrained. He knew how to be intense without ever being pushy.
“My love…” whispered Y/N against his lips.
“Yes?”
“Don’t ever change.”
He smiled against her mouth.
“I promise.”
The following Saturday, the Bushwick workshop seemed livelier than ever. The March light streamed in through the three windows, bright and cold, making the spools of thread and the pieces of fabric still spread out on the large table glisten. Y/N arrived early, her heart beating a little faster than usual. Today, she was going to sew the visible seam on the signature dress. The finishing touch. The one that would say it all without overdoing it. She had barely hung up her coat when Sofia walked in, right on time, as always. She was wearing a long black coat that still smelled of the cold outside.
“Hello,” said Sofia simply.
Her gaze swept across the room and settled on the dress already hanging on its hanger.
“Is it ready?”
“Almost,” replied Y/N. “Just the visible stitching left.”
Camila arrived a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, carrying two more coffees.
“I thought you might want another one.”
Mila came in just after, her notebook clutched tightly to her chest, with Léa close behind. Mila’s cheeks were rosy from walking quickly. She looked at the dress with an almost solemn concentration.
“It’s today,” she murmured.
“Yes,” said Y/N, smiling.
“You came.”
Bucky was the last to arrive. He slipped in quietly, leaning against the wall by the door, as if he knew that spot was reserved for him. He didn’t say anything straight away. He simply looked at Y/N, that gaze lasting a second too long and always making her chest feel warm.Y/N took the dress off the hanger and held it up to the light. The bamboo silk took on a golden hue, almost as if it were alive. At the neckline, an empty space awaited the final stitch.Sofia approached quietly.
“Whenever you’re ready. We’re here.”
Y/N sat down at the large table, needle in hand. A deep, respectful silence fell. No one spoke. Mila was scribbling in her notebook, Léa was drinking her coffee by the window, Camila was studying the sketches on the wall. Sofia remained motionless on the windowsill. Bucky, for his part, was watching Y/N.She could sense him without looking up. A calm, constant presence that never disturbed but filled the entire space.
The minutes passed. Fifty-two, to be exact. Each stitch was placed with almost religious attention. It was the only visible seam in the entire collection: an intentional line running across the neckline and sloping gently down the shoulder. Thomas’s signature.When she cut the thread, Y/N set down the needle and breathed in slowly.
“It’s done,” she murmured.
She stood up, slipped on the dress and stood in front of the mirror. There was a brief silence. Then Sofia spoke.
“Look at the shoulder. It falls just right.”
Y/N tugged the fabric slightly.
“There,” said Sofia, satisfied.
Camila nodded in agreement.
“The length is spot on. And the seam… it says a lot without being over the top.”
Mila, her nose buried in her notebook, remarked:
“The proportions are right. The side seam works. They complement each other.”
Léa, who hadn’t said a word until then, murmured:
“Dad would have slipped his hand inside. To check the hidden seams. Then he would have just nodded.”
Y/N felt her eyes sting. She looked at her reflection. The dress was there. It draped beautifully, the silk shimmering in the light, and that visible seam—discreet yet strong.Bucky approached gently. He didn’t touch the dress. He simply placed a hand on her lower back, a light but sure gesture.
“Thomas,” he said in a low voice.
A single word. But it carried everything they had built.
Y/N turned to him, her eyes shining.
“Thank you for being here.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then rested his forehead against hers for a second.
“Of course I’m here.”
Mila, without looking up from her notebook, remarked,
“Bucky said ‘of course’.”
“We got that, Mila.”
Mila shrugged slightly.
“I was taking notes. It’s important.”
Sofia picked up her bag, ready to leave.
“The dress comes out first in the collection. Always.”
She paused, then added in her typically direct manner:
“For the launch, I’m thinking June. First week. Before everyone goes on holiday. What do you think?”
Y/N nodded.
“June. Sounds good to me.”
Camila looked at the dress one last time.
“Your father would have known it was right just by turning the dress over. He wouldn’t have needed anything else.”
She went out. Sofia followed her shortly afterwards. Léa placed her hand on Mila’s shoulder.
“We’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”
Once alone, Y/N and Bucky stayed in the studio for a while. The morning light streamed gently through the three windows, cold but beautiful. Mila’s dress and drawing hung side by side on the wall.
Bucky slipped his hand into hers.
“June,” he murmured.
“June,” Y/N repeated. “Four months. It feels both far away and very close.”
He squeezed her fingers.
“You’ve got time. And you’re not alone.”
Y/N rested her head on his shoulder.
“My love… I was scared while I was sewing. I thought of my father. I was afraid I wouldn’t be up to it.”
Bucky kissed her forehead, staying there for a long moment.
“You are. And even if you doubt it, I’m here to remind you. Every day if I have to.”
They walked down the three flights of stairs together. Out on the street, Léa and Mila were waiting for them. Mila was holding her notebook under her arm. Léa had her hands in the pockets of her coat. Mila asked straight away,
“Where are we eating?”
Léa replied without hesitation,
“The café on the corner. They have croissants on Saturday mornings.”
Mila nodded.
“That’s why I suggested it.”
Bucky slipped his hand into Y/N’s as they walked. That simple gesture, so natural in front of everyone, stirred a deep warmth in Y/N’s chest. He spoke of her with the calmness of someone who knows. Who belongs. At the café, they sat down at a small table. Bucky ordered without asking: caramel crêpes for Mila, apple crêpes for Léa, and for Y/N the chocolate one she particularly liked. Mila tucked into her crêpe with enthusiasm.
“The dress is stunning. You can barely see the stitching, but you can feel it. Just like the things that really matter.”
Léa was sipping her coffee quietly.
“You’ve done a great job, Y/N. I’m proud of you.”
Y/N felt a lump form in her throat.
“Thank you, Léa. That means a lot to me, really.”
Bucky gently placed his hand on her thigh, under the table. Discreet, but possessive.
“I’m proud too. Very proud.”
After the meal, they went back to Park Slope. It had been a busy day, but a lovely one. That evening, once Mila and Léa were in bed, they found themselves alone on the sofa.He pulled her close without saying a word. His arms wrapped completely around her. His hands slid slowly down her back, warm and reassuring.
“Today was important,” Y/N murmured against his chest.
“Yes. And you were perfect.”
She looked up at him.
“I was scared, for a moment. When everyone was looking at the dress. I thought of my father. I was afraid I wouldn’t live up to what he’d passed on to me.”
Bucky stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.
“You’re important to me. Even if you have doubts, I’m here for you. I’ll tell you that every day if I have to.”
He held her tighter, then kissed her forehead. A few seconds later, he kissed her properly, with all the intensity he usually kept hidden deep inside. His hands slipped under her jumper, brushing her skin gently, slowly. The air between them grew warmer, heavier.
“Stay tonight,” she whispered.
“I’ll stay.”
They spent the evening snuggled up against each other, talking a little, silent a lot. Bucky brought her some tea without her having to ask. He picked up the blanket she’d let fall. He noted in the back of his mind that she liked it when he massaged her shoulders after a long day.Later, in bed, he held her close, his strong body pressed against hers. His mouth brushed her neck.
“You’ll be fine,” he whispered. “Your presentation will be brilliant. Because you’re the one who put it together.”
On Monday morning, the atmosphere at Alpine was quieter than usual. Y/N had just settled down at her desk when Lindsey walked past her without stopping. She placed a thin white envelope on the edge of the table, with that discreet little gesture she always used for important matters.Y/N opened it gently. Just two paragraphs. The first said she was officially appointed permanent executive assistant, with a pay rise. The second stated that it took effect immediately and that a meeting with HR was scheduled for Thursday.She read the lines twice, feeling a weight slowly lift from her chest.
She grabbed her phone.
“Lindsey’s just given me the letter for the permanent post.”
Bucky replied straight away.
“I know. I signed it on Friday evening. Well done, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.”
Y/N smiled, her fingers hovering over the screen.
“You signed it on Friday evening?”
“Yes. After you’d left. Lindsey wanted to give it to you herself this morning. That’s just her style. ”
Y/N put the phone down for a moment, her eyes on the envelope. She thought back on how far she’d come since joining Alpine, the tough times, the doubts, and Bucky, always there without ever imposing himself. She stood up and went to knock on Lindsey’s door, which was already open. Lindsey looked up from her screen.
“Thanks,” Y/N simply said.
Lindsey nodded.
“Take the time to read the confidentiality clause before signing on Thursday. Amira can check it over if you like.”
“I’ll send it to her tonight.”
Lindsey gave a small smile.
“Good.”
Y/N went back to her desk and sat down. Her life now consisted of several layers that existed simultaneously: her permanent job at Alpine, the Thomas collection taking shape, the studio in Bushwick, Bucky, Léa preparing for her internship at Amira, and Mila and her sketchbooks. It all seemed to hold together, fragile and solid at the same time. That Wednesday evening, Bucky turned up at the studio without really giving any warning. He’d sent a message at five o’clock:
I’ll pop round tonight.
All right .
He arrived at seven o’clock with two coffees and a different look in his eyes. Y/N sensed it straight away.
“What’s going on?” she asked, putting down her needle.
Bucky set the coffees on the table and moved closer to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and massaged them gently.
“Nothing serious. But I wanted to tell you in person. Nathalie, an investor on the board, spoke up this morning. She says the Thomas collection creates a potential conflict of interest with Alpine.”
Y/N tensed slightly.
“The same argument as Hale?”
“Almost. Framed differently to avoid Hale’s mistakes. She’s done her homework.”
Y/N glanced at the wall of sketches, then at the dress hanging on its hanger.
“Does Amira know?”
“I rang her this morning. She reckons the argument doesn’t hold water legally. The partnership is above board; apparently, she can prove it in twelve minutes.”
Y/N let out a small, somewhat dry laugh.
“Just like with Hale.”
“Yeah.”
Bucky stayed close to her, his hands still resting on her shoulders. He said nothing more, but his mere presence was enough. He moved a little closer, as he always did when he sensed she needed him.
“Will you let me know straight away, as soon as it happens?”
“Yes. Not in the evening. Right away. I called Amira this morning and sent you a message at five o’clock.”
Y/N turned towards him, resting her forehead against his chest.
“That’s good. Keep it up.”
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her gently.
“I will. I don’t want you to carry this burden alone.”
They stayed like that for a while. Then Y/N picked up her needle again. Bucky settled down on the windowsill in the middle of the room, his coffee in hand. He wasn’t disturbing her, but he was there, just in the same room.After a moment, she murmured:
“The presentation in June. Nathalie’s going to say it’s just marketing for Alpine.”
“Probably.”
“And Amira will reply that Thomas is an independent brand with his own contract.”
Bucky smiled slightly.
“In twelve minutes. Less if she’s in a good mood.”
Y/N continued sewing in silence for a few minutes. Outside, Bushwick was living its March night: the sound of cars, someone honking in the distance, the smell of food wafting from a restaurant.
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“There’s a place down the street that does sandwiches until nine. It’s good.”
On Thursday evening, Léa sent her final comments to Amira. Five pages she’d been working on for two weeks. When she came out of her room, she had that calm look of someone who’d just done something important without making a big deal of it. Y/N was on the sofa with her sketches for June.
“I’ve sent the document to Amira,” said Léa.
“The five pages?”
“Yes. I started over three times.”
Y/N put down her papers.
“Why three times?”
Léa shrugged slightly.
“The first two versions analysed what Amira wanted me to see. The third… it analysed what was really there.”
Y/N looked at her for a long time.
“That’s the difference you’ve learnt.”
“Yes. What we think we see versus what’s really there. It’s a bit like Muybridge.”
Y/N smiled.
“Yes. It’s Muybridge.”
Later that evening, Y/N’s phone vibrated. Amira.
“Léa has just sent her observations. She’s spotted things that third-year interns miss. I wanted you to know.”
Y/N went and knocked on Lea’s door.
“Come in.”
Lea was at her desk, George’s book open in front of her.
“Amira texted me. She says you’ve spotted things that third-year interns miss.”
Lea was silent for a few seconds. Something flashed across her face – not loud pride, but a quiet confirmation of something she’d been hoping for.
“Right,” she said simply.
Y/N smiled.
“Okay, is that all?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. I just wanted you to know.”
Léa nodded and went back to her notes. Before leaving, Y/N added:
“You started over three times.” “The third time was the charm.”
“Yes.”
Y/N closed the door gently and went back to the living room. She sent a message to Bucky.
Amira has written to Léa. She says her observations are at the level of third-year trainees.
Bucky replied quickly.
I know. Amira sent me a message too. She says Léa has the perspective she’s been looking for for ten years.
The look?
Seeing what’s really there rather than what you expect. It’s rare, according to her.
Y/N smiled in the dark.
It’s Muybridge.
Yes. It’s Muybridge.
The next morning, at breakfast, Mila laid her schedule on the table with that serious expression she wore for important matters.
“I have a proposal.”
Y/N took a sip of coffee.
“Tell me. ”
“For Thomas’s presentation in June. I want to do a drawing. Not the horse lying on its side. Something new. A horse at a standstill. A resting position. Ears slightly back. It’s watching something we can’t see. Like the inner seams. We know it’s there, even if we can’t see it.” Y/N set down her cup slowly. “That’s right. Absolutely right.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“I need six weeks for a drawing of this quality. It’s March now. That’s plenty of time for June.”
Lea walked into the kitchen just then.
“Has Mila suggested anything?”
Y/N smiled.
“A drawing for the presentation. A horse watching over something we can’t see.”
Léa looked at Mila.
“That’s good.”
Mila drank her orange juice.
“I know. But thanks for saying so.”
On Thursday morning, George replied to Mila. It wasn’t just a quick note: four detailed paragraphs, written in his usual concise style. He answered all her questions about Muybridge, corrected a small error regarding the zoopraxiscope with a precise source, and finished by saying he was available for any further questions about the machines.Mila read the email three times in her room, then went into the kitchen where Y/N was finishing his coffee before heading off to the office.
“Bucky’s dad has replied,” she announced.
Y/N looked up.
“I know. Bucky told me.”
“He’s corrected a mistake in my notes. ”
“That’s good. It shows he takes your work seriously.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“I’ll reply to him tonight. I’ve got seven questions about the machines. I’ve read the notebook he gave me. The notes in the margins raise quite a few points.”
Y/N put down her cup and watched her little sister. Mila was growing up so fast. She was immersing herself in this world – the horses, the drawings, George with a calm, serious intensity that touched Y/N deeply.
“Seven questions?”
“Yes. Very specific ones.”
Y/N grabbed her bag with a smile.
“George is going to love this. He’s mad about specific questions.”
In the Alpine lift, she sent a message to Bucky.
Mila has seven questions about the machines for your dad.
The reply came almost instantly.
I know. He texted me this morning; he was eagerly awaiting his answer.
He was waiting?
Yeah. He said his questions about Muybridge were really sharp and he was hoping for the same with the machines.
Y/N smiled in the lift. George and Mila were going to build something together, through patient emails and precise questions. Nobody had planned anything. That’s why it was so beautiful.
On Friday evening, Bucky arrived with something under his arm. Not pancakes, not coffee. A large-format book with a plain cover: American Industrial Photography 1880–1920. He placed it on the kitchen table without a word. Mila, who was walking down the hallway, stopped dead in her tracks.
“Is this for me?”
Bucky nodded.
“It’s for the Term Nine bibliography. There are photos of machines and workhorses.”
Mila took the book in both hands, turned it over, read the spine, then opened it in the middle. She turned the pages in silence, her eyes shining.
“They’re both in it,” she murmured.
“Yes. It was a time of transition. Machines were starting to replace horses in industry.”
Mila closed the book carefully.
“He'll find that interesting.”
Bucky smiled gently.
“I know. That’s why I bought two copies. One for you. One for him.”
Mila looked up, surprised.
“You thought of your dad when you bought this book.”
“Yes.”
Mila was silent for a moment, then simply said,
“That’s nice.”
She went into her room, clutching the book to her chest. Léa came out of the kitchen with her coffee and looked at Bucky.
“You’ve bought two copies of the same book, one for a ten-year-old girl and one for your sixty-year-old father.”
Bucky shrugged slightly.
“They’re asking the same questions.”
Léa took a sip of coffee.
“Yes. That’s true.”
Y/N, from the hallway, watched the scene. She approached Bucky, stood on tiptoe and kissed him briefly, but tenderly.
“That’s thoughtful,” she murmured.
He placed a hand on her back.
“It makes sense.”
Y/N smiled against his lips.
“It’s both.”
He laughed softly, that low laugh that vibrated in his chest, and kissed her again, more slowly this time. Lea went back into the kitchen, muttering that she hadn’t heard a thing.
On Saturday morning, Y/N got up at seven o’clock. Not to go to the studio this time. She made some coffee, sat down at the kitchen table with a new sketchbook and her sketches, and thought of Thomas, her father, and the coat she’d promised George Barnes. She opened the sketchbook to a blank page and wrote at the top: George Barnes’s coat. Then she began to draw. Not a quick sketch. A proper drawing. She thought of George: his economical way of holding himself, that quiet precision with which he occupied space without ever taking up too much of it. She thought of the way he walked in the garden with his empty teacup, of the hands he put in his pockets when he was thinking. A sturdy coat.
Buttons made of natural Lisbon horn that would develop a beautiful patina over time. And, of course, flawless interior stitching. Mila came in at 7.42 with her timetable. She stopped when she saw Y/N bent over the notebook.
“You’re drawing.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“George’s coat.”
Mila put down her timetable and stepped closer. She looked at the sketch in silence for a few seconds, with that characteristic, meticulous attention of hers.
“The pockets are deep.”
“He puts his hands in his pockets when he’s thinking.”
Mila nodded.
“I know. I’ve documented it.”
Y/N looked up, amused and touched.
“You’ve documented how George puts his hands in his pockets?”
“I’ve documented the usual behaviours of every member of the Barnes family. It’s in my notebook from session seven.”
Y/N looked at her little sister and felt a wave of quiet love wash over her. Mila did things her own way: serious, precise, wholehearted.
“Do you want to look at the sketch with me?”
“Yes.”
They worked together for an hour. Y/N drew, whilst Mila asked specific questions about proportions and materials. At one point, Mila pointed to the collar.
“George always tucks his jacket collar in when he goes out into the garden. A high collar would be more practical for him.”
Y/N altered the collar on the drawing.
“Better,” said Mila.
“Thank you.”
Mila shrugged.
“It makes sense to consult the people who have the information.”
Saturday morning continued in this way, calm and gentle, in the Park Slope kitchen. George Barnes’s coat was taking shape page by page, thanks to Mila’s precise questions and Y/N’s quiet memories of her father. Later that day, Bucky arrived at the flat. He found Y/N still poring over her sketches. He approached silently, placed his hands on her shoulders and massaged them gently.
“You’ve been working for a long time.”
“A little.”
He leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck.
“Your hands are cold.”
Before she could reply, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Then he went to make her a cup of hot tea without asking. Y/N watched him, her heart full.
“My love… you do this all the time.”
He returned with the cup and set it down in front of her before she even reached out.
“Because I can tell when you need something. And I want you to keep creating without tiring yourself out too much.”
He sat down beside her, close by, his thigh against hers. Together they looked at the sketch of the coat.
“My father’s going to love it,” he said softly.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. Because you made it for him. Not to impress anyone. For him.”
Y/N rested her head against his shoulder.
“Thank you for being here. In the same room. Even when you don’t say anything.”
Bucky slipped an arm around her waist and held her gently close.
“This is where I belong now.”
On the last Saturday in April, Y/N finished George’s coat. She was alone in the workshop all morning, the windows open to the distant sounds of Bushwick. The finishing touches were long and meticulous: perfect hems, neat buttonholes, and the natural horn buttons from Lisbon – model four – sewn on one by one, with the care her father had taught her. When the last button was in place, she laid the coat on the table and looked at it for a long time. Then she turned it over. The inside seams were impeccable, invisible from the outside, yet sturdy, made to last. A memory flashed through her mind: her father, one Friday evening, finishing a coat and folding it carefully before leaving it to rest overnight, as if it too deserved a rest. She picked up her phone.
Your father’s coat is finished.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I’ll tell him tonight.
Wait.
Why?
I want to give it to him myself.
All right. When?
The next time we visit Staten Island.
My father’s going to say it’s too much.
And he’ll accept it anyway. Because things done for the right people deserve to be accepted.
You’re the one who said that.
It’s both of us.
She folded the coat carefully, using the method her father had taught her: fabric against fabric, without any creases. She slipped it into the cloth bag she had prepared, with a small label sewn inside on which she had simply written: Thomas. Then she took a photo of the folded coat and sent it to the discreet folder on her phone where she kept a few pictures of her father. She added a silent message:
This is for someone who does things properly.
She switched off the lights in the workshop and walked down the three flights of stairs. It was a mild April evening, almost warm. With her coat bag under her arm, she walked to the underground, thinking that certain things were passed on in this way: through invisible seams, through silent gestures, through coats made to last. The following Tuesday, the buttons from Lisbon arrived. Twenty pieces of each style in a carefully packed cardboard box, accompanied by a handwritten note from the supplier in Portuguese, which Camila translated at lunchtime.
The horn this season is exceptional. These buttons will age beautifully. Take your time choosing.
That evening, Y/N placed the four models on the large table in the studio. She held them up one by one to the light streaming through the middle window. The fourth was the obvious choice: the one that would take on a golden patina over time, the one that would carry the memory of the person wearing it. She photographed the four models and sent the photo to Sofia and Camila. Sofia replied in eight minutes:
The fourth.
Camille replied in eleven minutes:
The fourth. The golden patina goes perfectly with the bamboo silk and Williamsburg linen.
Y/N then sent the photo to Mila. The reply came in four minutes:
The fourth one. The other three are fine, but this one changes with time, just like the important things.
Y/N smiled. That was exactly what she’d thought. She called Bucky.
“Sweetheart.The Lisbon buttons are here. I’ve chosen.The fourth one.”
She laughed softly.
“How do you know?”
“Because Mila sent me the photo with a red arrow and a note: ‘This one changes over time, just like the important things.’”
“Does she annotate photos now?”
“For the last two weeks. She discovered the feature on her phone.”
Y/N laughs more heartily this time.
“The supplier said to take your time choosing.”
“How long did you take?”
“Thirty seconds.”
“That’s enough when it’s obvious.”
“Yes, my love. That’s enough.”
She put her phone down, took out her notebook and jotted down: Buttons – natural Lisbon horn, model four, develops a golden patina over time. Just like the important things. The following week, Mila began the final drawing. Y/N knew this because her little sister came out of her room one Thursday evening with a detailed sketch and placed it on the kitchen table without a word. Not the finished drawing, but a very advanced version: the horse at a standstill, ears slightly back, the right foreleg adjusted by two millimetres according to George’s comments. Y/N looked at the sketch for a long time.
“When are you starting?”
“This weekend. I need steady light. In the morning between ten and noon, the light in my room is constant.”
Léa walked past in the hallway. “She’s studied the light in her room.”
Mila shrugged.
“It makes sense to optimise your working conditions.”
Y/N smiled.
“That’s good, Mila. Really good.”
Mila was silent for a moment, then added,
“It’s good to hear that.”
Lea called out from the hallway,
“She said thank you before we even asked her to.”
Mila smiled slightly.
“I’m learning.”
Later that evening, Y/N’s phone vibrated. A message from George , rare and to the point.
Good evening. Mila sent me the final sketch this morning. The right front leg is spot on. Tell her that the position of the ears is the hardest part to get right, and she’s nailed it.
Y/N went into Mila’s room.
“George’s sent you a message. ”
“I know. He sent it to me too.”
“He sent one to me as well. Just to make sure the message got through.”
Mila nodded.
“He says the position of the ears is the hardest part.”
Y/N leaned against the doorframe.
“And?”
“And it’s important. The ears reveal the state of mind. If the state of mind is right, everything else is right.”
Y/N was silent for a moment, watching her little sister, who was almost eleven, so naturally linking a horse’s ears to the philosophy of a fashion collection.
“I’m proud of you.”
Mila looked up.
“I know.”
Then, after two seconds:
“Thank you.”
On Friday evening, Bucky arrived with a small wooden box. Mila spotted it straight away.
“What’s that?”
“Buttons.”
Mila opened the box. Twenty antique buttons made of natural horn, with that distinctive patina of objects that have been worn for a long time.
“They’re old,” she said.
“Yes. They came from my grandfather’s coat. He wore it for thirty years. I wanted you to see what the patina really looks like over time.”
Y/N took a button in her hand. It felt pleasantly heavy, steeped in history.
“How did he wear it?” she asked.
“In winter, to go to work. My father says he wore it for thirty years without ever complaining.”
Mila closed the box carefully.
“Thirty years—that’s a well-made garment.”
Bucky nodded.
“Yes. Just like Thomas will be.”
Y/N looked at Bucky over the table.
“Thank you. That’s so thoughtful.”
He smiled gently.
“It makes sense.”
Mila, from her notebook, murmured,
“It’s both. ”
Lea, from her bedroom, said without raising her voice,
“We both know what’s going on here.”
Mila replied without hesitation,
“We’re watching.”
Lea laughed softly.
“It’s the same thing.”
Y/N sipped her coffee with a smile. Bucky took a sip of his. The Park Slope kitchen went about its usual Friday evening, yet filled with something warm and genuine. The next day, Y/N carried each item into the studio on her own. She had waited until Bucky was at a late meeting, Mila was at a friend’s house, and Léa was at the library. Some things were best done in complete silence. She started with the merino wool jacket. She slipped it on and moved naturally: she walked over to the shelves, sat on the windowsill, raised her arms. The sleeves fit perfectly. The deep pockets were exactly where they should be. Then came the raw linen trousers from Williamsburg. The fabric had body but was breathable. It moved with every gesture without resistance. Next came the signature dress. The bamboo silk glided over her skin. The visible seam at the shoulder said everything it needed to say. Y/N stood in front of the mirror for a long time.
“This is for you,” she whispered softly in the empty workshop, thinking of her father.
Finally, the coat. The structure was already in place. She slipped it on and turned the sleeves up one by one. The inside seams were perfect. She hung all the pieces back on the back wall and sat down at the large table, her hands flat on the wood.
“They’re good,” she murmured to herself. “Really good.”
She sent a message to Bucky.
I’ve just tried on all four pieces. They look good. Really good.
He replied from his meeting:
And?
They drape nicely on the body.
I know.
How do you know? You haven’t tried them on.
I know because you told me. And because you text me about the important things.
Y/N smiled in the empty workshop.
The inside seams of the coat are perfect.
Your father would have known that by turning the sleeve inside out.
Yes.
That’s enough.
That’s enough.
She put down the phone and stayed there a while longer, surrounded by Thomas on the wall and the light that was slowly fading. Her father was there, in every stitch, in every silence.
SWIPE TO YOU UPDATE
🦾 [Writing: 40/40 Chapters Finished | Posting: Ch. 16/40] 🦾
— A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR —
I have some exciting news to share regarding Swipe to You! Behind the scenes, the story is officially finished. 🥳
While you guys are currently at Chapter 16, rest assured that the remaining journey is already written and waiting for you. Since my hands are finally free to start something new, I need your help to choose our next journey.
WHAT’S NEXT? CHOOSE THE NEXT TROPE:
Option 01: The "Sweet Life" 💸
Sugar Daddy!Bucky x Sugar Baby!Reader
Luxury, pining, and the moment business turns into real feelings.
Option 02: The "Hollywood Romance" 🎬
Actor!Bucky x Single Mother!Reader
Secret dates, protective Bucky, and heart-melting domestic fluff.
Option 03: The "College Rivals" ⚾️🩺
Athlete!Bucky x Pre-Med!Reader
Varsity jackets, study sessions, and rivals-to-lovers academic tension.
Cast your vote in the poll below! 👇
I’m already spiraling into these new ideas, so I'm leaving my fate in your hands!
⚠️ WARNING (18+) : This chapter contains explicit sexual content (smut). It also depicts unprotected sex.
Disclaimer: Please remember that this is a work of fiction. In real life, the use of protection is essential to prevent STIs and unplanned pregnancies. Always prioritize your health and safety by having honest conversations with your partners. Be safe and responsible! 🔞
Paring : female! reader x CEO! Bucky Barnes
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +8.7k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics. Unprotected explicit smut.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
The cold had been creeping under people’s coats for several days already, but on that Tuesday morning, it seemed even more biting within the walls of Alpine.
Y/N was hunched over her screen when a figure strode across the open-plan office with quiet confidence. A tall woman with short, straight black hair set her bag down on the desk at the far end. She greeted everyone by their first name, with a brief but sincere smile. Y/N frowned slightly. Something about this woman seemed familiar to her, though she couldn’t say why. She didn’t have time to wonder for long. Sofia walked past her desk without slowing down, simply saying, in a neutral tone:
“Camila is back.”
Y/N looked up.
“Who’s Camila?”
Sofia stopped short, as if only now realising how awkward her announcement had been. She turned to face her, a slightly embarrassed look on her face.
“Camila Reyes. She was the creative director here before she left for Milan eighteen months ago. She’s coming back to the team.”
Y/N felt a subtle tightening in her chest. The words “creative director” resonated louder than they should have. She repeated, almost to herself:
“Bucky didn’t tell me.”
Sofia hesitated for a second, then shrugged slightly.
“He was probably planning to. I… I perhaps shouldn’t have just blurted that out like that.”
She headed back towards the design area without adding another word. Y/N stood motionless for a moment, her eyes fixed on her screen without really seeing it.
Camila Reyes. Milan. Eighteen months. Creative Director. The information was piecing itself together in her head, slowly, like a jigsaw puzzle that was taking a bit too long. She grabbed her phone, her fingers stiffer than usual.
Camila Reyes is here.
Bucky’s reply came in under two minutes, as if he’d been waiting by the screen.
I meant to tell you this morning. She’s been in Milan for eighteen months and she’s coming back to the creative team. I’ll tell you all about it tonight, I promise.
Y/N reread the message several times. The ‘I promise’ made her pause, as if he were already trying to fill a void that hadn’t yet been created. She simply typed:
All righ .
Then she put her phone down and forced herself to get back to work, even though the lines on the screen were dancing a little. Around eleven o’clock, there was a soft knock at her office door. Y/N looked up. Camila was there, one shoulder against the wood, her gaze direct but not hostile.
“Y/N, is that you? It’s Camila.”
“I know. Hello.”
Camila looked at her for a moment, as if she were really taking the time to see her.
“You did well with the Hale case. It wasn’t easy.”
Y/N shrugged slightly.
“It was mostly Amira who did the work. I just stood my ground.”
“Exactly. Standing your ground when everyone else is pushing in the opposite direction is no mean feat.”
A brief silence fell. Y/N felt her stomach knot slightly as Camila added, with the same calm frankness:
“I’ve heard about Thomas. What you’re doing is right.The inner seams as a signature… that’s clever. And brave.”
Y/N tightened her grip on her pen imperceptibly.
“How did you find out about Thomas?”
“Bucky told me this morning.”
The words fell like a small stone into calm water. Bucky had spoken to her about Thomas this morning. Even before she’d sent him the message. Y/N kept a neutral expression, but something warm and unpleasant stirred in her chest. She didn’t reply straight away. Camila seemed to sense the unease and changed the subject slightly.
“We should have lunch together one of these days, if you fancy.”
“Maybe,” replied Y/N, without committing herself.
Camila nodded, a light, carefree smile playing on her lips, then headed back towards the creative space with that confident stride that seemed to suggest she knew every nook and cranny of that floor. Y/N stood there for a long time, staring at the empty frame. The words kept going round and round in her head:
‘Bucky told me about it this morning.’
Why did this information stick in her throat?
She wasn’t naive. She knew Bucky had had a life before her. But the idea that he’d spoken of Thomas, of her most intimate project, to this woman she hadn’t even met an hour earlier… it made a strange noise in her chest. She picked up her phone again.
You mentioned Thomas to Camila this morning.
The reply came quickly, almost too quickly.
Yes.
She’s part of the creative team now. She was bound to come across the collection. I wanted her to know before she saw the sketches. We’ll talk about it tonight?
Y/N stared at the words for a long moment. She simply typed:
OK.
Then, after a moment’s hesitation:
Y/N...
Tonight.
She put the phone down and got back to work until six o’clock, without looking up any more than necessary. But the weight was there, subtle yet persistent, like a poorly ironed seam that pulls slightly at the fabric. When she finally came downstairs, Bucky was waiting for her at the bottom, leaning against his car as usual. The January chill had turned the tip of his nose slightly red. As soon as she approached, he stood up and opened the passenger door without a word. She got in. The silence that settled between them was not the same as usual. It was thicker, laden with a conversation that had not yet taken place. Bucky set off. His hands were steady on the steering wheel, but she knew him well enough by now to notice the slight tension in his shoulders.
After a few minutes, he finally spoke, in a low, calm voice.
“Camila and I… we had a thing. Three years ago. Before she left for Milan.”
Y/N stared straight ahead, the lights of Brooklyn gliding across the windscreen. She didn’t reply straight away. Bucky continued, still with that quiet gentleness that was so characteristic of him.
“It’s been over for a long time. We split up before she left. She went off to pursue her career, and I… I stayed here. I wanted to tell you myself before anyone else did.”
She felt her throat tighten slightly.
“Sofia almost did this morning.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before today?”
He took a slow breath.
“I found out last night that she was coming back on Monday. I was trying to find the right way to tell you. I didn’t want you to find out by chance.”
Y/N turned her head slightly towards him. Her profile was calm, but she could see the way her fingers were gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.
“You were afraid of my reaction.”
“I was afraid you’d imagine something that no longer exists.”
“And what could I possibly have imagined, Bucky?”
He paused for a moment, then replied with that raw honesty she both loved and feared:
“That it would change anything between us.”
The bridge came into view between two buildings, its yellow lights reflecting off the East River. Y/N watched the reflections dance for a moment before asking:
“Does it change anything?”
“No.”
“For you?”
“No. It’s been over for three years. Really over.”
She nodded slowly. The silence returned, gentler this time, but still heavy.
She thought of Camila, of her calm, confident presence, of that direct gaze that seemed to assess everything without judgement. She thought of Bucky, who had spoken to that woman about Thomas before he’d even mentioned it to her. A sharp, unexpected pang shot through her chest. Not anger. Something more murky.
Jealousy, perhaps.
Or simply the sudden realisation that Bucky’s past had a face, a name, and that it had just reappeared in their daily lives. She slid her hand over the gear lever and covered his. Bucky turned his head slightly, taken aback by the gesture. His blue eyes met hers for a second, filled with silent gratitude.
“It’s sorted now,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“But next time, just tell me straight out. Don’t worry about finding the right way.”
“I promise.”
She gently squeezed his fingers.
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“Yes, I do. Because you trust me even when it’s uncomfortable.”
They drove on for a while longer through the New York evening. The car’s heating radiated a gentle warmth against her legs. Y/N watched the streets roll by, her heart a little unsettled, but Bucky’s hand beneath hers kept her grounded. When he parked outside her house, he turned off the engine but didn’t move straight away. She leaned towards him and kissed him, a brief, genuine kiss, almost as if to seal something. Then she stepped out into the cold.
Her phone vibrated as she was on the stairs.
Back home?
She smiled despite herself.
On the stairs.
Goodnight, sweetheart. And thank you.
Goodnight. Next time, just say so straight away.
She climbed the last few steps, thinking of Camila Reyes, of that woman who seemed so at ease in the corridors of Alpine, and of the way Bucky had draped his jacket over her shoulders without her having to ask, two days earlier, when she’d simply shivered in the office. That was just how he was.
Attentive.
Gentle.
And yet, tonight, a small crack had opened in her chest, tiny, but very real. She went inside, put down her bag, and told herself she would have to learn to live with this new presence in their lives. Camila wasn’t a threat. Not really. But she was there. And that was enough to stir something unexpected within her.
The next day, the January chill seemed to have seeped right into the city’s very bones. Y/N was working at her desk when her phone vibrated. Camila had invited her to lunch the following Thursday at a small Italian restaurant near Alpine, a place she seemed to know like the back of her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Y/N accepted. Not because she was particularly keen, but because she refused to let that shadow grow in silence. Thursday arrived with a low, grey sky. The restaurant was quiet; a table at the back had been reserved by Camila. She arrived slightly late, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her black bob impeccably in place. She ordered a black coffee and a light salad, like someone eating out of necessity rather than pleasure. Y/N chose the dish of the day, something hot that was steaming on the plate. Camila didn’t beat about the bush. As soon as the drinks were served, she rested her elbows on the table and looked Y/N straight in the eye.
“I’ll be blunt. Bucky and I have been over for three years. It’s really over. You can ask me whatever you like.”
Y/N slowly stirred her fork in her plate.
“I’m not going to ask you about Bucky.”
Camila raised an eyebrow, surprised.
“Why?”
“Because that’s not my style. What happened between you is in the past.”
A brief silence fell. Camila took a sip of coffee, looking as though she were re-evaluating the woman sitting opposite her.
“All right. But you do have a question, I can tell.”
Y/N looked up.
“What was it like coming back here after Milan?”
Camila set her cup down with a small smile.
“The first few hours were tough. After that… it was Alpine. The place where I really feel useful. In Milan, everything was beautiful, expensive, spectacular. But the clothes were made to be looked at, not really worn. I realised that wasn’t enough for me anymore.”
Y/N immediately thought of the inner seams, of that philosophy her father had passed on to her and which she tried to bring to life in every piece Thomas created. She ate a few mouthfuls in silence before continuing:
“You could have a look at Thomas’s sketches, if you like. Not in an official capacity.Just… tell me what you see. No holds barred.”
Camila stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to understand the real motivations behind this proposal.
“Why are you suggesting this?”
“Because you looked at the sketch Sofia showed you and said it was just right. Not good, not interesting. Just right. That’s rare.”
Camila nodded slowly.
“All right. I’ll look and tell you what I see. No holds barred.”
They finished their lunch in a lighter, almost professional atmosphere. Out on the street, just before parting ways, Camila slipped her hands into the pockets of her coat.
“Bucky doesn’t know you offered me that, does he?”
“No.” “Are you going to tell him?”
“Tonight.”
Camila smiled slightly.
“Good.”
She walked back towards Alpine with her confident stride, leaving Y/N alone on the cold pavement.
The wind whipped up tiny, dry snowflakes that stung her cheeks. Y/N stood still for a moment, her hands clasped around her bag. She wasn’t yet sure whether she’d just shown maturity or a strange form of masochism. That evening, Bucky came to pick her up as usual. The car was warm, the radio playing an old jazz tune softly in the background. As soon as she got in, Y/N felt his gaze on her, attentive, almost anxious.
“I asked Camila to look at Thomas’s sketches,” she said without waiting.
Bucky didn’t reply straight away. He set off, the lights of Brooklyn gliding across his face.
“Did she agree?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly, his hands steady on the steering wheel.
“It’s your choice.”
“I know. And I think it’s the right one.”
He was silent for a moment, then murmured,
“That’s brave.”
Y/N turned her head towards him.
“Brave how?”
“To invite someone who might complicate things in what matters most to you.”
“The situation isn’t complicated, Bucky.”
“I know. That’s why it’s brave.”
She felt a gentle warmth spread through her chest, despite the lingering twinge. That was Bucky for you: he always saw beyond words. He rested his right hand on her thigh for a moment, a simple, possessive gesture without any heaviness. She wrapped her fingers around his.
“And you? How do you feel about all this? Camila coming back, me having lunch with her, suggesting she get closer to Thomas…”
Bucky took a deep breath.
“It could have been difficult. It isn’t really. And it’s teaching me something.”
“What?”
“That the things we dread before they happen are rarely as heavy as we imagine.”
Y/N squeezed his hand tighter. The car rolled gently through the streets of Bushwick. The cold outside contrasted with the warmth between them. Yet, deep inside her, a small flame continued to burn: the image of Camila talking about Thomas with Bucky that morning refused to fade completely.
Over the next few days, the Bushwick studio became her sanctuary. The shelves that Bucky had had fitted without her even having to ask were perfect, exactly as per the detailed plan Mila had sent. Every evening, after work, Y/N would climb the three flights of stairs, set her bag down on the large solid-wood table and let her hands sink into the fabrics. The bamboo silk caught the light from the middle window with an iridescent softness. The raw linen from Williamsburg had that rough, honest texture she loved so much. One evening, Bucky arrived with two hot coffees, the steam rising into the cold air of the workshop. He stood near the door at first, always respecting this space that was hers.
“Come in,” she said softly.
He approached, set a coffee down beside her and looked at the sketches spread out on the table without touching them. His eyes kept returning to her, as if he were truly seeing her amidst all that work.
“You’re at home here,” he murmured.
“Yes. It’s a place I’ve chosen for myself.” He nodded.
His hand brushed against her shoulder, lingering there a little longer than necessary. That simple touch stirred a familiar warmth in Y/N’s stomach. She loved the way he was there without being intrusive, present without weighing her down.
“Camila sent you some notes,” he said after a moment. “Seven pages.”
Bucky raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Seven pages?”
“Mainly on the jacket sleeves. She’s right. There was a tension that would have become apparent after a few washes.”
He smiled gently, that tender, proud expression he reserved solely for her.
“Are you going to fix it?”
“I’ve already contacted the supplier she mentioned in Florence.”
He stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders with infinite gentleness. He slowly massaged her tense muscles, strained from the hours spent hunched over the table. Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of his palms seep through her jumper.
“You’re working too hard,” he murmured against her hair.
Those words, spoken in that low, husky voice, always had the same effect on her: a gentle tightening in the pit of her stomach, followed by an almost painful longing to be even closer to him.
Later that evening, as he walked her home, he insisted on running her a hot bath. Whilst she was relaxing in the scented water, he quietly tidied away the things she’d left lying about in the living room, made her a cup of herbal tea and brought her a warm towel. When she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in her bathrobe, he drew her towards him without a word. His arms wrapped around her with that quiet, protective strength. He pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there as if he wanted to absorb all her weariness.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “For everything you’re building. For the way you hold on, even when it’s hard.”
Y/N buried her face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Yet, deep in her mind, the image of Camila lingered. That beautiful, capable woman who had shared Bucky’s intimacy for months. Who probably knew by heart the way he kissed, the way his hands glided over her skin… A sharp pang of jealousy, burning and unexpected, pierced her stomach. She tightened her arms around his waist. Bucky felt the change in her embrace. He stepped back slightly to look at her, his blue eyes seeking hers with that deep attention that always made her feel truly seen.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
She hesitated, then shook her head.
“Nothing. Just… tired.”
He didn’t press her, but his hands remained on her, slowly stroking her back. That night, he slept at her place. Lying against him in the dark, Y/N listened to his calm, steady breathing. His body was warm, solid, reassuring. Yet jealousy continued to simmer within her, like a poorly finished seam pulling at the fabric. She didn’t yet know that this small flame would grow until it exploded a few weeks later, at a time when she would need him more than ever.Bucky’s thumb had barely touched her cheek when Y/N pulled away sharply, as if his gentleness burned her.
“Don’t,” she said, voice already trembling with anger. “Don’t do that sweet thing right now please.”
He froze.
“Y/N…”
“No.”
She stood up, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
“I said it was OK, but actually it wasn't!You told Camila about Thomas. Before me. Before the woman who’s actually building this fucking collection with her blood and soul.”
Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to stay calm.
“It was professional. She was going to see the sketches anyway—”“Bullshit!”
Y/N snapped. Her voice cracked through the quiet apartment like a whip.
“You spoke to your ex about my most intimate project before even thinking of telling me she was coming back! Do you have any idea how that feels?!”She was shaking now.“I had to hear it from Sofia. Sofia! Like I’m some colleague, some nobody in your life. And then Camila walks in, all tall and confident and fucking perfect, calling you by your name like she still has rights to it.”
Bucky stood up too, jaw tight.
“It's the past.. Three. We ended things before she left for Milan. There is nothing left.”
“Nothing?”
She let out a bitter laugh, tears burning her eyes.
“Then why did it look like she still knows you better than I do? Why did you feel the need to warn her about Thomas like you’re protecting her from my mess? Am I the problem now? The complicated one?”
Her voice rose, raw and hurt.
“I trusted you! But every hour that passed I kept imagining you two this morning, laughing, talking about my work like it was some casual office gossip. She had you first, Bucky. She had your hands, your mouth, your body, your mornings… and now she’s back in our fucking building like nothing happened!”
Bucky stepped closer, voice low but strained.
“You’re spiraling. I chose you. I’m with you every single day. I sleep in your bed. I—”
“And yet you hid her return!” she shouted, tears finally spilling. “You were scared of my reaction? Good! Because right now I’m furious! I feel stupid and small and so goddamn jealous it makes me sick!”
She wiped her face angrily, breathing hard.
“I hate this feeling. I hate imagining you inside her. I hate knowing she knows exactly how you sound when you come. I hate that she can look at you and remember every single time you fucked her while I’m still trying to learn how to be enough for you!”
The words hung heavy between them.Bucky’s eyes flashed. His calm was cracking.
“Enough. You are more than enough. Stop comparing yourself to a ghost.”
“She’s not a ghost anymore! She’s in the office every day! Smiling at you, touching your arm like it’s natural, talking about Milan like you two shared this whole sophisticated chapter I’ll never be part of!”
She was almost yelling now, voice breaking.
“I built Thomas. From pain. From my father’s death. And you just… handed pieces of it to her first. Like my vulnerability is something you can casually share with your ex. Do you know how betrayed I feel?!”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, breathing harder.
“I fucked up the timing. I admit that. But you’re acting like I’m still in love with her. I’m not. It’s you. It’s always been you since the moment you walked into my life.”
Y/N stared at him, chest heaving, tears streaming down her face.
“Then prove it,” she whispered, voice suddenly dangerous and low. “Because right now I feel like I’m competing with a woman who already knows every inch of you. And I hate you a little for making me feel this way.”
The silence was deafening.Bucky’s eyes darkened, something shifting in his expression — a mix of anger, frustration, and a raw, heavy desire.
“You want me to prove it?” His voice dropped, rough and almost menacing. “Careful what you ask for, sweetheart.”
Y/N didn’t back down. She stepped closer, eyes wet but burning with jealousy and need.
“Then do it,” she breathed, voice shaking. “Prove that I’m the only one.”
Bucky’s eyes had gone dangerously dark.He moved fast.His hand shot out, grabbing the back of her neck and pulling her into a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. Teeth clashed, tongues fought, and the groan that left his throat was low and angry. He walked her backwards until her back hit the wall with a thud.“You want proof?” he growled against her mouth, biting her bottom lip hard enough to make her whimper.
“You want me to fuck the jealousy out of you?”
Y/N’s breath hitched. Her hands fisted in his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
“Yes,” she whispered, voice shaking with both fear and arousal. “I need it.”
Bucky didn’t hesitate.He spun her around, pressing her front against the wall, chest to her back. His hands were rough as he yanked her bathrobe open, letting it fall to the floor. The cool air hit her naked skin and she shivered. One large hand slid between her legs from behind, two fingers pushing inside her without warning.“Already so wet,” he muttered against her ear, voice.
“All that fighting got you this soaked?”She moaned, forehead pressed to the wall.
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at how easily her body responded, but she couldn’t stop her hips from pushing back against his hand.
“Bucky…”
“Say it,” he demanded, curling his fingers hard inside her. “Tell me why you’re dripping like this.”
“Because… because I’m jealous,” she admitted, voice small and breathless. “I hate that she had you… I hate it so much…”
A third finger joined the first two, stretching her. She cried out, legs trembling. Bucky’s other hand gripped her hip hard enough to leave marks, holding her in place while he fucked her with his fingers, fast and deep.
“No one else gets this anymore,” he growled. “This pussy is mine. Only mine.”
He pulled his fingers out suddenly, making her whine at the loss. In one movement he turned her around, lifted her up and carried her to the bed. He threw her down on her back, towering over her as he ripped his own shirt off. His belt followed, then his pants. His cock was hard, thick, flushed dark with need.Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of her usual shyness returning. Even after all this time, the sheer size of him still made her bite her lip.Bucky noticed. He climbed over her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.
He spread her legs wide with his knees and pushed inside her in one brutal thrust.Y/N cried out, back arching sharply. The stretch burned in the best way, almost too much, but she was so wet it slid deep on the first try. Bucky didn’t give her time to adjust. He started fucking her hard, deep, relentless strokes that made the bed slam against the wall.
“Fuck… James—”
Her voice broke.He leaned down, biting the side of her neck, then sucking hard enough to leave a dark mark.
“Say my name again,” he rasped, pounding into her. “Louder.”
“James!” she moaned, legs wrapping around his waist.
Every thrust knocked the air out of her lungs. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, filthy and loud.He released her wrists only to grab her thighs, pushing them back toward her chest, folding her in half. The new angle let him go even deeper. Y/N’s eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent cry.
“Look at me,” he snarled.
She forced her eyes open. His face was inches from hers — jaw clenched, eyes wild with lust and something almost feral.
“You think I still want her?” Thrust. “You think I remember her pussy when I have this?” Harder thrust. “This tight, perfect cunt that gets wet just from fighting with me?”
Tears of overwhelming pleasure leaked from the corners of her eyes. She was so full it hurt, but she needed more.“I’m sorry—” she whimpered, shy even now.
“I just… I can’t stand the thought of you with her…”
“Then take me,” he growled, slamming into her. “Take every fucking inch and remember who you belong to.”
He fucked her harder, faster, one hand slipping between them to rub her clit roughly. Y/N’s moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure. Her nails raked down his back, leaving red lines.He suddenly pulled out, making her cry in protest. He flipped her onto her stomach, yanked her hips up and slammed back inside from behind. The new position was even deeper. Y/N buried her face in the pillow, muffling her screams as he railed her.
“Don’t hide,” he said, fisting her hair and pulling her head back gently but firmly. “I want to hear you. Let the whole damn building know who’s fucking you this hard.”
His pace was punishing now. Deep, brutal strokes that made her thighs shake. Every time he bottomed out he ground against her, making sure she felt all of him.Y/N was shaking, tears soaking the pillow.
“I’m yours,” she sobbed. “Only yours… please—”
Bucky leaned over her back, biting her shoulder as he reached around to rub her clit again.
“Come,” he commanded, voice rough. “Come on my cock like the jealous little girl you are tonight.”
The orgasm hit her like a freight train. She screamed his name, walls clenching violently around him, body convulsing. Bucky fucked her through it, not slowing down even as she gushed around him.Only when she started whimpering from overstimulation did he slow down. He pulled out, flipped her onto her back again, and slid back inside slowly this time, deep and possessive.
“Look at me,” he whispered, voice still rough but softer now.
She did, eyes glassy, cheeks wet.He moved in long, hard rolls of his hips, never breaking eye contact.
“I love you,” he said between thrusts. “Not her. Never her again. This—” he slammed deep, “—is the only pussy I want. The only one I dream about. The only one I need.”
Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a desperate kiss. Her legs locked around him.
“Come inside me,” she begged against his lips, shy but needy. “Please… fill me up. Make me yours.”
Bucky groaned, hips stuttering. A few more deep, punishing thrusts and he came hard, burying himself as deep as possible, pulsing inside her with long, hot spurts.They stayed locked together, panting, sweaty, trembling.Bucky collapsed half on top of her, still buried deep, breathing hard against her neck. His arms wrapped around her possessively, almost too tight.
“Mine,” he whispered against her skin, voice hoarse. “Only mine.”
Y/N closed her eyes, tears still slipping down her temples, body buzzing and sore and completely claimed.Bucky stayed buried deep inside her for a long time, his body heavy but careful not to crush her completely. His arms were wrapped around her like a cage, protective and possessive, while his lips pressed soft, lazy kisses against her neck, her jaw, her temple.Y/N was still trembling. Her legs were weak, her breathing shaky, and silent tears kept slipping from the corners of her eyes. The intensity of the sex, mixed with the violence of their argument, had left her completely raw.
“Hey… sweetheart,” Bucky whispered, voice hoarse but incredibly gentle now. “I’ve got you. Breathe with me.”
He slowly pulled out of her, making her whimper at the loss and the sudden emptiness. A thick trail of his cum leaked down her thigh. Bucky noticed and made a low, satisfied sound before reaching for the warm towel he had prepared earlier. He cleaned her with slow, tender strokes between her legs, then wiped the sweat from her stomach and chest.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”
He disappeared for only a few seconds, returning with a glass of water and a soft cloth. He helped her sit up against the pillows, holding the glass to her lips.
“Small sips,” he said softly, one hand cradling the back of her head. “That’s it… good girl.”
Y/N drank slowly, her body still buzzing. When she was done, Bucky set the glass aside and pulled her into his lap, her back against his chest, her legs draped over his. He wrapped the thick duvet around both of them, cocooning her in warmth.“I was rough,” he said quietly, lips brushing her ear.
“Too rough?”
She shook her head, even as fresh tears fell.
“No… I needed it. I needed you to… take me like that.”
Her voice was small, shy again now that the fire had died down.
“But it’s a lot.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
He kissed the top of her head, then her temple, then the tear tracks on her cheeks.
“You were so good for me. So perfect. Letting me fuck all that jealousy out.”
His hands started moving — slow, soothing strokes up and down her arms, her sides, her thighs. He massaged the muscles in her legs that were still twitching, then gently rubbed her hips where he had gripped her hard.
“I left marks,” he said, tracing the faint bruises forming on her hips with his fingertips.
There was a hint of regret in his voice, but also something darker, satisfied.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little,” she admitted. “But I like them.”
Bucky made a soft sound and kissed her shoulder.
“Tell me what you need right now.”
“You.”
Her answer was immediate. She turned in his arms so she could bury her face in his neck, breathing him in.
“Just you. Don’t let go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He tightened his hold, one hand gently threading through her hair.
“I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re loved.”
For several long minutes, they stayed like that — skin to skin, breathing together. Bucky kept stroking her back in long, slow passes, occasionally pressing kisses to her hair, her forehead, her closed eyelids.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she whispered eventually, voice muffled against his skin. “I said horrible things…”
“You were hurt,” he answered simply. “You had every right to be angry. I should have told you about Camila the second I found out. I hate that I made you doubt us even for a second.”
He tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes.
“I need you to hear this, Y/N. Really hear it.”
His voice was low, steady, full of quiet intensity.
“Camila is my past. You are my present and my future. There is no competition. There never was. What I had with her was easy, surface-level. What I have with you is real. Messy sometimes, but deep. You make me feel things I’ve never felt before.”
Y/N’s eyes filled with tears again.
“I still feel stupid for being so jealous…”
“It’s not stupid.”
He wiped her tears with his thumbs.
“It’s human. And if being jealous makes you need me to fuck you like that… then we’ll fight and fuck and talk until it doesn’t hurt anymore. I can take it. I can take all of you — the anger, the insecurity, the love, everything.”
He kissed her softly this time. A slow, deep kiss full of reassurance. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Every shy little moan, every tear, every smile, every doubt… they’re all mine. And I’m yours. Completely.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath and nodded. She felt safe again. Raw, sore, exhausted, but safe.Bucky reached for the bottle of lotion on the nightstand. He warmed some between his hands and started massaging her body with slow, careful movements — her shoulders, her back, her thighs, her calves. Everywhere he had gripped too hard, he soothed. He was quiet while he worked, focused entirely on her.When he was done, he pulled her back into his arms, this time facing him. Her leg was hooked over his hip, their bodies pressed together under the blanket. He kept one hand on the back of her neck, the other stroking her spine.
“How do you feel now?” he asked gently.
“Sore,” she admitted with a small, shy smile. “But good. Empty head. Full heart.”
Bucky chuckled softly, the sound warm.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
He reached for a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. His blue eyes were incredibly soft as they looked at her.
“I love the way you get jealous,” he confessed quietly. “Not because I want you to suffer… but because it shows how much you want me. How deeply you feel. I never had that before. Not like this.”
Y/N hid her face in his chest, embarrassed but pleased.
“I still don’t like feeling it.”
“I know. And tomorrow, we’ll talk more about Camila. About boundaries at work. About whatever you need. But tonight…”
He kissed the top of her head.
“Tonight is only about you and me.”
He kept talking to her in that low, soothing voice for a long time — telling her how proud he was of her, how strong she was with Thomas, how much he loved coming home to her every night, how beautiful she looked when she was focused on her sketches. Every word was like a balm on the raw parts of her heart.At some point, he got up again and brought her a small piece of dark chocolate and another glass of water. He fed her the chocolate piece by piece, kissing her lips between each bite. Then he carried her to the bathroom, holding her steady while she used the toilet, then helping her brush her teeth. He even washed her face with a warm cloth.Back in bed, he pulled her on top of him this time, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured, one hand gently playing with her hair. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I’ll make you breakfast. We’ll talk more if you need. But right now, just rest. I’ve got you.”
Y/N closed her eyes, completely wrapped in him — his scent, his warmth, his voice, his love.The jealousy was still there, quiet now, like a small bruise. But in Bucky’s arms, it no longer felt dangerous. It felt manageable. Because he had proven it — not just with his body, but with every gentle touch afterward.She fell asleep like that, safe, sore, and deeply loved.
The following weeks slipped by in a new rhythm, at once gentle and tense, like a seam that is patiently adjusted until it fits perfectly. February settled over New York with that dry cold that made the air biting and the sky an almost painful shade of blue. The Bushwick studio had become the quiet centre of Y/N’s life. Three evenings a week, sometimes on Saturday mornings, she would climb the three flights of stairs, her bag heavy with sketches and samples, and close the door behind her as if entering a sanctuary. The shelves that Bucky had had fitted were now full. The bamboo silk lay on the first, soft and slightly iridescent in the slanting light from the windows. The merino wool on the second, thick and luxurious.
And on the third, that raw linen she’d found on her own in Williamsburg, the colour of dry sand, rough to the touch, almost alive. Every time she ran her hand over it, Y/N thought of her father. Of the way he’d always rub the fabric between his thumb and forefinger before deciding if it was worthy of being cut. One Tuesday evening, Sofia came to see the workshop for the first time. She climbed the steps without a word, went in, and stood silently for a long time in the middle of the room. Her eyes moved from the shelves to the sketches pinned to the back wall, then settled on the linen.
“Williamsburg,” she murmured.
“Yes. All on her own.”
Sofia took the linen in her hands and held it up to the window. The cold February light shone through it with raw honesty.
“It’s the right decision. This linen with the silk… it’ll create something authentic.”
They worked together for two hours, bent over the large table. Sofia pointed out minute details; Y/N made adjustments, corrected them. At one point, Sofia spoke of Camila, almost naturally.
“She’s good, you know. Competent.”
“And she seems sincere when she talks about your work.”
Y/N nodded without replying straight away. The mention of Camila stirred that faint, unpleasant warmth in her chest, the one that was returning more and more often. She pictured Bucky and Camila, three years earlier, in this very same open-plan office, sharing ideas late into the evening. She shook the image from her mind.
“Are you comfortable here?” asked Sofia. “I might not have been. But I am.”
Sofia looked at her for a long moment, then smiled slightly.
“Good.”
That evening, Bucky was waiting for her at the bottom of the block. They walked together towards the underground in the biting cold, their breath forming white clouds. He had draped his jacket over her shoulders without her saying a word, sensing that she was shivering. His arm brushed against hers from time to time, a protective gesture he made almost unconsciously.
“Lea’s excited about her internship at Amira’s,” he said.
“Did she send you a list of questions as long as your arm?”
“Five. Including one about the firm’s library and whether she can go there outside of working hours.”
Y/N smiled in the cold.
“Did she really ask that?”
“Yes. Amira replied that the people who want to use the library after hours are precisely the ones who deserve to be there.”
They continued walking in silence for a moment. Then Y/N spoke of Mila, her voice lower.
“She gets very attached.”
Bucky slowed his pace.
“I know.”
“Too much, perhaps.”
He stopped completely in the middle of the pavement. The wind blew a few strands of her hair about. He looked at her with that calm intensity that always disarmed her.
“Is something going to change between us?”
Y/N shook her head.
“No. I’m just asking the practical question.”
“We protect her by doing things right now. Not by anticipating tragedies that don’t exist.”
She took his gloved hand in hers. The warmth seeped through the leather. Bucky always had that way of saying things that soothed everything without downplaying it. One Thursday evening, during dinner in Dumbo, Mila put down her fork and looked at Bucky with her big, serious eyes.
“Bucky. Are you going to stay?”
The table fell silent. Lea looked up from her book. Y/N held her breath. Bucky didn’t bat an eyelid. He put down his own fork and replied with gentle gravity:
“Yes, Mila. I’m definitely staying.”
“Are you sure?
” “Yes. Because this is where I want to be.”
Mila nodded slowly, as if weighing every word.
“That’s a good answer.”
Then she went back to her pasta, as if the most important conversation of her young life had just been settled. Y/N met Bucky’s gaze across the table. There was something deep and solid in his eyes. She slid her hand under the table and squeezed his. He responded to the pressure, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand.
Later, once the girls were in bed, Bucky pulled her close to him on the sofa. He’d ordered food without her asking, knowing she often forgot when she was immersed in work. He’d also brought flowers that very morning, just because. Small, pale roses that now sat on the coffee table. His hands slid over her shoulders, slowly massaging away the knots that had built up.
“You’re tired,” he murmured against her hair.
Y/N closed her eyes, letting her head rest against his chest. The jealousy was still there, subtle but persistent. Every time she saw Camila at Alpine, smiling, competent, speaking with that natural confidence, she couldn’t help but imagine what they might have shared. The same late-night conversations, the same glances. She clutched Bucky’s jumper tighter.
“I’m here,” he said simply, as if reading her mind.
A few days later, Camila came to the studio for the first time. She climbed the three flights of stairs with apparent ease and entered with a calm presence that filled the room. She went straight to the raw linen, took it between her fingers, and held it up to the light.
“Where did you find this?”
“Williamsburg. All on my own.”
Camila nodded respectfully.
She examined the sketches one by one, lingering over the signature dress and jacket.
“The sleeves are better now. You’ve made the corrections quickly.”
“Thanks to your notes.”
They worked together for an hour. Camila gave precise feedback, sharp at times, but always spot on. At the end, before leaving, she paused in the doorway.
“Bucky seems… more at peace these past few months. Happy. I’ve known him for a long time. I can see the difference.”
Y/N remained silent. Those words lingered with her long after Camila had left. At peace. Happy. She knew it was true. Bucky was gentler, more present, more grounded. But the idea that Camila could still read him so easily made that dull ache rise in her chest. That evening, Bucky picked her up from the studio. He brought hot tea in a flask and an extra scarf, which he wrapped around her neck without a word. In the car, he placed his hand on her thigh, as he often did now, that quiet gesture of tender possession.
“Camila came round,” said Y/N.“I know. She sent me a message.”
Y/N looked out of the window. The lights of Bushwick flashed by.
“She said you looked happy.”
Bucky gently squeezed her thigh.
“I am.”
He turned his head towards her at a red light. His gaze was so intense, so completely focused on her, that her jealousy wavered for a moment. He leaned in and pressed his lips against her temple, holding them there for a long moment.
“You’re the only reason I’m like this, sweetheart.”
Y/N closed her eyes. The warmth of his mouth, the light pressure of his fingers on her leg, the familiar scent of his perfume… all of it soothed and stirred something within her at the same time. She placed her hand over his, squeezing it tighter. The days passed. The prototypes progressed.Bucky replied with the same quiet sincerity. And yet, even in these moments of deep tenderness, Camila’s presence continued to hang over them, discreetly, like an invisible seam that sometimes pulled a little too tight. Mila continued to grow attached, asking increasingly personal questions, mentally mapping out their shared future with almost frightening precision. Léa watched all this in silence, protective in her own way. George , in small, subtle ways, would occasionally send a message to Bucky to ask for news of ‘the little one’ and the collection.
The February cold grew even more biting, slipping between the bricks of Bushwick’s buildings and seeping right into the studio. Y/N now spent almost every evening there. The large solid-wood table bore the marks of endless hours: pencil marks, faint coffee stains, forgotten pins. Every time she laid her hands on it, she thought of her father, of her own worn table in their old flat, and something calm and painful settled in her chest. One Saturday morning, Mila arrived to explore the studio. She climbed the three flights of stairs with that precise rhythm of hers, notebook under her arm, hair barely done. When she pushed open the door, she stopped in the centre of the room and slowly turned round, taking it all in: the shelves, the fabrics, the light streaming in through the three windows, the sketches pinned up like an intimate map.
“The shelves are exactly as I planned,” she said in a serious voice. “Yes. Bucky had everything fitted exactly as you’d specified.”
Mila stepped closer to the raw linen and touched it with her fingertips.
“It’s rough. But honest.”
She then moved over to the wall of sketches, examining them one by one with an almost adult concentration. She paused for a long time in front of the signature dress.
“The visible stitching at the neckline. It’s proof that we’ve got nothing to hide.”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat.
“Exactly.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook, then asked a series of technical questions about the proportions, the finishes, the buttons. At the end, before leaving, she looked Y/N straight in the eyes.— It’s a good space. You’ve chosen well. Well… Bucky found it, but that’s because you’d written down exactly what you wanted. Y/N smiled and pulled her close for a quick hug. Mila let her, stiff at first, then a little more relaxed. When she went back downstairs, Y/N was left alone with the silence and the smell of fabric. She thought of this child who was becoming so attached, so quickly. And of what it might cost if anything were ever to falter. Bucky came to pick her up in the late afternoon.He brought in two coffees and a packet of biscuits, still warm from the local bakery. He knew she often forgot to eat when she was working. He set everything down on the table, then came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Your hands are cold.”
Without waiting, he took her fingers in his and gently warmed them. This simple gesture, repeated so many times, always stirred a deep warmth in Y/N’s chest. She let herself lean against him, feeling his solid body, his reassuring presence. Yet, when she closed her eyes, the image of Camila crossed her mind once more: that confidence, that shared past with Bucky, the way she intuitively understood the work.
“Camila came here,” she murmured.
“I know.”
“She said you’ve looked happy these past few months.”
Bucky tightened his embrace. His lips brushed her temple.
“I am. Thanks to you.”
He gently turned her to face him. His hands framed her face with infinite tenderness, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones. He looked at her for a long time, as if he wanted to etch every detail into his memory.
“What’s really going on in your head, sweetheart?”
Y/N hesitated, then shook her head.
“Nothing serious. Just… my mind’s been racing.”
He didn’t press the matter, but he stayed longer than expected, sitting on the windowsill, watching her work in silence. Every now and then, he’d get up to fetch her some water, adjust the light, or simply place a hand on her back. These small, constant gestures were his way of saying I’m here, I see you, I’m protecting you. The days passed. The prototype jacket finally arrived. Y/N tried it on in front of the large mirror leaning against the wall. The sleeve now fell perfectly, without that slight tension that had been there before. She sent the photo to Camila, then to Sofia. The replies came quickly, positive and precise. Bucky, for his part, received the same photo from Camila. When Y/N met up with him that evening, he showed her the message without hiding anything. “She says you deserve to be kept in the loop in real time.” Y/N nodded, but the phrase got stuck somewhere inside her. That familiarity between them, even if professional, continued to sting. One Friday evening, at Bucky’s place, after a long day, things eased a little. They were in the kitchen. Y/N was making tea whilst he read on the sofa. Without really planning to, she spoke:
“My father died on a Friday evening.”
Bucky put his book down immediately. He came over to her, silent and attentive. She continued, her voice calm but low, as she poured the hot water into the cups.
"I was thirteen. I often say fourteen because thirteen… it sounds too young. He was a tailor. He made clothes that lasted. He always turned every garment inside out to check the seams, even after weeks of work. He said that was the mark of someone who respected themselves.”
She carried the cups into the living room. They sat side by side. Bucky took her hand. “He died in his workshop, finishing a coat. We found him the next morning. The coat was finished. Perfect stitching. Bucky remained silent for a long time, his warm hand around hers. Then she spoke in turn, in a hoarse voice:
“My father lost a friend in the line of duty. He hardly ever talks about it. But he keeps a photo in the garage. When asked, he just says: ‘Someone who did things properly’.”
Y/N looked at him. Their pasts brushed against one another in that kitchen, simple yet heavy at the same time.
“Your father would have liked Thomas,” she murmured.
“He already does. He asked me when he could get a coat from the collection.”
She smiled faintly.
“I’ll make him the first one.”
Bucky pulled her close. He held her for a long time, one hand in her hair, the other on her back. That evening, he ran her a bath, brought in fresh flowers he’d bought for no particular reason, and made her a cup of herbal tea which he placed on the edge of the bath. When she came out, wrapped in a warm towel, he held her close to his chest as if she were the most fragile and precious thing in the world.
“I love you,” he whispered against her hair.
“I love you too.”
Y/N snuggles closer, breathing in his scent, feeling the warmth of his body.
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summary : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, just to fill the silence.
⚠️ WARNING (18+) : This chapter contains explicit sexual content (smut). It also depicts unprotected sex.
Disclaimer: Please remember that this is a work of fiction. In real life, the use of protection is essential to prevent STIs and unplanned pregnancies. Always prioritize your health and safety by having honest conversations with your partners. Be safe and responsible! 🔞
Paring : female! reader x CEO! Bucky Barnes
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +8.7k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics. Unprotected explicit smut.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send me an ask to be added to my
oneshots | series | all writing
The cold had been creeping under people’s coats for several days already, but on that Tuesday morning, it seemed even more biting within the walls of Alpine.
Y/N was hunched over her screen when a figure strode across the open-plan office with quiet confidence. A tall woman with short, straight black hair set her bag down on the desk at the far end. She greeted everyone by their first name, with a brief but sincere smile. Y/N frowned slightly. Something about this woman seemed familiar to her, though she couldn’t say why. She didn’t have time to wonder for long. Sofia walked past her desk without slowing down, simply saying, in a neutral tone:
“Camila is back.”
Y/N looked up.
“Who’s Camila?”
Sofia stopped short, as if only now realising how awkward her announcement had been. She turned to face her, a slightly embarrassed look on her face.
“Camila Reyes. She was the creative director here before she left for Milan eighteen months ago. She’s coming back to the team.”
Y/N felt a subtle tightening in her chest. The words “creative director” resonated louder than they should have. She repeated, almost to herself:
“Bucky didn’t tell me.”
Sofia hesitated for a second, then shrugged slightly.
“He was probably planning to. I… I perhaps shouldn’t have just blurted that out like that.”
She headed back towards the design area without adding another word. Y/N stood motionless for a moment, her eyes fixed on her screen without really seeing it.
Camila Reyes. Milan. Eighteen months. Creative Director. The information was piecing itself together in her head, slowly, like a jigsaw puzzle that was taking a bit too long. She grabbed her phone, her fingers stiffer than usual.
Camila Reyes is here.
Bucky’s reply came in under two minutes, as if he’d been waiting by the screen.
I meant to tell you this morning. She’s been in Milan for eighteen months and she’s coming back to the creative team. I’ll tell you all about it tonight, I promise.
Y/N reread the message several times. The ‘I promise’ made her pause, as if he were already trying to fill a void that hadn’t yet been created. She simply typed:
All righ .
Then she put her phone down and forced herself to get back to work, even though the lines on the screen were dancing a little. Around eleven o’clock, there was a soft knock at her office door. Y/N looked up. Camila was there, one shoulder against the wood, her gaze direct but not hostile.
“Y/N, is that you? It’s Camila.”
“I know. Hello.”
Camila looked at her for a moment, as if she were really taking the time to see her.
“You did well with the Hale case. It wasn’t easy.”
Y/N shrugged slightly.
“It was mostly Amira who did the work. I just stood my ground.”
“Exactly. Standing your ground when everyone else is pushing in the opposite direction is no mean feat.”
A brief silence fell. Y/N felt her stomach knot slightly as Camila added, with the same calm frankness:
“I’ve heard about Thomas. What you’re doing is right.The inner seams as a signature… that’s clever. And brave.”
Y/N tightened her grip on her pen imperceptibly.
“How did you find out about Thomas?”
“Bucky told me this morning.”
The words fell like a small stone into calm water. Bucky had spoken to her about Thomas this morning. Even before she’d sent him the message. Y/N kept a neutral expression, but something warm and unpleasant stirred in her chest. She didn’t reply straight away. Camila seemed to sense the unease and changed the subject slightly.
“We should have lunch together one of these days, if you fancy.”
“Maybe,” replied Y/N, without committing herself.
Camila nodded, a light, carefree smile playing on her lips, then headed back towards the creative space with that confident stride that seemed to suggest she knew every nook and cranny of that floor. Y/N stood there for a long time, staring at the empty frame. The words kept going round and round in her head:
‘Bucky told me about it this morning.’
Why did this information stick in her throat?
She wasn’t naive. She knew Bucky had had a life before her. But the idea that he’d spoken of Thomas, of her most intimate project, to this woman she hadn’t even met an hour earlier… it made a strange noise in her chest. She picked up her phone again.
You mentioned Thomas to Camila this morning.
The reply came quickly, almost too quickly.
Yes.
She’s part of the creative team now. She was bound to come across the collection. I wanted her to know before she saw the sketches. We’ll talk about it tonight?
Y/N stared at the words for a long moment. She simply typed:
OK.
Then, after a moment’s hesitation:
Y/N...
Tonight.
She put the phone down and got back to work until six o’clock, without looking up any more than necessary. But the weight was there, subtle yet persistent, like a poorly ironed seam that pulls slightly at the fabric. When she finally came downstairs, Bucky was waiting for her at the bottom, leaning against his car as usual. The January chill had turned the tip of his nose slightly red. As soon as she approached, he stood up and opened the passenger door without a word. She got in. The silence that settled between them was not the same as usual. It was thicker, laden with a conversation that had not yet taken place. Bucky set off. His hands were steady on the steering wheel, but she knew him well enough by now to notice the slight tension in his shoulders.
After a few minutes, he finally spoke, in a low, calm voice.
“Camila and I… we had a thing. Three years ago. Before she left for Milan.”
Y/N stared straight ahead, the lights of Brooklyn gliding across the windscreen. She didn’t reply straight away. Bucky continued, still with that quiet gentleness that was so characteristic of him.
“It’s been over for a long time. We split up before she left. She went off to pursue her career, and I… I stayed here. I wanted to tell you myself before anyone else did.”
She felt her throat tighten slightly.
“Sofia almost did this morning.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before today?”
He took a slow breath.
“I found out last night that she was coming back on Monday. I was trying to find the right way to tell you. I didn’t want you to find out by chance.”
Y/N turned her head slightly towards him. Her profile was calm, but she could see the way her fingers were gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.
“You were afraid of my reaction.”
“I was afraid you’d imagine something that no longer exists.”
“And what could I possibly have imagined, Bucky?”
He paused for a moment, then replied with that raw honesty she both loved and feared:
“That it would change anything between us.”
The bridge came into view between two buildings, its yellow lights reflecting off the East River. Y/N watched the reflections dance for a moment before asking:
“Does it change anything?”
“No.”
“For you?”
“No. It’s been over for three years. Really over.”
She nodded slowly. The silence returned, gentler this time, but still heavy.
She thought of Camila, of her calm, confident presence, of that direct gaze that seemed to assess everything without judgement. She thought of Bucky, who had spoken to that woman about Thomas before he’d even mentioned it to her. A sharp, unexpected pang shot through her chest. Not anger. Something more murky.
Jealousy, perhaps.
Or simply the sudden realisation that Bucky’s past had a face, a name, and that it had just reappeared in their daily lives. She slid her hand over the gear lever and covered his. Bucky turned his head slightly, taken aback by the gesture. His blue eyes met hers for a second, filled with silent gratitude.
“It’s sorted now,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“But next time, just tell me straight out. Don’t worry about finding the right way.”
“I promise.”
She gently squeezed his fingers.
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“Yes, I do. Because you trust me even when it’s uncomfortable.”
They drove on for a while longer through the New York evening. The car’s heating radiated a gentle warmth against her legs. Y/N watched the streets roll by, her heart a little unsettled, but Bucky’s hand beneath hers kept her grounded. When he parked outside her house, he turned off the engine but didn’t move straight away. She leaned towards him and kissed him, a brief, genuine kiss, almost as if to seal something. Then she stepped out into the cold.
Her phone vibrated as she was on the stairs.
Back home?
She smiled despite herself.
On the stairs.
Goodnight, sweetheart. And thank you.
Goodnight. Next time, just say so straight away.
She climbed the last few steps, thinking of Camila Reyes, of that woman who seemed so at ease in the corridors of Alpine, and of the way Bucky had draped his jacket over her shoulders without her having to ask, two days earlier, when she’d simply shivered in the office. That was just how he was.
Attentive.
Gentle.
And yet, tonight, a small crack had opened in her chest, tiny, but very real. She went inside, put down her bag, and told herself she would have to learn to live with this new presence in their lives. Camila wasn’t a threat. Not really. But she was there. And that was enough to stir something unexpected within her.
The next day, the January chill seemed to have seeped right into the city’s very bones. Y/N was working at her desk when her phone vibrated. Camila had invited her to lunch the following Thursday at a small Italian restaurant near Alpine, a place she seemed to know like the back of her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Y/N accepted. Not because she was particularly keen, but because she refused to let that shadow grow in silence. Thursday arrived with a low, grey sky. The restaurant was quiet; a table at the back had been reserved by Camila. She arrived slightly late, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her black bob impeccably in place. She ordered a black coffee and a light salad, like someone eating out of necessity rather than pleasure. Y/N chose the dish of the day, something hot that was steaming on the plate. Camila didn’t beat about the bush. As soon as the drinks were served, she rested her elbows on the table and looked Y/N straight in the eye.
“I’ll be blunt. Bucky and I have been over for three years. It’s really over. You can ask me whatever you like.”
Y/N slowly stirred her fork in her plate.
“I’m not going to ask you about Bucky.”
Camila raised an eyebrow, surprised.
“Why?”
“Because that’s not my style. What happened between you is in the past.”
A brief silence fell. Camila took a sip of coffee, looking as though she were re-evaluating the woman sitting opposite her.
“All right. But you do have a question, I can tell.”
Y/N looked up.
“What was it like coming back here after Milan?”
Camila set her cup down with a small smile.
“The first few hours were tough. After that… it was Alpine. The place where I really feel useful. In Milan, everything was beautiful, expensive, spectacular. But the clothes were made to be looked at, not really worn. I realised that wasn’t enough for me anymore.”
Y/N immediately thought of the inner seams, of that philosophy her father had passed on to her and which she tried to bring to life in every piece Thomas created. She ate a few mouthfuls in silence before continuing:
“You could have a look at Thomas’s sketches, if you like. Not in an official capacity.Just… tell me what you see. No holds barred.”
Camila stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to understand the real motivations behind this proposal.
“Why are you suggesting this?”
“Because you looked at the sketch Sofia showed you and said it was just right. Not good, not interesting. Just right. That’s rare.”
Camila nodded slowly.
“All right. I’ll look and tell you what I see. No holds barred.”
They finished their lunch in a lighter, almost professional atmosphere. Out on the street, just before parting ways, Camila slipped her hands into the pockets of her coat.
“Bucky doesn’t know you offered me that, does he?”
“No.” “Are you going to tell him?”
“Tonight.”
Camila smiled slightly.
“Good.”
She walked back towards Alpine with her confident stride, leaving Y/N alone on the cold pavement.
The wind whipped up tiny, dry snowflakes that stung her cheeks. Y/N stood still for a moment, her hands clasped around her bag. She wasn’t yet sure whether she’d just shown maturity or a strange form of masochism. That evening, Bucky came to pick her up as usual. The car was warm, the radio playing an old jazz tune softly in the background. As soon as she got in, Y/N felt his gaze on her, attentive, almost anxious.
“I asked Camila to look at Thomas’s sketches,” she said without waiting.
Bucky didn’t reply straight away. He set off, the lights of Brooklyn gliding across his face.
“Did she agree?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly, his hands steady on the steering wheel.
“It’s your choice.”
“I know. And I think it’s the right one.”
He was silent for a moment, then murmured,
“That’s brave.”
Y/N turned her head towards him.
“Brave how?”
“To invite someone who might complicate things in what matters most to you.”
“The situation isn’t complicated, Bucky.”
“I know. That’s why it’s brave.”
She felt a gentle warmth spread through her chest, despite the lingering twinge. That was Bucky for you: he always saw beyond words. He rested his right hand on her thigh for a moment, a simple, possessive gesture without any heaviness. She wrapped her fingers around his.
“And you? How do you feel about all this? Camila coming back, me having lunch with her, suggesting she get closer to Thomas…”
Bucky took a deep breath.
“It could have been difficult. It isn’t really. And it’s teaching me something.”
“What?”
“That the things we dread before they happen are rarely as heavy as we imagine.”
Y/N squeezed his hand tighter. The car rolled gently through the streets of Bushwick. The cold outside contrasted with the warmth between them. Yet, deep inside her, a small flame continued to burn: the image of Camila talking about Thomas with Bucky that morning refused to fade completely.
Over the next few days, the Bushwick studio became her sanctuary. The shelves that Bucky had had fitted without her even having to ask were perfect, exactly as per the detailed plan Mila had sent. Every evening, after work, Y/N would climb the three flights of stairs, set her bag down on the large solid-wood table and let her hands sink into the fabrics. The bamboo silk caught the light from the middle window with an iridescent softness. The raw linen from Williamsburg had that rough, honest texture she loved so much. One evening, Bucky arrived with two hot coffees, the steam rising into the cold air of the workshop. He stood near the door at first, always respecting this space that was hers.
“Come in,” she said softly.
He approached, set a coffee down beside her and looked at the sketches spread out on the table without touching them. His eyes kept returning to her, as if he were truly seeing her amidst all that work.
“You’re at home here,” he murmured.
“Yes. It’s a place I’ve chosen for myself.” He nodded.
His hand brushed against her shoulder, lingering there a little longer than necessary. That simple touch stirred a familiar warmth in Y/N’s stomach. She loved the way he was there without being intrusive, present without weighing her down.
“Camila sent you some notes,” he said after a moment. “Seven pages.”
Bucky raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Seven pages?”
“Mainly on the jacket sleeves. She’s right. There was a tension that would have become apparent after a few washes.”
He smiled gently, that tender, proud expression he reserved solely for her.
“Are you going to fix it?”
“I’ve already contacted the supplier she mentioned in Florence.”
He stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders with infinite gentleness. He slowly massaged her tense muscles, strained from the hours spent hunched over the table. Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of his palms seep through her jumper.
“You’re working too hard,” he murmured against her hair.
Those words, spoken in that low, husky voice, always had the same effect on her: a gentle tightening in the pit of her stomach, followed by an almost painful longing to be even closer to him.
Later that evening, as he walked her home, he insisted on running her a hot bath. Whilst she was relaxing in the scented water, he quietly tidied away the things she’d left lying about in the living room, made her a cup of herbal tea and brought her a warm towel. When she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in her bathrobe, he drew her towards him without a word. His arms wrapped around her with that quiet, protective strength. He pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there as if he wanted to absorb all her weariness.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “For everything you’re building. For the way you hold on, even when it’s hard.”
Y/N buried her face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Yet, deep in her mind, the image of Camila lingered. That beautiful, capable woman who had shared Bucky’s intimacy for months. Who probably knew by heart the way he kissed, the way his hands glided over her skin… A sharp pang of jealousy, burning and unexpected, pierced her stomach. She tightened her arms around his waist. Bucky felt the change in her embrace. He stepped back slightly to look at her, his blue eyes seeking hers with that deep attention that always made her feel truly seen.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
She hesitated, then shook her head.
“Nothing. Just… tired.”
He didn’t press her, but his hands remained on her, slowly stroking her back. That night, he slept at her place. Lying against him in the dark, Y/N listened to his calm, steady breathing. His body was warm, solid, reassuring. Yet jealousy continued to simmer within her, like a poorly finished seam pulling at the fabric. She didn’t yet know that this small flame would grow until it exploded a few weeks later, at a time when she would need him more than ever.Bucky’s thumb had barely touched her cheek when Y/N pulled away sharply, as if his gentleness burned her.
“Don’t,” she said, voice already trembling with anger. “Don’t do that sweet thing right now please.”
He froze.
“Y/N…”
“No.”
She stood up, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
“I said it was OK, but actually it wasn't!You told Camila about Thomas. Before me. Before the woman who’s actually building this fucking collection with her blood and soul.”
Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to stay calm.
“It was professional. She was going to see the sketches anyway—”“Bullshit!”
Y/N snapped. Her voice cracked through the quiet apartment like a whip.
“You spoke to your ex about my most intimate project before even thinking of telling me she was coming back! Do you have any idea how that feels?!”She was shaking now.“I had to hear it from Sofia. Sofia! Like I’m some colleague, some nobody in your life. And then Camila walks in, all tall and confident and fucking perfect, calling you by your name like she still has rights to it.”
Bucky stood up too, jaw tight.
“It's the past.. Three. We ended things before she left for Milan. There is nothing left.”
“Nothing?”
She let out a bitter laugh, tears burning her eyes.
“Then why did it look like she still knows you better than I do? Why did you feel the need to warn her about Thomas like you’re protecting her from my mess? Am I the problem now? The complicated one?”
Her voice rose, raw and hurt.
“I trusted you! But every hour that passed I kept imagining you two this morning, laughing, talking about my work like it was some casual office gossip. She had you first, Bucky. She had your hands, your mouth, your body, your mornings… and now she’s back in our fucking building like nothing happened!”
Bucky stepped closer, voice low but strained.
“You’re spiraling. I chose you. I’m with you every single day. I sleep in your bed. I—”
“And yet you hid her return!” she shouted, tears finally spilling. “You were scared of my reaction? Good! Because right now I’m furious! I feel stupid and small and so goddamn jealous it makes me sick!”
She wiped her face angrily, breathing hard.
“I hate this feeling. I hate imagining you inside her. I hate knowing she knows exactly how you sound when you come. I hate that she can look at you and remember every single time you fucked her while I’m still trying to learn how to be enough for you!”
The words hung heavy between them.Bucky’s eyes flashed. His calm was cracking.
“Enough. You are more than enough. Stop comparing yourself to a ghost.”
“She’s not a ghost anymore! She’s in the office every day! Smiling at you, touching your arm like it’s natural, talking about Milan like you two shared this whole sophisticated chapter I’ll never be part of!”
She was almost yelling now, voice breaking.
“I built Thomas. From pain. From my father’s death. And you just… handed pieces of it to her first. Like my vulnerability is something you can casually share with your ex. Do you know how betrayed I feel?!”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, breathing harder.
“I fucked up the timing. I admit that. But you’re acting like I’m still in love with her. I’m not. It’s you. It’s always been you since the moment you walked into my life.”
Y/N stared at him, chest heaving, tears streaming down her face.
“Then prove it,” she whispered, voice suddenly dangerous and low. “Because right now I feel like I’m competing with a woman who already knows every inch of you. And I hate you a little for making me feel this way.”
The silence was deafening.Bucky’s eyes darkened, something shifting in his expression — a mix of anger, frustration, and a raw, heavy desire.
“You want me to prove it?” His voice dropped, rough and almost menacing. “Careful what you ask for, sweetheart.”
Y/N didn’t back down. She stepped closer, eyes wet but burning with jealousy and need.
“Then do it,” she breathed, voice shaking. “Prove that I’m the only one.”
Bucky’s eyes had gone dangerously dark.He moved fast.His hand shot out, grabbing the back of her neck and pulling her into a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. Teeth clashed, tongues fought, and the groan that left his throat was low and angry. He walked her backwards until her back hit the wall with a thud.“You want proof?” he growled against her mouth, biting her bottom lip hard enough to make her whimper.
“You want me to fuck the jealousy out of you?”
Y/N’s breath hitched. Her hands fisted in his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
“Yes,” she whispered, voice shaking with both fear and arousal. “I need it.”
Bucky didn’t hesitate.He spun her around, pressing her front against the wall, chest to her back. His hands were rough as he yanked her bathrobe open, letting it fall to the floor. The cool air hit her naked skin and she shivered. One large hand slid between her legs from behind, two fingers pushing inside her without warning.“Already so wet,” he muttered against her ear, voice.
“All that fighting got you this soaked?”She moaned, forehead pressed to the wall.
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at how easily her body responded, but she couldn’t stop her hips from pushing back against his hand.
“Bucky…”
“Say it,” he demanded, curling his fingers hard inside her. “Tell me why you’re dripping like this.”
“Because… because I’m jealous,” she admitted, voice small and breathless. “I hate that she had you… I hate it so much…”
A third finger joined the first two, stretching her. She cried out, legs trembling. Bucky’s other hand gripped her hip hard enough to leave marks, holding her in place while he fucked her with his fingers, fast and deep.
“No one else gets this anymore,” he growled. “This pussy is mine. Only mine.”
He pulled his fingers out suddenly, making her whine at the loss. In one movement he turned her around, lifted her up and carried her to the bed. He threw her down on her back, towering over her as he ripped his own shirt off. His belt followed, then his pants. His cock was hard, thick, flushed dark with need.Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of her usual shyness returning. Even after all this time, the sheer size of him still made her bite her lip.Bucky noticed. He climbed over her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.
He spread her legs wide with his knees and pushed inside her in one brutal thrust.Y/N cried out, back arching sharply. The stretch burned in the best way, almost too much, but she was so wet it slid deep on the first try. Bucky didn’t give her time to adjust. He started fucking her hard, deep, relentless strokes that made the bed slam against the wall.
“Fuck… James—”
Her voice broke.He leaned down, biting the side of her neck, then sucking hard enough to leave a dark mark.
“Say my name again,” he rasped, pounding into her. “Louder.”
“James!” she moaned, legs wrapping around his waist.
Every thrust knocked the air out of her lungs. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, filthy and loud.He released her wrists only to grab her thighs, pushing them back toward her chest, folding her in half. The new angle let him go even deeper. Y/N’s eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent cry.
“Look at me,” he snarled.
She forced her eyes open. His face was inches from hers — jaw clenched, eyes wild with lust and something almost feral.
“You think I still want her?” Thrust. “You think I remember her pussy when I have this?” Harder thrust. “This tight, perfect cunt that gets wet just from fighting with me?”
Tears of overwhelming pleasure leaked from the corners of her eyes. She was so full it hurt, but she needed more.“I’m sorry—” she whimpered, shy even now.
“I just… I can’t stand the thought of you with her…”
“Then take me,” he growled, slamming into her. “Take every fucking inch and remember who you belong to.”
He fucked her harder, faster, one hand slipping between them to rub her clit roughly. Y/N’s moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure. Her nails raked down his back, leaving red lines.He suddenly pulled out, making her cry in protest. He flipped her onto her stomach, yanked her hips up and slammed back inside from behind. The new position was even deeper. Y/N buried her face in the pillow, muffling her screams as he railed her.
“Don’t hide,” he said, fisting her hair and pulling her head back gently but firmly. “I want to hear you. Let the whole damn building know who’s fucking you this hard.”
His pace was punishing now. Deep, brutal strokes that made her thighs shake. Every time he bottomed out he ground against her, making sure she felt all of him.Y/N was shaking, tears soaking the pillow.
“I’m yours,” she sobbed. “Only yours… please—”
Bucky leaned over her back, biting her shoulder as he reached around to rub her clit again.
“Come,” he commanded, voice rough. “Come on my cock like the jealous little girl you are tonight.”
The orgasm hit her like a freight train. She screamed his name, walls clenching violently around him, body convulsing. Bucky fucked her through it, not slowing down even as she gushed around him.Only when she started whimpering from overstimulation did he slow down. He pulled out, flipped her onto her back again, and slid back inside slowly this time, deep and possessive.
“Look at me,” he whispered, voice still rough but softer now.
She did, eyes glassy, cheeks wet.He moved in long, hard rolls of his hips, never breaking eye contact.
“I love you,” he said between thrusts. “Not her. Never her again. This—” he slammed deep, “—is the only pussy I want. The only one I dream about. The only one I need.”
Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a desperate kiss. Her legs locked around him.
“Come inside me,” she begged against his lips, shy but needy. “Please… fill me up. Make me yours.”
Bucky groaned, hips stuttering. A few more deep, punishing thrusts and he came hard, burying himself as deep as possible, pulsing inside her with long, hot spurts.They stayed locked together, panting, sweaty, trembling.Bucky collapsed half on top of her, still buried deep, breathing hard against her neck. His arms wrapped around her possessively, almost too tight.
“Mine,” he whispered against her skin, voice hoarse. “Only mine.”
Y/N closed her eyes, tears still slipping down her temples, body buzzing and sore and completely claimed.Bucky stayed buried deep inside her for a long time, his body heavy but careful not to crush her completely. His arms were wrapped around her like a cage, protective and possessive, while his lips pressed soft, lazy kisses against her neck, her jaw, her temple.Y/N was still trembling. Her legs were weak, her breathing shaky, and silent tears kept slipping from the corners of her eyes. The intensity of the sex, mixed with the violence of their argument, had left her completely raw.
“Hey… sweetheart,” Bucky whispered, voice hoarse but incredibly gentle now. “I’ve got you. Breathe with me.”
He slowly pulled out of her, making her whimper at the loss and the sudden emptiness. A thick trail of his cum leaked down her thigh. Bucky noticed and made a low, satisfied sound before reaching for the warm towel he had prepared earlier. He cleaned her with slow, tender strokes between her legs, then wiped the sweat from her stomach and chest.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”
He disappeared for only a few seconds, returning with a glass of water and a soft cloth. He helped her sit up against the pillows, holding the glass to her lips.
“Small sips,” he said softly, one hand cradling the back of her head. “That’s it… good girl.”
Y/N drank slowly, her body still buzzing. When she was done, Bucky set the glass aside and pulled her into his lap, her back against his chest, her legs draped over his. He wrapped the thick duvet around both of them, cocooning her in warmth.“I was rough,” he said quietly, lips brushing her ear.
“Too rough?”
She shook her head, even as fresh tears fell.
“No… I needed it. I needed you to… take me like that.”
Her voice was small, shy again now that the fire had died down.
“But it’s a lot.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
He kissed the top of her head, then her temple, then the tear tracks on her cheeks.
“You were so good for me. So perfect. Letting me fuck all that jealousy out.”
His hands started moving — slow, soothing strokes up and down her arms, her sides, her thighs. He massaged the muscles in her legs that were still twitching, then gently rubbed her hips where he had gripped her hard.
“I left marks,” he said, tracing the faint bruises forming on her hips with his fingertips.
There was a hint of regret in his voice, but also something darker, satisfied.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little,” she admitted. “But I like them.”
Bucky made a soft sound and kissed her shoulder.
“Tell me what you need right now.”
“You.”
Her answer was immediate. She turned in his arms so she could bury her face in his neck, breathing him in.
“Just you. Don’t let go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He tightened his hold, one hand gently threading through her hair.
“I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re loved.”
For several long minutes, they stayed like that — skin to skin, breathing together. Bucky kept stroking her back in long, slow passes, occasionally pressing kisses to her hair, her forehead, her closed eyelids.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she whispered eventually, voice muffled against his skin. “I said horrible things…”
“You were hurt,” he answered simply. “You had every right to be angry. I should have told you about Camila the second I found out. I hate that I made you doubt us even for a second.”
He tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes.
“I need you to hear this, Y/N. Really hear it.”
His voice was low, steady, full of quiet intensity.
“Camila is my past. You are my present and my future. There is no competition. There never was. What I had with her was easy, surface-level. What I have with you is real. Messy sometimes, but deep. You make me feel things I’ve never felt before.”
Y/N’s eyes filled with tears again.
“I still feel stupid for being so jealous…”
“It’s not stupid.”
He wiped her tears with his thumbs.
“It’s human. And if being jealous makes you need me to fuck you like that… then we’ll fight and fuck and talk until it doesn’t hurt anymore. I can take it. I can take all of you — the anger, the insecurity, the love, everything.”
He kissed her softly this time. A slow, deep kiss full of reassurance. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Every shy little moan, every tear, every smile, every doubt… they’re all mine. And I’m yours. Completely.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath and nodded. She felt safe again. Raw, sore, exhausted, but safe.Bucky reached for the bottle of lotion on the nightstand. He warmed some between his hands and started massaging her body with slow, careful movements — her shoulders, her back, her thighs, her calves. Everywhere he had gripped too hard, he soothed. He was quiet while he worked, focused entirely on her.When he was done, he pulled her back into his arms, this time facing him. Her leg was hooked over his hip, their bodies pressed together under the blanket. He kept one hand on the back of her neck, the other stroking her spine.
“How do you feel now?” he asked gently.
“Sore,” she admitted with a small, shy smile. “But good. Empty head. Full heart.”
Bucky chuckled softly, the sound warm.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
He reached for a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. His blue eyes were incredibly soft as they looked at her.
“I love the way you get jealous,” he confessed quietly. “Not because I want you to suffer… but because it shows how much you want me. How deeply you feel. I never had that before. Not like this.”
Y/N hid her face in his chest, embarrassed but pleased.
“I still don’t like feeling it.”
“I know. And tomorrow, we’ll talk more about Camila. About boundaries at work. About whatever you need. But tonight…”
He kissed the top of her head.
“Tonight is only about you and me.”
He kept talking to her in that low, soothing voice for a long time — telling her how proud he was of her, how strong she was with Thomas, how much he loved coming home to her every night, how beautiful she looked when she was focused on her sketches. Every word was like a balm on the raw parts of her heart.At some point, he got up again and brought her a small piece of dark chocolate and another glass of water. He fed her the chocolate piece by piece, kissing her lips between each bite. Then he carried her to the bathroom, holding her steady while she used the toilet, then helping her brush her teeth. He even washed her face with a warm cloth.Back in bed, he pulled her on top of him this time, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured, one hand gently playing with her hair. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I’ll make you breakfast. We’ll talk more if you need. But right now, just rest. I’ve got you.”
Y/N closed her eyes, completely wrapped in him — his scent, his warmth, his voice, his love.The jealousy was still there, quiet now, like a small bruise. But in Bucky’s arms, it no longer felt dangerous. It felt manageable. Because he had proven it — not just with his body, but with every gentle touch afterward.She fell asleep like that, safe, sore, and deeply loved.
The following weeks slipped by in a new rhythm, at once gentle and tense, like a seam that is patiently adjusted until it fits perfectly. February settled over New York with that dry cold that made the air biting and the sky an almost painful shade of blue. The Bushwick studio had become the quiet centre of Y/N’s life. Three evenings a week, sometimes on Saturday mornings, she would climb the three flights of stairs, her bag heavy with sketches and samples, and close the door behind her as if entering a sanctuary. The shelves that Bucky had had fitted were now full. The bamboo silk lay on the first, soft and slightly iridescent in the slanting light from the windows. The merino wool on the second, thick and luxurious.
And on the third, that raw linen she’d found on her own in Williamsburg, the colour of dry sand, rough to the touch, almost alive. Every time she ran her hand over it, Y/N thought of her father. Of the way he’d always rub the fabric between his thumb and forefinger before deciding if it was worthy of being cut. One Tuesday evening, Sofia came to see the workshop for the first time. She climbed the steps without a word, went in, and stood silently for a long time in the middle of the room. Her eyes moved from the shelves to the sketches pinned to the back wall, then settled on the linen.
“Williamsburg,” she murmured.
“Yes. All on her own.”
Sofia took the linen in her hands and held it up to the window. The cold February light shone through it with raw honesty.
“It’s the right decision. This linen with the silk… it’ll create something authentic.”
They worked together for two hours, bent over the large table. Sofia pointed out minute details; Y/N made adjustments, corrected them. At one point, Sofia spoke of Camila, almost naturally.
“She’s good, you know. Competent.”
“And she seems sincere when she talks about your work.”
Y/N nodded without replying straight away. The mention of Camila stirred that faint, unpleasant warmth in her chest, the one that was returning more and more often. She pictured Bucky and Camila, three years earlier, in this very same open-plan office, sharing ideas late into the evening. She shook the image from her mind.
“Are you comfortable here?” asked Sofia. “I might not have been. But I am.”
Sofia looked at her for a long moment, then smiled slightly.
“Good.”
That evening, Bucky was waiting for her at the bottom of the block. They walked together towards the underground in the biting cold, their breath forming white clouds. He had draped his jacket over her shoulders without her saying a word, sensing that she was shivering. His arm brushed against hers from time to time, a protective gesture he made almost unconsciously.
“Lea’s excited about her internship at Amira’s,” he said.
“Did she send you a list of questions as long as your arm?”
“Five. Including one about the firm’s library and whether she can go there outside of working hours.”
Y/N smiled in the cold.
“Did she really ask that?”
“Yes. Amira replied that the people who want to use the library after hours are precisely the ones who deserve to be there.”
They continued walking in silence for a moment. Then Y/N spoke of Mila, her voice lower.
“She gets very attached.”
Bucky slowed his pace.
“I know.”
“Too much, perhaps.”
He stopped completely in the middle of the pavement. The wind blew a few strands of her hair about. He looked at her with that calm intensity that always disarmed her.
“Is something going to change between us?”
Y/N shook her head.
“No. I’m just asking the practical question.”
“We protect her by doing things right now. Not by anticipating tragedies that don’t exist.”
She took his gloved hand in hers. The warmth seeped through the leather. Bucky always had that way of saying things that soothed everything without downplaying it. One Thursday evening, during dinner in Dumbo, Mila put down her fork and looked at Bucky with her big, serious eyes.
“Bucky. Are you going to stay?”
The table fell silent. Lea looked up from her book. Y/N held her breath. Bucky didn’t bat an eyelid. He put down his own fork and replied with gentle gravity:
“Yes, Mila. I’m definitely staying.”
“Are you sure?
” “Yes. Because this is where I want to be.”
Mila nodded slowly, as if weighing every word.
“That’s a good answer.”
Then she went back to her pasta, as if the most important conversation of her young life had just been settled. Y/N met Bucky’s gaze across the table. There was something deep and solid in his eyes. She slid her hand under the table and squeezed his. He responded to the pressure, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand.
Later, once the girls were in bed, Bucky pulled her close to him on the sofa. He’d ordered food without her asking, knowing she often forgot when she was immersed in work. He’d also brought flowers that very morning, just because. Small, pale roses that now sat on the coffee table. His hands slid over her shoulders, slowly massaging away the knots that had built up.
“You’re tired,” he murmured against her hair.
Y/N closed her eyes, letting her head rest against his chest. The jealousy was still there, subtle but persistent. Every time she saw Camila at Alpine, smiling, competent, speaking with that natural confidence, she couldn’t help but imagine what they might have shared. The same late-night conversations, the same glances. She clutched Bucky’s jumper tighter.
“I’m here,” he said simply, as if reading her mind.
A few days later, Camila came to the studio for the first time. She climbed the three flights of stairs with apparent ease and entered with a calm presence that filled the room. She went straight to the raw linen, took it between her fingers, and held it up to the light.
“Where did you find this?”
“Williamsburg. All on my own.”
Camila nodded respectfully.
She examined the sketches one by one, lingering over the signature dress and jacket.
“The sleeves are better now. You’ve made the corrections quickly.”
“Thanks to your notes.”
They worked together for an hour. Camila gave precise feedback, sharp at times, but always spot on. At the end, before leaving, she paused in the doorway.
“Bucky seems… more at peace these past few months. Happy. I’ve known him for a long time. I can see the difference.”
Y/N remained silent. Those words lingered with her long after Camila had left. At peace. Happy. She knew it was true. Bucky was gentler, more present, more grounded. But the idea that Camila could still read him so easily made that dull ache rise in her chest. That evening, Bucky picked her up from the studio. He brought hot tea in a flask and an extra scarf, which he wrapped around her neck without a word. In the car, he placed his hand on her thigh, as he often did now, that quiet gesture of tender possession.
“Camila came round,” said Y/N.“I know. She sent me a message.”
Y/N looked out of the window. The lights of Bushwick flashed by.
“She said you looked happy.”
Bucky gently squeezed her thigh.
“I am.”
He turned his head towards her at a red light. His gaze was so intense, so completely focused on her, that her jealousy wavered for a moment. He leaned in and pressed his lips against her temple, holding them there for a long moment.
“You’re the only reason I’m like this, sweetheart.”
Y/N closed her eyes. The warmth of his mouth, the light pressure of his fingers on her leg, the familiar scent of his perfume… all of it soothed and stirred something within her at the same time. She placed her hand over his, squeezing it tighter. The days passed. The prototypes progressed.Bucky replied with the same quiet sincerity. And yet, even in these moments of deep tenderness, Camila’s presence continued to hang over them, discreetly, like an invisible seam that sometimes pulled a little too tight. Mila continued to grow attached, asking increasingly personal questions, mentally mapping out their shared future with almost frightening precision. Léa watched all this in silence, protective in her own way. George , in small, subtle ways, would occasionally send a message to Bucky to ask for news of ‘the little one’ and the collection.
The February cold grew even more biting, slipping between the bricks of Bushwick’s buildings and seeping right into the studio. Y/N now spent almost every evening there. The large solid-wood table bore the marks of endless hours: pencil marks, faint coffee stains, forgotten pins. Every time she laid her hands on it, she thought of her father, of her own worn table in their old flat, and something calm and painful settled in her chest. One Saturday morning, Mila arrived to explore the studio. She climbed the three flights of stairs with that precise rhythm of hers, notebook under her arm, hair barely done. When she pushed open the door, she stopped in the centre of the room and slowly turned round, taking it all in: the shelves, the fabrics, the light streaming in through the three windows, the sketches pinned up like an intimate map.
“The shelves are exactly as I planned,” she said in a serious voice. “Yes. Bucky had everything fitted exactly as you’d specified.”
Mila stepped closer to the raw linen and touched it with her fingertips.
“It’s rough. But honest.”
She then moved over to the wall of sketches, examining them one by one with an almost adult concentration. She paused for a long time in front of the signature dress.
“The visible stitching at the neckline. It’s proof that we’ve got nothing to hide.”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat.
“Exactly.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook, then asked a series of technical questions about the proportions, the finishes, the buttons. At the end, before leaving, she looked Y/N straight in the eyes.— It’s a good space. You’ve chosen well. Well… Bucky found it, but that’s because you’d written down exactly what you wanted. Y/N smiled and pulled her close for a quick hug. Mila let her, stiff at first, then a little more relaxed. When she went back downstairs, Y/N was left alone with the silence and the smell of fabric. She thought of this child who was becoming so attached, so quickly. And of what it might cost if anything were ever to falter. Bucky came to pick her up in the late afternoon.He brought in two coffees and a packet of biscuits, still warm from the local bakery. He knew she often forgot to eat when she was working. He set everything down on the table, then came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Your hands are cold.”
Without waiting, he took her fingers in his and gently warmed them. This simple gesture, repeated so many times, always stirred a deep warmth in Y/N’s chest. She let herself lean against him, feeling his solid body, his reassuring presence. Yet, when she closed her eyes, the image of Camila crossed her mind once more: that confidence, that shared past with Bucky, the way she intuitively understood the work.
“Camila came here,” she murmured.
“I know.”
“She said you’ve looked happy these past few months.”
Bucky tightened his embrace. His lips brushed her temple.
“I am. Thanks to you.”
He gently turned her to face him. His hands framed her face with infinite tenderness, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones. He looked at her for a long time, as if he wanted to etch every detail into his memory.
“What’s really going on in your head, sweetheart?”
Y/N hesitated, then shook her head.
“Nothing serious. Just… my mind’s been racing.”
He didn’t press the matter, but he stayed longer than expected, sitting on the windowsill, watching her work in silence. Every now and then, he’d get up to fetch her some water, adjust the light, or simply place a hand on her back. These small, constant gestures were his way of saying I’m here, I see you, I’m protecting you. The days passed. The prototype jacket finally arrived. Y/N tried it on in front of the large mirror leaning against the wall. The sleeve now fell perfectly, without that slight tension that had been there before. She sent the photo to Camila, then to Sofia. The replies came quickly, positive and precise. Bucky, for his part, received the same photo from Camila. When Y/N met up with him that evening, he showed her the message without hiding anything. “She says you deserve to be kept in the loop in real time.” Y/N nodded, but the phrase got stuck somewhere inside her. That familiarity between them, even if professional, continued to sting. One Friday evening, at Bucky’s place, after a long day, things eased a little. They were in the kitchen. Y/N was making tea whilst he read on the sofa. Without really planning to, she spoke:
“My father died on a Friday evening.”
Bucky put his book down immediately. He came over to her, silent and attentive. She continued, her voice calm but low, as she poured the hot water into the cups.
"I was thirteen. I often say fourteen because thirteen… it sounds too young. He was a tailor. He made clothes that lasted. He always turned every garment inside out to check the seams, even after weeks of work. He said that was the mark of someone who respected themselves.”
She carried the cups into the living room. They sat side by side. Bucky took her hand. “He died in his workshop, finishing a coat. We found him the next morning. The coat was finished. Perfect stitching. Bucky remained silent for a long time, his warm hand around hers. Then she spoke in turn, in a hoarse voice:
“My father lost a friend in the line of duty. He hardly ever talks about it. But he keeps a photo in the garage. When asked, he just says: ‘Someone who did things properly’.”
Y/N looked at him. Their pasts brushed against one another in that kitchen, simple yet heavy at the same time.
“Your father would have liked Thomas,” she murmured.
“He already does. He asked me when he could get a coat from the collection.”
She smiled faintly.
“I’ll make him the first one.”
Bucky pulled her close. He held her for a long time, one hand in her hair, the other on her back. That evening, he ran her a bath, brought in fresh flowers he’d bought for no particular reason, and made her a cup of herbal tea which he placed on the edge of the bath. When she came out, wrapped in a warm towel, he held her close to his chest as if she were the most fragile and precious thing in the world.
“I love you,” he whispered against her hair.
“I love you too.”
Y/N snuggles closer, breathing in his scent, feeling the warmth of his body.
