𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡 𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙨

You'd had less time to prepare. When Beth Johansson had visited family one last time ahead of the mission and came into contact with measles, you'd sent flowers and a box of sweet treats as an apology. You'd met during simulations and training in your part on the B Team, but you weren't close. You were dropped into the crew, a stranger.

The rest of them had history - inside jokes and habits built over two years of training. You had manuals and protocols. You had a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes and a gut-deep fear of being the weak link.

They knew you vaguely enough, from training and simulations, and your file information, but until you sat next to Vogel in the Ares cockpit, they didn't know you.

It had taken a frank conversation with Commander Lewis early on in the mission for you to accept the truth of your position: "You're not just some last-minute replacement. You're one of my crew. Start acting like it."

So, since then you'd been feeling good. Competent. Settled. Comfortable in your role, you even started to feel like part of the crew. Through the outbound journey, your time on Mars, your frantic leaving and the return journey.

Even the Rich Purnell maneuver didn't phase you. When you'd studied it, explained it, gone over and over it with the Commander and then with the rest of the crew, you'd flourished.

That lasted until about two and a half months ago - when your body decided to betray you halfway back to Mars.

It had never been an issue before. Not on Earth, not in isolation training, not even during the long, silent stretches of the journey so far. It was... a little beyond comprehension.

At first, you figured it was just stress - everyone has off days. But then days turned into weeks. Every attempt left you more wound up than when you started.

Sleep got harder. Concentration slipped. And worst of all, it wasn't something you could exactly bring up over breakfast.

You needed to get over it, and quickly. After a quick game of cards with Martinez, and a run on the treadmill, you took yourself back to your bunk, a woman on a mission.

You'd done everything right, set the mood (as much as you could in a single bunk on a spaceship), secured your privacy, and god knows you were tense enough.

You closed your eyes, breathed deeply. In, out, in, out. And then you let your hand wander. Brushing over your breast, raising goosebumps along the way, and down. Down into your sweatpants, pinned in place by the elastic. You opened your legs a fraction more, finding the sweet spot between space to move and friction.

You circled your clit slowly, breath hitching, chasing that flicker of heat. It built... kind of. Almost. Enough to keep going, not enough to tip over.

You pressed harder, changed pace.

But, as with every single other time for the last two and a half months, in trying to force it, your body just... wouldn't give.

The pressure fizzled out. Your hand stilled.

You lay there, skin flushed, jaw clenched, heart pounding with nothing to show for it.

Again.

Your body refused to cooperate, like someone had snapped the wires that connected your body to any kind of release.

This was getting stupid. Astronauts had faced worse challenges than not being able to orgasm.

Poor Mark was proof of that.

But god if it wasn't one of the most frustrating parts of space.

~~~~

By the time 'morning' hit your bunk in the form of a false dawn lighting system, you were in a foul mood. You floated through the ship, forcibly pushing your feet off the walls like an Olympic swimmer.

Lewis was nursing her rationed coffee, half a cup now, half a cup later. You had no such patience and not only took your daily ration, but the following days as well. Future you was going to fucking hate past you.

"You look like hell."

"Thanks, Commander," you sighed.

"You ok?"

"All good, just tired."

She narrowed her eyes at you, normally you loved her to-the-point attitude but today, you were not feeling it.

"I'm not buying it," she said shortly. "You're two snarky comments away from me scheduling a mandatory psych eval."

You smiled, just a little, although you weren't sure how much of her comment was true. "I'm just... dealing with stuff. It'll pass."

"Then talk to Beck?"

"No." You'd already made your mistake in refusing before she'd even finished the sentence.

Lewis set her coffee down slowly and looked you dead in the eye.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"I don't want to talk to him."

"You think you're the only one cracking a little out here? This mission isn't just about physical health. We all need to keep it together. Beck's trained for this kind of thing. Whatever you're bottling up, he can help."

"Commander, it's fine. I'm fine."

"You're not doing this alone, and I'm not letting it get worse. So... figure it out before I do it for you."

You sighed. Maybe that wasn't a bad idea... No! She was a married woman. She'd almost certainly say no.

Wouldn't she?

"Ok," you agreed quietly. "Ok, I'll figure it out."

You were going to talk to Beck. You'd go in, explain - calmly, clinically - and he'd be a professional about it, of course he would. He was a doctor. It would be fine.

He'd tell you what was happening, give you some tips, maybe even a workaround. You'd figure it out, get yourself off, and the whole crisis would be over.

Easy.

Simple.

A totally normal thing to ask your crewmate in the middle of a space mission.

You knew you should be able to talk to Beck but the very thought filled you with dread. You were already cursing yourself for developing a crush on the only other single person on the crew.

To have to have this conversation with him?

Your worst nightmare come true.

You might as well have been rocking up to elementary school totally naked, about to take a test you hadn't prepared for while your teeth fall out and the entire school laughs.

~~~~

You went to the med bay while desperation and two rations of coffee still coursed in your veins. It still took you forever to get there. You glided through the zero gravity spaces noiselessly.

"Beck, I need to talk to you. And I swear, if you laugh or log this, I will open an airlock."

He looked up immediately, concern flashing across his face.

"Hey. Ok. Yeah. Come in - what's going on?"

"Off the record?"

He closed his laptop slowly and raised both hands calmly.

"Completely. No notes, no judgment. You've got me."

You swallowed.

"I... have been stressed..."

Beck nodded, encouraging but quiet. He didn't fill the silence. He just waited.

Of course he did. He was good like that. Steady. Patient. A smile that make your knees buckle even in anti gravity.

God, that made it worse.

"And I haven't been sleeping well."

Still true. Still vague. Safe. At no point were you going to say the word orgasm.

He nodded again, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah, a lot of us are feeling it. Is it - like racing thoughts? Nightmares?"

"No. Well, yes, sort of. Just general... tension."

"Alright," he said gently, "do you want to talk through it? Or I can help with relaxation protocols - breathing exercises... Martinez came in the other day just for a hug."

"Huh, cute," you grimaced rather than smiled.

You were going to have to say it.

You were going to have to say the words: "I can't orgasm and it's driving me crazy."

You could do it.

You opened your mouth.

And instead you said:

"Maybe magnesium?"

Beck faltered. "Sure. Yeah, we can try that."

You nodded too fast.

"Great. Thanks. That's all. Sorry. Sorry I - yeah. Bye."

And then you were gone, heart pounding like you'd actually opened an airlock.

By the time you'd thrown yourself into work and had lunch with Vogel, a blister pack of magnesium tablets were waiting on your bunk. You figured it couldn't hurt to try, so you took one and prayed for a miracle.

It turned out, all of the current supplies of miracles were being used by Mark Watney patiently waiting on Mars for you to go back for him.

You lay there again, back arched, thighs tensed, fingers working in circles that used to get the job done.

Nothing.

Not even close.

You'd tried everything - slow, fast, edging, starting cold, starting hot. You'd closed your eyes and pictured someone else's hands, someone else's mouth. His hands. His mouth.

Still, your body refused.

Probably a good thing if you ever wanted to be able to look him in the eye again.

It was like trying to start a fire in a vacuum.

The worst part was how much it hurt. Not a physical pain, but somewhere in your gut. Deep and stupid and raw.

You wanted release. You wanted your own damn body back.

You turned over and bit your pillow, trying not to cry.

~~~~

You gave the magnesium a good try. It seemed like the sensible thing to do, but a week later, you were back.

No caffeine this time. Just stubbornness. And maybe a little shame.

Beck looked up, surprised but not unfriendly. "Hey. Did the magnesium work its magic, or you here for the hug too?"

You hovered in the doorway, guiding your feet to the floor and already regretting joining NASA in the first place.

"Um. No miracle. Still tense. Still... not sleeping."

Still sexually frustrated to the brink of madness.

He smiled gently, motioning for you to sit.

"Well, there are other options. Could be hormonal, neurological - space affects a lot. We can work through it. No pressure."

God, why did he have to be so nice?

You sat, fiddling with the cuff of your sleeve.

"So... hypothetically... if someone was experiencing... like... a persistent kind of tension. Physical. But not pain, exactly. More like... stuck energy."

Beck frowned. Then nodded, slowly.

"Ok... like muscle tightness? Or -?"

"No! I mean - not just that. More like..."

Abort. ABORT.

"Actually you know what? Forget I said anything. I think I'm just dehydrated."

You stood up.

"Dehydra -"

"Thanks. You're great. This was great. I'm gonna go... drink some water."

And before he could say a word, you were already halfway down the corridor, face hot, body still buzzing with the wrong kind of tension.

~~~~

You tried in the shower. It was a poor substitute for a roaring, piping hot shower, but it was something at least.

You braced your forearm on the wall and rested your head on it, the water running (dripping, really) down your back. Your right hand moved down, fingers curling inside.

Not deep enough.

Nowhere near deep enough.

You tried again - adjusted the angle, flexed your hand, breathed - come on.

But your body was a locked door, and the key just wouldn't turn.

You gasped out a frustrated breath, forehead slipping onto the cold wall.

The water kept tapping against your skin, slow and steady and utterly useless.

And for the first time since this whole mess started, you let yourself whisper it:

I need help.

The thing that terrified you most was that the help you needed was not in the abstract. Not in the "relaxation technique" kind of way.

It was in the hands-on kind of way.

Someone else's hands.

You couldn't think about that.

There had to be another way and Chris Beck was going to help you find it.

You shut off the water.

Toweled off, got dressed, and before you could talk yourself out of it again, you went to find him.

He was in the common area, being beaten at chess by Vogel.

You hovered awkwardly, trying to gauge how much attention you'd draw if you asked to speak to him.

Instead, you slumped down beside Martinez, who was shuffling cards.

"Poker?" he offered, raising a brow.

"Nah."

"Snap?"

You were about to.

"Yeah. Sure." You sighed.

Martinez dealt you both in, and you tried to focus on the game. You really did. But Beck was still in your periphery - calm, focused, chewing his lip as Vogel moved his knight.

Eventually, Vogel said something low in German that you didn't catch, but Beck laughed, shook his head, and stood.

"I'm gonna shut down the med bay," he said. "You need anything before lights out?"

The question was addressed to no one in particular, but your pulse jumped anyway.

You glanced at Martinez, who was too busy flipping his cards to notice you hesitating.

This was it.

You could get up.

You could follow him.

You let Martinez win, ruffling his hair as you left him to make your agonising trek to the med bay.

You hovered outside for way too long, watching the light through the hatch. He was moving around inside - locking drawers, powering down screens, tidying with that same quiet precision he always had.

You told yourself to leave.

You also told yourself to wait.

You didn't do either.

The door slid open with a soft hiss just as he turned toward it.

"Hey -" he started.

"I can't come, ok?!"

It was out before you could stop it. Loud. Sharp. Way too loud for a spaceship full of thin walls.

Beck froze. You froze.

To his credit, he didn't flinch.

Didn't laugh. Didn't even look surprised.

"That's actually... more common than you'd think under stress."

His tone was gentle. Medical. Matter-of-fact.

You were already flushing, words tumbling in a desperate, horrified whisper now:

"I've tried everything, Beck. I've tried so many times I've lost count. My body just - won't. I can't sleep, I'm wound so tight I feel like I'm going to explode. I need to fix it."

His expression softened just slightly - not pity. Not amusement. Just understanding.

"You want to sit down?"

You didn't.

You wanted to run.

You wanted him to help.

You had no idea what to say next.

You hovered like an idiot in the middle of the med bay, arms folded tight over your chest.

Beck leaned against the counter, watching you carefully. He didn't push. Just waited.

"I know this isn't exactly... urgent medical protocol," you said finally, staring somewhere near his collarbone. "But I've tried the stupid magnesium. I've tried yoga. I've read every article in the psych archive and I'm still..." aching. No, you couldn't say that. You exhaled sharply. "Still nothing."

God, this was the most mortifying conversation you'd ever had.

He nodded slowly. "You're dealing with a perfect storm. Stress, confinement, no privacy, no real bodily autonomy. It's not unusual. And it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"But it sucks," you snapped. "And I've had enough. I want one thing that's just mine, and my body won't even let me have it."

Silence fell again.

"There's gotta be something I can do, something I haven't thought of," you whispered pleadingly.

You stood there, breathing shallowly, the air in the med bay suddenly too warm. Beck hadn't moved closer. He hadn't looked away, either.

"I don't even know what I'm asking," you said finally, throwing your hands up. "I didn't come here with a plan."

"You don't have to have one," he said.

You looked at him, eyes searching. "If I asked for help... what... what would you suggest?"

He didn't answer right away. Just stepped gently into your space, careful not to touch you.

"If you ask," he said quietly, "I'll say yes."

Your eyes shot to his. He looked calm, maybe too calm, but there was something unreadable beneath it.

"What? You mean like...?" you started.

"I mean," he said, still gentle, still maddeningly professional, "if you needed... assistance, I wouldn't think less of you."

A moment passed.

Then, quietly he asked, "would it help if someone else touched you?"

You didn't answer out loud.

But the look you gave him was answer enough.

You looked away, ashamed. Heat crawling up your neck.

"I - no," you said quickly. "I mean... yes, probably. But - no. You're the medic. You'd get in trouble. I don't want this to be some... some ethical violation on a NASA report. Absolutely not."

He smiled softly. "Pretty sure that report would be redacted."

You huffed a laugh, but your arms were still crossed, hugging tight around yourself. "I'm serious, Beck."

"So am I." He took a cautious step forward. "I would never touch you without consent. And I would never treat you like a problem to solve. But you came to me. You asked for help."

"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd suggest... that."

You met his eyes again, and this time the air between you felt like something fragile - something you could break with a word.

He added, "I'm not offering out of duty. I'm offering because I care."

Your throat tightened.

Your hands opened, half surrendering. You weren't even sure you couldsay no.

Your voice came out small, barely a whisper.

"What if I say yes?"

He didn't move.

Didn't assume.

"Then... I'd take care of you." He said quietly, steadily.

"I should be able to fix this myself," you muttered.

"I know," he said quietly.

"It's probably just like... a brain block. Once I get over it..."

"Yeah."

You sighed. "They should allow vibrators in space."

He huffed a short laugh through his nose. "They really shouldn't. NASA would never survive the press leak."

"I want to say yes. I just... I don't know how to without sounding like a fucking deviant." You put your head in your hands and sighed.

Beck watched you, read you the way only someone trained - and maybe someone who cared - could.

"I think..." he started gently, "you should sleep on it."

You flinched.

Just a little, but it was enough.

He caught the flicker of devastation in your eyes before you could look away.

"Hey," he said, voice lower now, almost a whisper. "How long has it been since ..."

You didn't answer, your jaw clenched. You shook your head.

"That long?"

"I can't," you said, desperately. "I close my eyes and everything's tense. I can't unwind. I can't relax. My body's on this awful loop, and I can't break it."

He didn't say you should've come to me sooner. He didn't say you're overreacting.

He just nodded, steady and calm.

"Ok," he said. "Ok. We'll figure it out."

Not you'll figure it out. We.

You nodded, slowly at first, like your body didn't quite trust your mind to mean it.

Your voice was barely audible. "Not later. Not tomorrow. I can't keep doing this."

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened like he'd been waiting to see if this was what you needed.

"I've got you," he said quietly.

You inhaled, shaky but steadying. "I don't know how this works. I've never..." You trailed off, cheeks hot again. "It's not exactly a standard medical consult."

"No," he said. "It's not."

He took a cautious step forward, close enough for warmth, far enough for safety.

"But you don't need to know how it works. We start slow. We figure it out together. And if you say stop, I stop."

Your mouth opened to respond, but the knot in your throat stole the words. You just nodded.

He took a step back and you felt his absence immediately. He pulled the curtain across, shielding his examination area from the rest of the room.

When he returned, you drew in a shaking breath.

"This is so weird," you whispered.

"It doesn't have to be -"

"If you feel like this is some sort of obligation -"

"I don't. I want to help. You can still say no," he said softly. "Whenever you need to. If it's still not... happening -"

"I know," you said, eyes locked on his chest. "I just... I've forgotten what it's like not to feel like this. Like I'm constantly on edge."

His hand lifted, hovered in the air between you. "Can I?"

You nodded.

Fingertips brushed your arm, just a light touch, but it sent a tremor up your spine. Not from lust - not yet - but from relief. From not being alone in this.

"It's not weird," he promised. "It's human to want to be held. To want to be touched."

He stepped closer again, guiding you back a little to lean against his workstation. He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You could feel it already, the heat in your core tightening and building. His warm breath made you whimper. Goosebumps prickled all over. With his left hand on the workstation behind you, his right traced the waistband of your sweatpants.

You held your breath.

His fingers didn't rush. They just traced, slow and careful, reading every twitch of your breath, every shift in your body.

"Still ok?" he murmured.

You nodded, almost frantically, your body hummed with anticipation.

Then, finally, he slipped his hand beneath the fabric, and you let out a sound you hadn't meant to make. Not loud, but raw, aching.

"That's it," he whispered, more breath than voice. "Let me help."

He reached for you and your legs parted with far less hesitation than you'd expected. When his fingers brushed your core, you thought the dam was already going to burst. You weren't sure what to do with your hands, unsure whether to reach for him. Whether it was ok for you to touch him. You settled with gripping the edge of his t-shirt and bunching it in your hands, the soft cotton warm in your grip.

You were soaked, more than ready when he carefully slipped two fingers into you.

"Ohh, god -" you breathed, letting your forehead drop onto his shoulder.

"Yeah?" He asked, his voice strained and rough.

You nodded against him, your body eagerly bearing down on his hand. He drew his fingers back and pushed back in slowly, taking his time.

He moved with maddening patience, curling his fingers just enough to make you gasp.

Your grip on his shirt tightened, pulling him closer. He didn't stop you.

"Been like this for months?" he asked softly, his lips brushing your temple.

You could only nod, too far gone for words.

"Easy," he said, a little firmer. "You're doing so good."

Your hips rolled into his hand and you let out a soft, broken sob.

"Just like that," he said, the edge of restraint creeping into his voice.

You couldn't help the whimper that escaped you.

"Don't fight it. I've got you. Always." His thumb brushed against your clit, untouched til now, and your knees buckled.

Your hips jerked as his thumb circled again, more deliberate this time.

His breath hitched, just a little.

"Jesus," he whispered. "You're - God, you're perfect like this."

That was enough. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time, but it hit you like a freight train. Months of build up and failed attempts took your breath away and you cried out, muffling the sound in his shoulder. His name on your lips.

He held you through it, his hand slowing but not stopping until you'd stopped pulsing around his fingers.

You both stood totally still for a minute, his breathing just as ragged as yours.

"You ok?" He asked quietly.

You nodded and shifted slightly, his fingers - still inside you - found a new angle which made you sigh, and at the same time his breath hitched as you brushed against him.

He was hard.

Solid against your thigh.

You'd been so consumed that you hadn't realised.

He'd started moving again, "again?"

His voice was a low murmur, more breath than sound, but it curled warm through your chest.

You hesitated for just a second, "please -" you breathed.

He didn't ask for more. Just kissed your temple, and eased his fingers in and out slowly - so gently it made you shiver. You didn't realise how badly you wanted to be kissed until his lips brushed yours, tentative and soft. Testing.

You kissed him back. Immediately.

This time wasn't like the first. The first had been rushed and desperate and clinical. This felt like something new. Something that belonged to both of you.

He was surer this time. The awkwardness was still there - you still couldn't believe that you'd both almost suggested this solution together - but now he knew you weren't completely freaking out, he was leaning into it.

He leaned into you too, trapping you between his body and the workstation, his deft fingers reaching and curling mercilessly inside you.

Your hips bucked and rolled, you gasped, already sensitive, already teetering again. Your hands found his waist, anchoring there as his mouth found yours, deeper this time. Not hesitant now - hungry. Like something had been unlocked in both of you.

Your moan was swallowed into his mouth, your hips rolling into every movement of his hand. His other arm braced beside your head, steadying you both.

"You feel so good," he murmured against your lips, his voice low, rougher now. "You're so damn responsive."

You whined at that - words sinking deep, pulling your body tighter, hotter. He felt it too, the way you clenched around his fingers.

"Chris -" you gasped - warned - you weren't sure which.

"There it is," he whispered. "That's it. Don't hold back this time."

You didn't.

The second release crashed over you sharper, harder than the first. You buried your face in his neck, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, breath caught in your throat.

He didn't stop touching you until the aftershocks faded. Didn't pull away, either.

When you finally lifted your head, flushed and dazed, he was watching you like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened either.

Your eyes dropped between you, and only then did you register how hard he still was, pressed against your hip.

You hesitated, biting your lip.

"Should I -?"

He shook his head, brushing your hair back from your face.

"No. No, I can... I'm not having the same trouble as you."

That made you blush all the way to your toes.

The thought of him - of the hands that had just been inside you - pumping himself to release, quiet and alone, made something new twist inside your chest. With the clarity that came from your second orgasm, something else had taken root. Not just tension. Not just need.

Desire. Real and focused.

And now, for the first time, you weren't entirely sure who this had been for.

He didn't move right away. Neither did you.

The air between you was thick with something unspoken - something heavier than just release.

He stepped back first. Slowly. He let you go, giving you space to move away from the workstation.

You didn't quite meet his eyes.

"I should..." you started, voice hoarse. You cleared your throat, tried again. "I should go."

He gave a small nod, lips pressed together. "Yeah. Ok."

You turned to leave, then paused near the curtain. You looked over your shoulder - not at his face, but at the floor somewhere near him.

"This doesn't... mean I expect anything. I'm sure that's... I'm fine now. Should be good to just, y'know, go... solo."

"I know," he said gently. "Me neither. You - well, enjoy."

But there was something in his voice. Not regret. Not indifference. Something quieter. Something careful.

"I just..." You hesitated. "Thank you."

That made him smile, soft and tired. "Anytime."

You weren't sure if he meant that like a joke, or if it was literal. You weren't sure what you wanted it to mean.

You slipped through the curtain and out into the ship, pulling the door closed behind you before anyone could see.

You went back to your bunk, mind racing. The first time could almost be considered medicinal, you thought. Victorian doctors used to do that, right? Treat 'hysteria' with a well-placed orgasm. Hand cramps and everything. At least Beck had the decency not to charge for it.

The second time? You weren't sure you were ready to dwell on that.

You had felt borderline hysterical, and now? You couldn't remember feeling so peaceful.

~~~~

The next morning, you woke up before the lights even shifted.

Not because of stress. Not because of the usual gnawing, skin-tight anxiety that had wrapped itself around your nerves like a second skin since Sol something or other.

You were just... awake.

You'd slept. Actually slept. The kind of deep, dreamless sleep that left you feeling like you'd borrowed someone else's body - someone rested. Someone sane.

For the first time in weeks, you didn't feel like screaming into the vacuum.

And then you remembered why.

The flush rose in your cheeks. The memory came back in fragments - your desperate voice in the med bay, Beck's hands, the look in his eyes. His mouth on yours.

You buried your face in your pillow and groaned.

How on earth - or not - were you supposed to act normally.

You ate your breakfast like a person who hadn't come apart for the ship's medic just twelve hours ago. You smiled at Martinez's terrible jokes. You nodded along to Lewis's briefing. You even managed to remember some of the German you'd been learning with Vogel.

Beck, for his part, played it cool.

He sat further along the table, jeered with Lewis about some suggestions NASA had sent up.

Did he regret it? Did he want to pretend it didn't happen? Had you hallucinated the whole thing?

By the time lunch rolled around, and you'd caught up on your work, you found yourself drifting towards the med bay.

He looked up from his tablet as you stepped inside.

"Hey," you said, trying to sound casual, hoping it worked.

"Hey," he replied, equally neutral. Then, after a pause, he asked, "you sleep ok?"

You hesitated.

"Like the dead."

There was a flicker of a smile on his lips. Just a flicker. But it was enough to settle the knot in your stomach.

You weren't crazy. It happened. He remembered.

Things went back to normal.

You were more focused. Less on edge and irritable. It felt like a reset.

A few days later, you settled in your bunk, your hand reaching into your shorts.

You followed the path his hand had taken, like some kind of lucky charm. You even closed your eyes and let yourself think of him - his voice, steady and warm in your ear. The way he'd kissed your temple. God, the praise. The way he'd looked at you like you weren't unraveling, like he wanted to see you come apart.

Your fingers moved slower, more deliberately. You tried to recreate the rhythm. The angle. The pressure.

It wasn't the same.

You shifted, trying again. Focused harder. Thought about his breath catching when your thigh had pressed against him. About the heat in his eyes when you'd whispered please.

Still nothing.

You let your hand still. Breathed out hard.

"Seriously?" you muttered to the ceiling.

You waited a second. Then rolled onto your side, pulling the blanket over your head like it could smother your frustration.

You couldn't go back again.

You just couldn't face it.

It was not realistic for you to spend the next two years unable to make yourself come.

He couldn't be the only way out of this situation.

You started avoiding him completely.

Not in a dramatic way, and definitely not in a way the Commander would notice. You were subtle - taking a longer route to the lab, skipping the usual post-briefing coffee refill you knew he'd be at, ducking into your bunk just before lights-out instead of lingering in the common area.

But Beck was observant.

It only took three days for him to seek you out.

You were tucked into one of the far-side workstations, supposedly reviewing data logs. You weren't. The same paragraph had been blinking at you for half an hour.

He appeared without a sound, leaning lightly against the bulkhead.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked quietly.

You jumped.

"What?" you blurted, too fast, too loud.

His gaze stayed level. Steady. "You've been avoiding me."

You gave a weak laugh. "No, I've been... busy."

He didn't push, but he didn't back off either. Just crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Then, like he knew it was coming, the frustration hit.

"Fine," you whispered, voice sharp with embarrassment. "I thought maybe it was just the reset I needed, you know? That I could pick up from there, that my body just needed a jumpstart or something, but -" you cut yourself off, exhaling harshly. "Turns out, I'm still broken."

Beck stepped in closer, slow and careful like you were something fragile. "You're not broken."

You didn't look at him.

"Pretty sure I am."

"I wasn't sure if you'd want to talk," he said, voice low. "But... I'm here."

You looked up at him. That steady calm. The offer, just hanging there.

And you didn't need to say anything. He already knew.

You stared at the console, jaw tight.

Then, finally, you said, without looking at him, "I know."

Another silence. Not uncomfortable, just... charged.

"I'll be in the med bay later."

Then he was gone, leaving you alone with your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

~~~~

The lights in the corridor felt dimmer than usual as you ghosted through corridors. You told yourself it was fine. That it was just like before. But you weren't sure that was true.

The door slid open with a hiss.

Beck was there - alone, waiting, his expression unreadable but calm. He didn't say anything at first. Just met your eyes like he'd been listening out for you the whole time.

You stepped inside, your heart thundering.

Neither of you said a word.

You both moved forward at the same time, his hand brushed yours, fingers curling just slightly, and you didn't pull away.

Without a word, he pulled you behind the curtain.

Your heart was hammering now - not with panic, but anticipation.

He turned to you, eyes searching.

And you made the choice.

You reached up and kissed him.

Soft, sure.

This time, there was no hesitation. No fumbling. Just the warmth of his mouth on yours, the tension melting between you like it had been waiting for this.

You arched into him, your hands sliding up his chest to wind around his neck. He seemed momentarily at a loss with what to do with his own, but when your t-shirt rode up to expose your skin, they found their purpose again. His palms were warm on your ribs, resting in the curve of your waist.

You let your tongue trace the line of his lower lip, and he stilled. Just for a moment.

Then he made a soft sound - surprise, maybe - and kissed you back like he meant it this time. Like he wanted it too.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, and when your hips pressed to his, there was no mistaking how much he wanted you.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding him close. But you needed something more than touch.

"Did you... after I left?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "Did you -"

He stilled. Just for a moment. Then nodded once.

You could feel the heat fill your body, crawling up your chest, and down to settle in your core.

He nudged you backwards to the consultation bed.

"Should we be doing this in here?" You asked against his mouth.

"Depends what this is. It's a little different to last time?" He asked.

You nodded, barely. "Yeah."

He searched your face. "Is that ok?"

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. "Yeah. I want -" You faltered, then said, "You."

That was all it took.

He gave you a look that suggested he'd be picking that conversation thread back up later, but then quickly lifted you to sit on the bed.

His hands gripped your hips, steady and sure, as he settled between your knees.

"And this?" he asked, voice low.

You nodded, pulling him in by the front of his shirt.

And then he kissed you again - deeper this time, less cautious.

It was hundreds of Sols without being touched, or held or kissed. It wasn't just wanting, but the relief of finally having permission.

His fingers dug into your hips as if grounding himself, as if he needed proof you were really here. You couldn't stop touching him - his jaw, his chest, the back of his neck - like you'd forgotten what it felt like to touch someone else.

You kissed like you'd both been starving for it. Your hands clung to each other, not frantic, just certain.

No more pretending this was just relief - for either of you.

His fingers flexed at your waist, and he exhaled like he was steadying himself.

And then -

He dropped to his knees.

Not rushed. Not demanding. Just... deliberate.

You stared down at him, stunned.

This wasn't clinical. This wasn't controlled. It wasn't even casual.

It was him, on his knees, like he'd made up his mind days ago.

Your breath hitched.

"I -, wait, what -" you tried, but the words failed.

He looked up at you, steady, sure. "Can I?"

No pressure. No assumption. Just... offering.

Your whole body answered before your mouth could. You nodded.

He leaned in, slowly and deliberately without taking his eyes off you. He slipped your sweatpants down, and when his mouth found you, your head tipped back with a sound you couldn't contain.

"Shit, oh god -" you gasped.

It had been so long you'd lost all concept of time, but you'd been on the Rich Purnell maneuver for ages already. Over halfway back to Mark, waiting for you all. You'd been away from Earth for nearly two years.

It was embarrassing how one slow swipe of his tongue had you whimpering, how his breath on your inner thigh made you tremble.

His hands anchored you in place more than any artificial gravity could, strong and steady - tightening slightly as he adjusted his grip. You could feel the calluses on his fingertips pressing into your skin, a reminder of who he was outside this moment. Capable. Calm. Always in control.

Now, he was using that control on you.

He didn't rush. Every movement of his mouth was deliberate, exploratory. Like he was mapping you - learning you by feel and sound and taste. The softness of his tongue, the way he flattened it and dragged it slowly. The stubble on his jaw grazing your thigh just enough to make your hips twitch.

You couldn't keep still. One of your hands found his shoulder, clinging to him, the other twisted in the fabric of your shirt where it bunched near your stomach.

"Chris -" you breathed, voice cracking.

He glanced up just briefly, eyes dark and focused. His lips were already slick, his mouth working you open with slow, devastating patience. And when he finally closed them around you - just enough suction to make your vision blur - you cried out, head tipping back, spine bowing.

You felt like you were burning alive from the inside out.

He was merciless. Unbothered that you were both wildly out of practice, unused to even the slightest platonic touches, let alone this.

You pushed his shoulder, needing him to stop but unable to speak.

He paused immediately, lifting his head.

"Too much?" he asked, voice low, rough.

You shook your head, breathless. "No - yeah... just... give me a second."

Your chest was heaving, your thighs trembling where they bracketed his shoulders. Every nerve in your body was singing, stretched tight from neglect and now lit up like a mission critical console warning.

He didn't move far, just rested his cheek against your thigh. Grounding. Solid. Present.

"You're not broken," he murmured again like he was determined to prove it to you.

"Well, no, apparently not. Not when you - oh, fucking fuck - when you do that -" your rebuttal was lost to his insistent mouth.

He huffed a laugh against you, and the vibration made your hips jerk.

Your hand fisted in his hair, not to push him away this time, but to keep him there, anchored.

He didn't let up.

Didn't ease off.

Like he wanted to rewrite every memory your body had of being let down, left wanting.

Like he needed to prove it wasn't just release - it was care, it was connection, it was him.

You came apart with a sob. Literal tears of relief, legs shaking, your fingers digging into his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you on the ship.

He didn't stop until you gasped his name - half plea, half prayer.

When he finally pulled back, his face was flushed, eyes blown wide. He looked proud.

You couldn't move. Couldn't think. Only stared down at him, chest heaving, heat still blooming through every nerve.

"You're crying," he murmured, getting to his feet. You sat up slowly, legs trembling as he reached for you, wrapping his arms around you.

"I'm OK," you insisted, "I'm fine, totally fine."

"Totally lying," he said quietly.

"It was just..."

"A lot."

You nodded against him.

His hand slid slowly up your back, fingers light, comforting.

"It was good," you whispered. "God, it was -" You couldn't finish. Just breathed in his scent, let yourself feel how solid he was against you.

He didn't rush you. Didn't ask for anything. Just held you.

You pulled back eventually, enough to see his face. His eyes searched yours.

"I want to," you said quietly.

He shook his head. "No. No we're not keeping score, this is for you. I'm not going anywhere."

You let out a shaky breath and leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. "I know."

The silence stretched, comfortable and strange.

You got dressed and sat side by side on the edge of the bed, shoulders touching.

You broke it first. "So... that happened."

He let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah. Definitely did."

Silence, again, but it wasn't awkward. Just thoughtful.

Then he said, almost too casually, "I've thought about you, you know. Since before. Since Sol... I don't even know. Lost count."

You turned your head toward him. "Me too."

He looked at you properly then, eyes softer than you'd ever seen. "Didn't really work though. Not the same."

"No," you whispered. "Guess I needed you."

He nudged your knee. "Yeah, well. For the record? I really, really didn't mind."

You smiled, a real one this time, and let your head rest lightly on his shoulder. The moment held.

There was no going back. But maybe neither of you wanted to.

You stayed like that a while - shoulder to shoulder, words thinning out, breaths falling into sync.

No promises. No grand declarations. Just something quieter. Steadier.

Eventually, you said, "Maybe that's why I couldn't do it alone."

He turned, brows raised. "Hmm?"

"I thought I was broken. But maybe I just... needed you."

Something in his face shifted. A softness. A stillness.

"I was always here," he said.

"I know," you said. "I think that was the problem. I was working so hard to not think about you."

A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and real. He didn't push, didn't ask for more. Just sat with you in it.

Outside the curtain, the ship hummed its steady song. But something between you had settled --- not fixed, exactly. Just seen.

And maybe that was enough.

FIN

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He doesn’t like to ask for things, but that doesn’t stop his head from running wild with lewd, obscene images that almost make him blush. He’s got a vivid imagination, and he’s spent more showers and nights than he’ll admit indulging in it. The images of you on your knees, ass up and cunt exposed—or folded in half beneath him, or riding his cock and crying his name—seep into his dreams, until he can’t close his eyes without being haunted by the idea of how gorgeous you’d be, coming apart for him. Even after you get together the dreams won’t relent. You’ve woken up many nights to Bucky almost humping you in his sleep, his eyes fluttering and your name falling from his lips. You indulge him, and pretend you don’t notice the dark stain on the front of his sweats in the morning. It’s hotter than he needs to know, anyway.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Back in the 40s he might’ve been called a womanizer, but the standards were different. Fooling around wasn’t too kinky, and often didn’t really even go past second base. And after Hydra, intimacy was mostly forgotten. Bucky knows what he’s doing, but with your body more than his own. He’s good at the hand and mouth stuff—so good you sometimes still can’t believe it—but penetration takes a while for you both to build up to. Sometimes he still blows it a little early when you put your mouth on him, not used to that kind of warmth and care. He’s a quick learner, though, and it doesn’t take long for you both to find a nice, shared rhythm in how you fuck.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

At first, when you’re still learning each other, he says there’s nothing better than some good, old fashioned missionary. It’s the good, Christian boy in him coming back out, taught well by his Ma that rough is no way to treat a lady. But then you talk him into doggy, and he’s a goner. The way he gets to hold you up with a single arm and play with your clit with the other, the way your arms give out from how well he’s giving it to you, the vision of your ass in the air, it’s enough to drive a man mad. Combine that with how you moan when he forces your back to arch—giving him an even deeper angle, making your walls clench down around him like a sin—and he never stood a goddamn chance.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He might’ve been playful before, and after a while he starts to find it again, but sex is mostly something serious. It’s close, vulnerable, impossibly intimate. He doesn’t do casual, and it shows. A single smile might not be cracked some days, but the worship of your body more than makes up for it. His brow gets furrowed in concentration, his mouth hangs open with awe, and if you’re lucky, his lips twitch slightly when you shiver under his touch. He calls you perfect, and you’ve never believed anyone more.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

The military training doesn’t fade away. Bucky keeps himself clean and neat, more for himself than anyone else. He lets a little hair grow out as he settles into an easier life, but it’s well-groomed and clean. When his chest hair comes back he thinks about keeping that shaven as well, but you just manage to talk him out of it. He lets you have that. It’s another thing he learns to love about himself, just because of you.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

While reserved at first, Bucky quickly becomes the most romantic man you’ve ever known. Random gifts are frequent, too the point that you’re so spoiled as to expect them. It translates smoothly into sex, where he gives and gives and gives until you almost can’t take it anymore. Praise is showered down like flower petals, affection whispered into your skin and kissed onto your lips. You can almost feel his love in every single touch, and even if you couldn’t, it falls from his lips like a prayer when he’s buried inside of you. He kisses you almost every second, everywhere he can reach, every inch of you that he wants you feel.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Before he met you, it was something he did quick and fast in the shower when he needed some release. An itch he needed to scratch, a way to quickly relieve stress before moving on with his day. But then you’re there, and it becomes another part of his devotion. It starts with shame—his head bowed, his hand braced on the wall, his cum slipping down the drain while he pretends it’s on your face—but quickly evolves into something more. He whispers your name into countless pillows and sheets before he has you, then discovers his favorite part of this century. Calling you while he’s away, and moaning your name into the phone while you gasp his, and he hears your pussy, wet and ready for him in the background.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Bucky loves your voice. How it gets breathy and high for him when he’s got you on the edge, how it whimpers and calls out his name like a song, even how it scolds him when he gets on your bad side. You could say anything to him, and he’d find his pants getting tight and his hands flexing to touch you. You notice, and whisper sweet nothings in his ears when you want to work him up. He grunts and forms a fist on his thigh, trying to stop himself from tossing you onto the table and giving you something to really moan about.

He’ll never admit it, but there’s nothing he loves more than wrapping around you like a shield. Than—even if he’s not—feeling bigger than you, like a protector rather than a weapon. When you’re cradled in his arms he feels almost worthy of it, when your little pussy tightens around him, he’s sure this is exactly where he needs to be, and when your hands tangle together and his envelopes yours, he’s sure he’s never going to let go.

There’s nothing more he loves more than a mouthy girl who can tell him off and boss him around, half because you’re never sexier than when you’re confident, and half because that’s a confidence and sass he gets to fuck right out of you. The one place he wants you dumb and babbling is below him, trusting that he’s taking good care of you, blinking up at him with doe eyes and a blown out, cockdrunk expression. You get the attitude right back when he’s done, but he just chuckles and rolls his hips just right, making you stutter and whine. His girl is nice and stupid for him, and just him, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bucky doesn’t know how good it can feel to take you against the wall or in the kitchen until he does, and suddenly he wants to fuck you in every corner of the apartment. There shouldn’t be a place that you haven’t felt good in, a spot in this home that doesn’t know how perfect you are. And after testing every single surface and edge, he finds that he might be in love with taking you on the floor. There’s something desperate and dirty about it, that you can’t wait for the bed to crawl all over him and bed. He gets to cradle you in his arms and keep you safe from the low windows of your apartment, or hold you above him and protect you from the ground. You’re even more of a mess after, when he takes you like that, and that’s just how he likes it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

At first it’s small things. Touches and flashes of bare skin that make him feel like a teenager again, a kiss on his cheek that makes his cock twitch or a squeeze of his shoulder that forces him to squeeze his eyes shut for control. Then you get more comfortable together, and you start sassing him, and he’s never realized he could be this fucking horny. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying or how you’re saying it, if you’re talking at him—rolling your eyes or bossing him around or huffing about something silly—he wants to crawl over you like a tiger and kiss you until you’re giggling and starry eyed. There’s nothing better in the world than his smart girl, and there’s no one better to deal with it than him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

The lines are harsh and clear, grooved into the bedrock of your relationship, along with Bucky’s trust. Nothing with binds, nothing where he can’t see you, nothing in public and nothing that might really hurt you. His metal hand doesn’t go around your throat, you tap out immediately if anything is too much, and you tell him exactly what you want so he can give it, and nothing more. And he gives it. Over and over with ease, but only as you ask. And you ask. He’s too good not to.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Bucky likes eating you out, a little more than he thinks he should. It’s easy to him, a simple way to get on his knees and show you just how good he can make you feel. You get whiny, when he’s got his head between your thighs, and that’s just how he likes you. Writhing and squirting on his face, pulling at his hair until he groans your name against your cunt, and you let out a strangled gasp of his name. It makes him feel more human, more grounded, and so impossibly real. You’re softer than anything else he’s ever known, and tasting you is the closest he can get to being drunk. When you get on your knees for him, though, he sometimes tries to pull you back up. He never wants you to feel like you have some kind of obligation, and it can take a while to convince him you’re there because you want to be. He always comes apart embarrassingly fast, when your warm lips wrap around his cock. It’s hard to blame him. You just have that effect.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He can go fast and rough, but you have to beg him for it. He never wants to go harder than he has to, and there’s a low fear under every movement that he’s going to snap you in half. He prefers to kiss every inch of your body and draw out the time he’s buried inside of you, losing himself in your heat and dazed, adoring expression. He can be mean like that, if you want him to be. The pace has nothing to do with teasing you like you deserve, with slow, lazy thrusts that bully against your g-spot, giving so much and not enough, all at once. Making you cry for him, perfectly safe and wound tight enough to burst beneath him, just how he likes you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Sex is important enough that Bucky doesn’t like rushing it, but sometimes you get to him—bending over in a little dress, sitting on his lap and rolling your hips in the way you know drives him mad—and his cock gets so hard he can’t help himself. If there’s no one around he’ll hitch up your skirt or shove his hand into your pants, playing with your little pussy until you’re dripping for him and begging. When he decides you’re ready he thrusts in brutally, rutting up into your cunt with his face pressed into your neck and his moans low and desperate. You both cum with gasps, and Bucky slaps your sensitive clit. He’ll nip at your neck and warn you not to tease him again. You never listen. You know he likes it too much.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Maybe when he was younger, Bucky might’ve let a pretty girl talk him into something crazy, but now he’s old. Tired half the time, itching to get out of his skin the other half, sure what he likes in bed and—more importantly—sure of what he doesn’t. You’re the only one who can get him to take the small step outside his comfort, because he knows you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really want it. And there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for you. A small experiment that makes you cum all over him is a small sacrifice to make .

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The super solider serum has it’s benefits, and this might be the only one that Bucky never regrets. Before he was batting a strong two or three with proper recouperation time, but now he can go up to ten without flinching. He’s more than grateful for it. He’s worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with you, if he didn’t have that extra leg up. Your appetite for him is so great that you push him to his limits, and he didn’t know that was possible, but he still lets you every time. You seem determined to find out exactly how long he can go for. He’d be worried about it, if he wasn’t having the time of his life.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

A lot of things have changed in the past century, and toys are a one of the things Bucky hasn’t really gotten yet. He doesn’t need one for himself, and he’s of the mind that—with how expensive vibrations are—there’s no need for you to have one either. He’s got a mouth and cock that can go all night, and a metal arm that can work like a toy if you’re that needy and desperate. You’d never thought to throw out your vibration until you had a massive super soldier next to you in bed. Metal fingers can fuck you until tears are springing to your eyes, and he can move his thumb so fast across your clit it basically feels like you’re at the mercy of a toy. A toy with soft lips, that drawl low praise and look at you like you’re an angel. Who could need anything else?

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Bucky doesn’t like to be too public or obvious—another roll over of 40s sensibilities—but if you’re begging for it, he won’t stop himself from landing a sharp, teasing slap on your ass or tracing his fingers up your inner thighs. Never enough to make you do anything rash, but that’s not his goal. He wants to see you squirm and flush, to smell that sweet arousal pooling between your legs. He’s making sure that, when he finally does get his hands on you, you’ll be more than ready for him. Just how he likes it.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s not too loud unless you really get him going. Most praise and dirty talk is whispered in your ear or against your skin, and his own grunts and moans are low and controlled. But then you get your mouth on him, or clench down on his cock just right, and a deep, loud moan rumbles through his chest. You toy with his balls in a trembling hand, and he doubles over with lidded eyes, almost shouting your name for the whole of New York to hear. You smile at him, kissing every roar off his lips, and his control starts to slip, only for you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Phone sex is something he never wants to give up. He has to leave frequently, for missions and meetings and work, and the knowledge that you’re still thinking of him like he’s thinking of you almost gets him there all on its own. A lewd part of him likes the idea that someone might hear him calling your name through the thin hotel walls, so everyone knows how well you’re worshipped, how thoroughly he adores you. He likes just the sound of your voice calling his name. He thinks he could make it off of phone sex only, for at least a month. He’d need you back eventually, but this is almost enough.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Bucky was packing before the serum, but it didn’t neglect his cock when it made everything bigger. The first time you see him, you’re worried you’ll barely even be able to get the head in. He’s got a cock so big it makes your mouth water and your eyes prick with tears from just sliding between the lips of your pussy. Once you tried to talk him into a dildo because it would’ve been smaller and easier. He always kisses your brows and coos that you can take it, and you can, but barely. The stretch hits places inside of you that you didn’t know you had, and Bucky has the nerve to be sweet and humble about it. It just makes it easier, though. So, so much easier, when that monster cock is attached to that perfect man.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Before you, it was more of an itch that he really couldn’t ignore, no matter how he tried. He had a drive, but it was more mechanical. Then you strolled into his life, and suddenly he’s something akin to an animal. You can walk around the apartment in pajamas and slippers, and Bucky feels his dick twitch to attention. He wants to be as close to you as he can, all the time, and if that means bending you over the closest surface and showing you just how much he loves you, than so be it.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He might not need it like most people, but Bucky loves his sleep. He’d keep you both in bed all day, just cuddling and napping and having mindblowing sex if he was allowed to. Once you’re both settled and cleaned up, you’re not allowed out of bed for at least a few hours so Bucky can get some rest. He sleeps better after sex, and better with you in his arms, and the two combined can even work to keep the nightmares at bay. He tells you that it’s all you, but you think it’s him. Working to get past it, to stay with you, to find slices of peace and hold onto them, with you laying right where you belong, at his side.

It turns out that running for Congress isn't all sunshine and rainbows, especially when you have a past as colorful as Bucky's. And it seemed like you were the only person who knew that he never wanted to do those things, that he was forced into taking the lives of all those people. Or maybe all these people did know, and just enjoyed throwing it back in his face to get a reaction from him.

You couldn't even count on your hands the amount of times someone whispered the words "Winter Soldier" around the two of you, as if it was a failing on Bucky's part. He didn't ask to fall off a train, be kidnapped and tortured, and turned into a killing machine. And people knew this—he'd been cleared of his transgressions for years now. They just didn't have the common decency to keep their comments to themselves.

"Are you sure that you want to go to this banquet tonight? I'm pretty sure most of the people that are going to be there have all but submitted their ballot." It wasn't that you didn't think Bucky could manage to change their minds; you knew better than anyone how charming and persuasive he could be. In truth, you just didn't want to leave the house tonight. The Food Network was calling your name.

"It can't hurt to try." Bucky says, shooting you a knowing smile. He knew this was a very poor attempt at getting him to cuddle in bed with you, and as much as he wanted to give in, he had a job to do. "When we get home, I'll run you a nice bath, pour you a glass of wine, and we can relax for a bit. How does that sound, baby?"

"Let me get this straight; you're going to spend all night kissing the ass of everyone we come into contact with, but when we get home you want to spoil me?" You laugh as you adjust his tie, shaking your head in mock disappoint. "What happened to putting yourself first, Mr. Barnes? You know how important self care is to me."

"That'll be Congressman Barnes to you soon enough, Mrs. Barnes." He mutters as he stares down at you, his metal arm wrapping around you to bring you closer.

"Careful, Bucky. Don't start something that you know we can't finish; we have to be out the door and in the limo in like 5 minutes." You say, waving a teasing finger at him.

"Hm, and how do you expect me to keep my hands to myself when you look this good?" Bucky's arm tightens ever so slightly around you, and if this were any other time, you would've taken the bait and tore his clothes off. But the two of you had business to attend to, and if you had to suffer, so did Bucky.

"Nice try. Come on, we need to get going." You say as you grab your clutch, ignoring the dramatic groan coming from behind you.

"I hope you know that you're going to pay for that later." Bucky calls as he watches you walk down the steps.

As much as you hated to admit it, you weren't having the worst time at this gala. The space was decorated beautifully, unlike some of the previous ones that you'd been to. You'd seen kindergarten classrooms that were less garish. And they were serving the good alcohol, so that was always a bonus.

You were standing off to the side while Bucky talked to one of the other candidates—one of the men who probably only ran to uphold his "family legacy" at the demand of his mother and father. The family legacy that has kept New Yorkers down and out of power for years, if you had to guess.

Usually, Bucky could handle your average pompous asshole. But you could tell that even this one was starting to get to him; his jaw was locked, he hadn't even opened his mouth in at least 3 minutes, and he was holding onto his glass of whiskey.

You could save him, theoretically. But being able to sit back and watch as he tried to keep control of the situation? Well, that was a much more fun option. So you stayed rooted in your spot, swirling an olive around in your half empty martini glass.

"Isn't he just so handsome?" Someone said as they came up to stand on your left. You look over to see an older woman, probably in her mid to late 50s, ogling your husband. As if she could ever have a shot at him.

"He is." You state simply, deciding to humor her a little. "Wouldn't it be nice to have someone in Congress that isn't covered in wrinkles and grey hairs?"

"Hey, greys and wrinkles aren't all that bad." She says with mock offense. "Although, I guess I wouldn't know. I froze my face before I hit 30, just to make sure of it."

Alright, maybe this lady isn't all bad. "So, is that handsome man over there the one you plan on voting for?" You ask as you gesture towards Bucky.

"I'm not entirely sure yet. His policies are solid, especially for a first time runner, and he seems hellbent on making sure that he makes a change." The old woman paused, tilting her head almost thoughtfully as she looked at Bucky. "But I'm just not sure. I mean, how can we trust someone who's been through all the things he's been through to not…fall into old habits? I mean, can brainwashing like that ever truly be undone?"

If this had been a couple years ago, those words would have gotten to you. Not because you believed them or you hadn't heard people say them to or around you a dozen times, but because Bucky had said them to you on multiple occasions. When he first came off the ice in Wakanda, he didn't believe that he could really be fixed.

"You shouldn't be thinking of it as something that needs to be fixed." You'd told him. "Think of it more so as you returning to your old self. The you who would step in between Steve and that week's bully without a moment of hesitation."

But it had worked. You knew it did, because Bucky would still make you test it sometimes. Just to make sure.

So when you responded to her, it came from the mouth of James Buchanan Barnes' biggest supporter, because you had seen all the work he had put into making sure he never turned into that person again. "I can assure you, he has everything under control. If something were going to happen, don't you think it would have happened by now? There is nothing for you to worry about; if Bucky is elected, there will be zero chance of him harming anyone. I can promise you that."

"My, that was quiet a response." The lady says with a chuckle. "What are you, his campaign manager or something?"

"Actually, she's my wife." Bucky says as he comes up to your other side. You'd been so focused on this lady and her unwanted commentary, you'd taken your eyes off of Bucky. "You wouldn't mind if I stole her for a quick dance, would you?"

"Of course not." She says, waving a dismissive hand. As if she hadn't spent the past few minutes implying that your husband would fly off the rails and start killing people in the middle of a congressional meeting. Bucky shoots her an appreciative smile, taking your glass and setting it on the tray of a waiter passing by before grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the dance floor.

"You looked like you were about to pounce on that lady, doll. It's a good thing that I got there when I did, or that would've seriously hurt my chances of winning this thing." He jokes as the two of you step onto the dance floor. "What was that all about?"

"Just an old lady who had no idea what she was talking about." You shrug, letting Bucky take the lead in your dancing. "Nothing to worry about."

"Oh yeah? That's not what it looked like. At least, not from where I was standing." Bucky says with a smirk. "Come on, tell me what she said that's got you all so worked up."

"I am not worked up." You say defensively, not missing the way his eyebrow raises. "Okay, fine, maybe I am a little worked up. But I already didn't want to come to this stupid event tonight, and having to stand there listening to her act like the Winter Soldier was going to come out and strangle her to death made me a little angry. So what? I'd say that it's perfectly normal to get upset when someone calls the character of your husband into question."

Bucky shakes his head, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think he too was upset by this news. But you did know better, so you could tell from the look on his face that he was trying his hardest to hold back his laughter. "I thought that you would be used to those stupid comments by now, baby. What happened to the girl that used to tell me to block all of that bullshit out?"

"She's on vacation." You grumble as Bucky spins you around. When you fall back into him, his arm wraps around your waist to pull you closer.

"You just have to let this stuff go. Like water off a duck's back, you know?" At your unimpressed look, he looks at you and smile. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because that's something that only grandpa's say." You say with a snort. "I know that you're like, over a hundred years old, but you don't have to sound like it too."

"Careful, young lady. You're already on thin ice because of earlier, remember?" He says as the two of you sway to the rhythm of the slow song.

"Oh no, I'm shaking in my boots." You say sarcastically as you roll your eyes.

Bucky chuckles and shakes his head, looking down at you with thinly veiled desire. "Yeah, you're going to regret all of this sass later on tonight."

"Are you sure that you're going to make it to later tonight? I'm pretty sure that we're a couple hours past your bedtime, Mr. Barnes. You might fall asleep during the car ride home before you can even make good on your promise."

You were well aware that you were digging your own grave this at this point, but you didn't really care. After all, that was what made nights like these fun for you.

After the night comes to a close and you and Bucky say your goodbyes, you practically shove him into the limo, ignoring the smug look on his face. "Jesus, doll. I'm not completely indestructible, you know that, right?" He says with a laugh as you climb on top of him.

"Shut up. Do you know how hard it is to have to stand there all night, watching you talk to all those people? I don't know if you know this, but you're really fucking hot, and I have a hard time keeping my hands to myself at these events." You ramble, your fingers struggling to undo his tie.

Bucky scoffs, shaking his head as he reaches up to put a stop to your hands, placing your arms around his neck instead. "Wow, I appreciate the nice words, doll. It's so great to be looked at like a piece of meat."

Your eyes roll involuntarily at that, and you attempt to get back to what you were doing when Bucky pinches your thigh. A noise of pain comes out of you, and you're about to voice such pain when Bucky gestures his head to the open partition that's meant to be separating the two of you and your driver.

"Excuse me, sir, could you roll up the partition, please? My husband and I need to have a private conversation." The saccharine tone of voice you'd been using the whole night comes back pretty easily, despite how desperate you are to be doing something much more fun.

"No problem, ma'am." The driver replies curtly, his hand rushing to push the button that would put some separation between him and whatever you and Bucky were getting up to in the back of his limo.

You wait until the divider is fully closed before turning your attention back to Bucky, smiling down at him like a kid in a candy store. "Now, where were we?"

"You were looking at me like I'm a piece of meat." Bucky quips, laughing softly at the way you glare at him.

"I am not looking at you like you're a piece of meat," You say as an almost manic sort of grin tugs at your lips. "I'm looking at you like you're my very handsome husband. Which you are."

"You really know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?" Bucky asks sarcastically as he runs his thumb over your knuckles. "Why don't we slow down for a bit, okay? We are not having sex in a limo right now."

"And why the hell not? It's not like we haven't done it before, you know." You remind him as you trace your finger down his jaw. "There was that one time, on that mission in France a few years back. And then there was that time we had a quickie while Sam was in that meeting dealing with something. Don't tell me that you've gotten boring in your old age, James."

"I am far from boring, and you know that, sweetheart." Bucky had that look in his eye—the one that said that he was still holding back, but the strings of the rope keeping him there were slowly starting to snap. After all, he wasn't always the most patient man on the planet, especially when it came to you and your body. And you knew exactly what buttons to let that part of him loose.

"Well you're not being any fun right now." You grumble as you card your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "It's late and there's traffic outside, which means that there is more than enough time for us to do something, James."

"Don't call me that, that's not fair." Bucky says as if the name physically pains him.

"Why not? It's your name, isn't it?" You tease. You knew more than anyone how much he hated being called by that name. He said that it made you sound like his mother, back when she would scold him—and Steve, because where Bucky went, Steve went—for tracking water in the house or for spending their last dime on something frivolous.

"Don't get smart with me. You're already in enough hot water as it is, so I wouldn't push your luck if I were you." Bucky warns as he trails his hands along your sides.

Any other time you might have finally taken the hint and backed off, but not tonight. You just knew that if you pushed a little harder, maybe even begged a bit, you could get what you wanted from your husband. It was just important that you played your cards right.

"Fine." You sigh, slumping against Bucky's body and resting your head on his shoulder. "Just wanted to have a bit of fun, you know? It was a long night tonight."

Bucky looks you up and down, his eyes narrowing as he assesses you. If he saw through this whole act of yours, he didn't comment on it. Bucky was a lot of things, and he could usually hold out for longer. But when you had a pout on your lips and those pretty little lashes of yours fluttered? There wasn't much he could do to deny you what you wanted, no matter how hard he tried.

"God, you're killing me here, doll." Bucky groans as he flips the two of you around so that you're sitting on the seat. You yelp in surprise, gripping onto his shoulders as he lowers himself down between your thighs. "This will not become an every time thing, you understand me? No matter how much you beg and plead."

"Yes sir." You say, hiding your triumphant grin by biting down on your lip. Bucky glares at your teasing, but chooses not to comment on it. Instead he hikes up your dress, humming in approval when you lift your hips so he can remove your underwear. You watch as he kisses up your left thigh, nearly getting to your core before switching to your right leg and repeating the process, slower this time. He always loved to take his time when it came to eating you out; said that there was no need to rush when he had something so precious right there in front of him.

"Are you always so wet for me?" He murmurs as he nips at your thigh. It was a useless question; one that you both knew the answer to. How could you not be constantly aroused when you were around him?

"I meant what I said earlier about you being really fucking hot." Your giggle is cut off by a low moan as Bucky finally presses a kiss to your lips, the feeling of his warm breath already overwhelming you.

"Pleasure to be of service." Bucky hums before licking a stripe from your hole to your clit. Your legs twitch in response, pressing against his head as he dives deeper.

A whine falls from you, your hips canting upward in a silent plea for more. More touch? More pressure? More what, you're not really sure. But you're feeling needy at the moment, and Bucky is the only person who can satisfy your desperate needs at the moment. His name gets caught on your lips as he sucks on your clit, your head resting on the back of the seat as he does it again and again. "If you don't stop, I'm gonna cum."

"That's the goal, sweetheart." Bucky says with a smirk as he flicks his tongue just right, watching in thinly veiled satisfaction as your eyes roll into the back of your head. "Come on, doll, I know you can. Why don't you give me a little taste?"

There's a fuck you sitting right on the tip of your tongue, but you know that being a brat won't get you what you want right now. And right now, that coil in the pit of your stomach is painfully tight, but it's close to snapping. You just need a little bit more from your husband to set it free. Your hand reaches down and tangles itself in Bucky's hair, pressing him hard into your cunt.

"More." You beg—or would plead be the better word? It doesn't really matter, because Bucky seems to know exactly what you mean. He always knows what you need to be thrown off that ledge.

A combination of licking, sucking, and nipping comes next. It could all happen in minutes, or it could have all happened in a mere matter of seconds, but it doesn't matter. When you cum you have to remind yourself that you and Bucky aren't in the comfort of your own home, because if not for the way you were biting your lip, you'd know for a fact that the driver would have heard the moan that clawed it's way out of your throat.

"God, you always looks so beautiful when you come undone for me." Bucky says, giving you one last lick before getting up and sitting beside you. Your head falls onto his shoulder as you try and catch your breath, Bucky's arm wrapping around you.

There's a few moments of silence as the two of you collect yourselves. "Thank you." You whisper, pressing a kiss to Bucky's cheek.

"I hope you know that we're continuing this when we get home." He says as the fingers of his metal arm trail up and down your arm.

"Yeah, I'm counting on it. You look like you could use some release." You tease as your hand brushes against the very obvious bulge that is threatening to rip his pants in half.

Bucky groans, the hand on his knee tightening slightly. "You just can't help yourself, can you? You always have to push your limits."

You shrug, an unrepentant smile on your face as you grab his hand and lace your fingers together. "It is a hobby of mine, yes."

As soon as you and Bucky stumble into your apartment, his jacket comes off and your dress is ripped off your body. A soft laugh floats between the two of you as your back is pressed against the wall. "Careful, careful. We don't need anymore noise complaints from Mrs. Lovett."

"She'll be fine." Bucky dismisses as he taps your thigh, signaling for you to jump into his arms. Once he has you properly settled in his grip, he starts trailing kisses across your collarbone, pausing to suck on your skin every so often. "Besides, there are more pressing matters that we need to attend to at the moment, Mrs. Barnes."

"Oh yeah? And what might those matters be?" You ask with a giggle as you tilt your head back. Rather than answering with his words, Bucky pressed himself against you so that you could feel just how much he craved you.

"Is that enough of an answer for you, doll?" He questions as he starts carrying you towards the bedroom. The door barely has time to shut behind you before he's throwing you on the bed and climbing on top of you, his arms pinning you in on either side of your head.

You don't even give him the chance to say something else, pulling him down by his shoulders and smashing your lips together. This isn't a soft kiss—it is one of need, want, passion, devotion and everything that comes in between. The two of you kiss like you could very well die tomorrow, and you want this to be the last thing you remember about the other.

"It's not fair that you're still so clothed, and I'm laying here naked." You point out when the two of you finally break the intense kiss. "Why don't you get naked too?"

"Would that make you happy, doll?" Bucky asks with a smirk as he pulls back slightly. "Because you know that I'd do anything you wanted if it made you happy."

"It would make me very happy, Bucky." You whisper, watching as Bucky slowly undoes the buttons of his shirt and slips it off his shoulder. A soft sigh comes out as his chest comes into view, and you have to fight every bone in your body to stop yourself from reaching out and touching him. Before he can undo the buckle of his belt, you reach out and place your hand over his. "Let me help you with that."

Bucky's gaze intensifies as he watches your hands undo his belt, a hum of approval coming out when you also undo the button of his pants. "So helpful for me, sweetheart." He murmurs, his hand cupping your cheek and pulling you in for another kiss. This one is much softer and slower, like he just remembered that there was no need to rush through any of this; you had the whole night ahead of you.

He pushed you back down again, keeping a hand on your stomach so that you would stay still while he removed his pants and his boxers in one motion. Most people wouldn't see a dick and have the first thought that came to their mind be about how pretty it looked, but you would. Especially when it was Bucky's—it was almost as if it was handcrafted by the gods to be everything you could ever want and need in a husband. The way it curved slightly upwards and to the right, the way it twitched whenever you so much as breathed near it, the tiny bead of precum that traveled from his tip and down his shaft.

It was nothing short of perfect, and it was all yours. Forever.

"Never seen anything prettier than when you're all laid out in front of me like this." He whispers into your ear as his hand travels up your legs, the cold metal of his fingers settling on your clit and drawing small circles. He swallows the gasp that comes from your lips with his mouth, his body pressing against yours.

"Oh, fuck." You whine against his lips, raising your hips up in hopes of getting some more pressure. "Bucky—"

"Shh, I know, baby. I know. I just need to work you open a bit more, okay? Don't wanna hurt you." His words are meant to be reassuring, but all they do is make you whine even louder.

"Don't care, just want you." You grumble, wrapping your legs around his waist and flipping the two of you over. Bucky lets out a noise of surprise, his hands shooting out to your hips to make sure you don't topple over.

"You can't just be patient for two minutes, can you?" Bucky asks with a scoff, but it's clear from the smile that sits on his lips that he's not particularly upset about you taking control.

"I've been patient all night long, I think I've earned some kind of reward." You say with a huff as you wrap your hands around Bucky's shaft and give it a few pumps, biting your lip at the way Bucky's breath catches in his throat.

"Alright, yeah. That seems fair—fuck, doll. You're gonna make me cum if you keep doing that." He groans as his eyes screw shut. You giggle, rubbing your thumb along his tip as your other hand joins the first one on his shaft.

"What was it you said earlier? Something about working me open?" You pretend to think about it, tilting your head slightly before speaking again. "Think of this as my version of doing that."

"You're going to pay for this later, and I won't be as kind as I was earlier." Bucky warns as his grip on your hips tightens.

"Oh, honey. I'm holding you to that." You say as you line him up with your entrance before sliding down. The two of you moan as you become one, Bucky's head falling back into the pillows while you place your hands on his chest to steady yourself. You take a moment to adjust to his size—had he somehow gotten bigger?—before starting to rock your hips, your mouth falling open as quiet sighs and curses escaped you.

"Fuck, doll, you feel like heaven." Bucky grits out as he aids you in rocking yourself back and forth. You were definitely going to have bruises in the shape of his fingers tomorrow morning, but it would all be worth it if it meant you could be reminded of this moment. "No place I'd rather be right now."

"Me either." You manage to choke out as your start moving faster, your clit rubbing against the hair at the base of Bucky's dick. Everything just felt so good; it was all too much, but not enough at the same time. You wanted more, but you knew that you wouldn't be able to get what you needed without more of Bucky's help. "Can you…?"

"Can I what, doll?" He asks with a raised eyebrow. He wasn't stupid, he knew exactly what it was you were asking for. But you'd been so insistent on taking what you wanted, and he was going to make you do some begging before giving into what you wanted. "I thought that you could handle all of this by yourself?"

On a different night, at a different time, you would have fought back. You would've given him some lip, and showed him just how much you could handle on your own. But this wasn't any other night, and you'd been so worked up all night long, and he was right there, looking like sin incarnate with that stupid grin and his perfect hair. Swallowing your pride just this one time wouldn't kill you.

"Please? Feels good, feels so good, but not enough." You whine as your hips momentarily halt their motions. Bucky tsks, using his hold on your hips to make you start moving again.

"Did I tell you that you could stop?" He says scoldingly, removing his hands once you return to your previous pace. "You wanted this so bad, no way you're stopping now. In fact, I'll just lay here until you can make yourself cum."

You knew from past experience that that wasn't just an empty threat; Bucky could restrain himself all night if that's what it took. Stupid fucking super soldier serum. You couldn't pout and plead your way into getting what you wanted tonight, unfortunately.

With a whine that you would almost certainly deny later, you readjusted your position on Bucky's lap so that you could get more comfortable, focusing on getting him deeper inside of you so that he'd hit that spot inside of you that desperately craved attention. This new stance and new focus put more attention on your clit, the feeling of Bucky all around you creating a sense of pleasure that you knew like the back of your hand.

"There you go, good girl." Bucky whispers mockingly as he trails a hand up your thigh. He chuckles at your almost pained noise as his hand makes contact with your skin. "I can feel you tightening around me, you know? It can't possibly feel that good, can it, doll?"

Tomorrow morning, you were going to make him pay for that smug look in his eyes right now. But currently, you were too preoccupied by the fact that he was so deep inside you there was a chance he would never come out. "Bucky, please. I promise, I'll be good—I'll be so fucking good, just help me cum!" You plead as your fingers scratch down his chest.

Bucky finally seems to take pity on you, rolling his eyes as if this was the biggest inconvenience before flipping the two of you over once more so he was hovering over you. "How can I deny you when you beg so prettily when you need something from me, hm?"

There's barely any time for you to form a response before Bucky hooks one of your legs up and over his shoulder with one hand, the other one finding it's place against your neck. His hips snap against yours, the pace almost punishing.

"Fuck!" You shout as you throw your head back, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as he speeds up. He knew just what to do to send you over the edge, and you were forever grateful for that.

Moans, whimpers, sighs, and curses all fell from your lips, but you couldn't make out exactly what was being said. The scent of sex mixed with Bucky's cologne and your perfume was simply too much for you to handle all at once, and that familiar swirl in the pit of your stomach was building up once more.

"So fucking perfect for me, sweetheart." Bucky grunts as he tightens his hold on your neck, watching the way your eyelids flutter shut and your mouth falls open once more. "No other way to describe it, other than utterly fucking perfect. And all mine."

"All yours, Bucky." You repeat once he removes his hand from around your throat. Your own hands scratch down his back as that feeling that you've been chasing comes back, your words almost stuck inside you. "Gonna cum."

"It's okay, you can cum. Cum for me, doll, come on." Bucky whispers as he trails his kisses from your forehead, to the tip of your nose, to your cheeks and your jaw, and finally to your lips. The hand that slides between of you to give your clit a little extra attention is the straw that breaks the camel's back, an orgasm so powerful that the corners of your eyes fill with white spots. You can distantly feel Bucky's load spilling out of him and into you before everything fades away.

When you come to a few minutes later, Bucky is slowly lowering the two of you into the tub in your en suite bathroom. Your head lolls back against his shoulder as you slowly blink away the fuzziness clinging to your vision.

"Well, well. Look who's back." Bucky says with a soft smile, his arm wrapped around your midsection. "You passed out on me there for a bit, had me all worried."

"I'd say that I was sorry, but we both know that that would be a lie." You say with a cheeky grin, earning a snort from the man behind me. "You should be proud of yourself, honestly. The sex is so good it made me pass out for a couple minutes."

"And squirt." Bucky adds casually as he reaches for your favorite soap. You whirl around, sending warm water splashing out of the sides of the tub.

"I what?" You shriek, jaw dropped as you stare down your husband. He just shrugs, as if he was sharing the morning's weather report with you. "But we just changed the sheets." You whine as you turn and lean against Bucky's chest.

"We just had mind blowing sex, and you're worried about the fact that we have to change the sheets again?" Bucky asks incredulously before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "And you have the nerve to call me old."

"Well, that's different. You're like, over a hundred years old." You counter with a small smile. "I just don't like changing the sheets or doing laundry."

"If it bothers you so much, I'll change the damn sheets." Bucky says with a scoff as he puts some soap on the towel and begins washing your back.

"Such a perfect husband. What would I do without you?" You tease, adjusting so that Bucky can clean your back properly. Although, it wasn't a joke. Bucky really was the perfect husband to you, and you wouldn't trade him out for anything or anyone else.

Because when it came down to it, you loved him more than you had ever loved anyone else.

Bucky shifts the vehicle into park and adjusts his sunglasses that had been slipping down his nose. Even obscured, you can still see the warmth in his eyes as he turns to look at you, knees awkwardly butting up against the cupholders, and takes hold of your hand to give it a squeeze.

“R’member what we talked about. You don’t owe anyone your story. These spots are here to be used by anyone who needs them, including you. You deserve to feel good and take up space, and get out of the house without causing a flare-up.”

You repeat after him like a mantra.

I am allowed to be here.

The opinions of others do not negate my needs.

My health is not worth less than anyone else’s.

“Do the honours when you’re ready, doll.”

You chew on your cheek and look to Bucky for his steadfast nod of reassurance before letting go of his hand and reaching up to hang the parking pass on the rearview mirror like you’re ripping off a bandaid. It hooks on with ease and swings with the inertia.

In a matter of seconds, it’s done.

Lightning doesn’t strike from the sky, a crotchety old fellow doesn’t bang on the window to heckle you. With a proud smirk and a soft pat on your thigh, Bucky slides out of the drivers seat. You close your eyes and let deep breaths flood into your lungs until your door unlatches. He offers a hand as you swing your legs to the side and plant one foot after the other firmly onto the running board and step down onto the pavement.

Heat rolls off the asphalt in waves, washing over your face and sending goosebumps across your skin. Not a single cloud obscures the sun, and the songbirds can’t seem to get enough of the wide expanse of blue. You hear nothing but their happy tune and the rumble of shopping carts. The open sky and trees look like someone has dialled the saturation up. Seed pods from the nearby elms made a mess of the parking lot, but they look so pretty fluttering down that it’s hard to be all that upset about it. The unfurling new leaves shine and wave in the breeze, finches and sparrows darting between them.

The air smells like chlorophyll and sunscreen and summertime.

It really is a beautiful day.

One hand on your cane and the other entwined with his, you make your way into the big-box store. The garden centre outside is overflowing with green-thumbs itching to plant their flower beds for the summer and blooms in all shades of violet, fuchsia and gold. Puddles form underneath the plastic pots, freshly watered in the sweltering heat to drip down from the top rack to the seedlings below.

A blast of air conditioning hits you as you breach the entryway of the warehouse, its wide smile welcoming you into the cool. Bucky steers you over to the mobility scooter you usually use here, that had been its own fear to face. He makes sure you’re steady as you find your footing and get settled, unplugging it from the wall while you stow away your cane in the basket with a clamour.

You flick the switch, and the battery panel lights up green and full.

“All juiced up?”

“Ready to roll. Watch your ankles!”

Bucky smirks as you whiz past him at full throttle, a whopping 5 kilometers per hour. You say it every time, and he has yet to grow tired of your little joke. He keeps pace with ease and pulls out the handwritten shopping list crumpled in his pocket, smoothing it out between his fingers before inevitably handing it over to you to decode the chicken-scratch handwriting of the team.

The store is abuzz today, the masses soaking up the icy reprieve while they load up on their summer essentials before again braving the blazing sun outside. Bucky strides alongside you as you attempt to weave through each section of the store, grabbing the things you ask him to fetch or that you can’t reach, checking them off the list as you go along. At the end of each aisle, he weasels his way in front to carve you a path and ensure the coast is clear for you to pass like the world’s most overqualified crossing guard.

However, he dutifully waits outside as you loop around the produce cooler. Even though it’s sweltering out, Bucky will be the first to admit that he has had enough of the cold for a lifetime. He’ll settle for a popsicle from one of the obnoxiously large boxes of in the freezer section instead.

You like your little system, working together like a well-oiled machine.

The high shelves aren’t towering over you as much as they used to. A little kid snug in their stroller gives you a gummy grin that you return in full. Bucky sneaks snacks and sweet treats in between the groceries, and you feign innocence. You hum to yourself and take the time to browse and deliberate, not worrying about how drained you might feel later on.

You haven’t enjoyed a shopping trip like this in a long, long time.

By the time you’ve checked out, the spoils of your trip bagged and packed back into your cart, your receipt is long and you have enough food to feed an army of super-soldiers. You bring the scooter back to its parking space, cringing as it beeps obnoxiously while you reverse. Bucky’s steady hand is already there to help you find your land legs again. He bears the weight of your purchases on his stronger arm, a hand still free to hold yours as you stroll back to the SUV.

This time, any chance of hostility doesn’t even cross your mind. You relish in the lack of obstacles.

“That went surprisingly well, I think! It helped so much, I’m not exhausted, and no one said anything. I’m not sure what I was even worried about,” you muse, swinging Bucky’s arm contentedly in time with your cane’s rhythm against the pavement.

“I promised you, didn’t I?”

“And who am I to doubt you?” you concur, pulling in even closer to his side. “Thank you for being here.”

Bucky, ever the gentleman under the spell of your praise, helps you back up into your seat, a billow of hot air hitting you head on as soon as the door opens. The leather burns against the back of your legs where it makes contact as you reach over the console to turn the ignition and crank the AC, and he methodically packs the groceries into the trunk.

Bucky can’t help but smile to himself, looking past the headrests to watch you cue your summer playlist on the stereo and begin to sway along to the music.

He hopes one day you’ll get to live in a world where you don’t have to justify your actions.

He had glared at the woman who’d made a scandalized look in your direction and took pleasure in the way her cheeks flushed under pressure. He returned the sneering and whispers behind your back with a scowl that would make a grown man cross the street, and the masses learned quickly that Bucky Barnes meant business. The walking wall of muscle and the glint of his vibranium were enough to divert the attention of anyone who knew what was good for them and leave a wide berth.

He’d done his duty. He’d deflected the near-constant scrutiny you’ve always despised. Good, he thinks, they didn’t deserve your attention anyways. There were always going to be people that challenged you, that doubted you or called you a liar but for now? You are safe, cared for and happy, and that’s all that matters to him. Most of all, he is just immensely proud that you stood your ground and made use of the supports you deserved unapologetically, that they made such a difference.

And if they ever tried to keep that from you?

One look at the bared teeth standing guard behind you and they wouldn’t dare.

A/N: this is not the breeding kink one-shot I was talking about in the poll, but this was already finished and unfortunately yesterday something happened and I’m not in a good place rn mentally. hope you’ll enjoy🥛sorry but it’s not really edited.

Bucky shivers as the usual warm weight pressed against his side is missing. He lethargically extends his arm to bring your plush body back to his, yet his fingers only meet wrinkly, tepid sheets. His eyes fly open, only to find your side empty. 

It’s the middle of the night and your baby boy is sleeping soundly in the crib he assembled months ago, tucked close beside your bed. This allows Bucky to reach him the moment the faintest whimper slips from his lips—one of the many advantages of having enhanced senses. He can see the exhaustion pressing down on you, and still, you try to cram as many chores as possible into your schedule, nowadays reduced to feedings and diaper changes. But Bucky would do anything to make you feel like you’re keeping up.

These days your husband is always repeating the same thing: that he’ll handle the house, that you don’t need to push yourself like this. But you do anyway, unable to shake the guilt of leaving everything to him when he’s already the one waking in the night to take care of your son.

“I’m a super soldier, you pretty mama,” he promptly reminds you, his voice gentle against the bare skin of your shoulder. “Why would I leave this stuff to my beautiful wife when I don’t need that much rest in the first place?”

The ensuite is empty, which means you’re either in the kitchen pumping or the living room wide awake.

Bucky pushes himself up slowly, leaving the bedroom door open behind him—just in case. He could hear his son cry from miles away, but even the former Winter Soldier can’t quite shake the instinct to run to his son in case of potential danger.

The kitchen light catches his attention the moment he steps into the hallway, spilling across the floor in a warm glow. He follows it without thinking, but the sight that greets him makes him freeze on the doorway.

Bucky has always reserved particular attention to your chest since the first time you started fooling around while dating.

But this is different.

He never could have imagined that one day the mere sight of your nipples leaking milk would leave him stiff in his pants and drooling. That something as natural as your body providing for your child could feel so intimate. During your pregnancy, your breasts had grown fuller and heavier, often sore enough to make you whine in pain against his shoulder. More than once, you’d sighed in frustration at the milk that soaked through your bras, inconvenient and relentless.

And each time, Bucky had to suppress the instinct to clean you up. With his tongue.

He might be over a hundred years old, but he knows his way around the internet since the first time he grumpily announced he was going to look up what a creampie was, while you were in stitches on the couch. You still tried to warn him through your amusement, explaining that the internet is a treacherous place, one where everything should be taken with a healthy dose of skepticism.

The shame curling hot in his stomach is inevitable when he looks at your chest with his pants uncomfortably tight, but this fantasy only intensified with time, to the point where he feels like imploding at the slightest mention of you pumping.

Bucky gulps thickly, frowning in animosity at the two devices attached to your tits that peak out from your sports bra. He really wants to suckle on your nipples and feel your sweet milk bless his senses, however, despite all the years of dating and marriage, asking would probably feel like walking straight in front of a freight train running at full speed. 

His tongue unconsciously licks his lips as you pour some of the freshly pumped milk in a baby bottle, before going through the motions of setting the devices back in place. The wearable breast pumps had been his idea, actually, after months spent buried in books, articles, and a concerning amount of online forums for new moms. He read everything he could get his hands on, determined to make things easier for you. Multiple people praised these over traditional ones for their gentler suction and better angles, so one day Bucky’d shown up with his laptop open to the website of a famous online store specialized in hands-free pumps, already halfway through his research and entirely ready to start measuring your breasts.

Your chest aches more often than not nowadays. You hadn’t expected to produce this much milk, or how constant it would feel. Not just during the day, but at night too, when you find yourself half-asleep at the kitchen counter, filling bottle after bottle while your body begs you to lie down.

Bucky knows everything got more sensitive and swollen for you since you got pregnant, so he often finds himself wondering if he could make you come just by stimulating your tits alone. 

Shaking his head to calm himself down before entering the kitchen with a full hard-on, Bucky slowly approaches you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He doesn’t miss the way your body automatically relaxes under his touch.

“Was wondering where my beautiful wife went.” He whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder to eye the battlefield of spilled milk and paper towels. “How are you feeling, lovely?”  

“Tired.” You murmur around a yawn as your head falls back against his chest. “And aching.”

In this new position, his blue eyes can comfortably admire your cleavage. His stare on the plump skin of your chest spilling out from the tight sports bra is intense, though he clears his throat before his cock takes over his common sense and his teeth end up sinking in your tender flesh.

“Mmh… I can help, you know?” You glance back at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“No baby, you already do so much. Besides, these things are amazing! They do everything by themselves, I just have to empty them.” Bucky swallows, before gently turning you to face him.

“No, I meant—I want to help help you.” Your eyebrows raise, still not understanding.

“I want to taste it, doll.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your eyebrows shoot up stunned, before a small grin threatens to take over your lips.

“James Buchanan Barnes, you want to nurse on my breasts?” A pretty blush takes over the apples of his cheeks at your bluntness. Your husband has never looked so boyishly pretty before.

“Don’t say it like that.” His affronted voice wavers, pulling a chuckle out of you that makes your tits jiggle alluringly. His eyes promptly fall on them, before he flushes violently upon noticing you have caught him drooling red-handed.

“But that’s what you want, right Jamie?” You tilt your head teasingly, cradling his cheeks in your soft hands.

He nods expectantly, eyes sparkling despite the scorching embarrassment pooling into his belly.

“Okay, but let me remove these first.” His breath hitches at your nonchalant reaction. 

Your husband’s chest heaves in anticipation as he waits for the electric pumps to finish, unable to stay put behind you like an overhyped puppy waiting for his treat. Bucky knows you are taking your time in storing the milk away on purpose—it’s not your fault he gets so adorable whenever he loses grip on the composure he is so proud of.

When you are done, you barely have time to turn around before his strong arms pick you up to place your butt on the counter, so he can be closer to your chest. He kisses you desperately, kneading your waist and thighs until you are left warm and moaning.

Eventually his lips end up tracing a trail of wet kisses down your throat, finally allowing his nose to gently graze the skin of your breasts. He helps you remove your bra with shaky hands, gasping when your torso is finally bare for him to toy with.

“Look at you.” His large hands encompass the swell of your tits, gently kneading the flesh to not hurt you. Your quiet whimper stops him instantly, looking up at you to catch any sign of discomfort. But he only receives a weak nod, your hands desperately gripping his biceps as his fingers reprise their exploring. 

“They are so full, my love. I bet they hurt, right?” His eyes glass over, spellbound as the pads of his thumbs delicately circle both of your turgid nipples, drawing a few stray drops of milk. Bucky instantly brings the digits to his mouth, eyelids fluttering shut at the flavor blessing his taste buds.

“Fuck, you really are sweet everywhere, doll.” You shudder at his growled praise, your tired body extremely sensitive as his fingers keep stroking your nubs.

Your loud gasp is swallowed in the nick of time in fear of waking your son up, yet you stop yourself from flinching when Bucky’s lips finally engulf your right nipple. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface; you’ve always enjoyed the care and time he puts in worshipping your chest, but this time it feels completely different with the way his palms caress your tits, and his tongue patiently grazes your nipples with serenity written all over his features.

“Bucky—” You interrupt him as he starts sucking. It’s too soft, just like him, you think fondly. And it’s not that you don’t love it, but your milk will barely come out if he doesn’t get a little rougher.

“C’mon, honey, you can suck harder.” You encourage quietly, the only answer you get is him dazedly blinking up at you through his long, dark lashes. 

His hand fondles the breast his lips aren’t occupying, while his vibranium arm wraps around your back to bring you impossibly closer. Fingertips dig into your supple skin as he obeys, his eyes rolling back at milk finally filling his mouth. The gentle licks soon transform into harsher suckles, and one of your hands goes straight to your mouth with a resounding smack to stop a loud whine from potentially reaching your neighbors. 

Yes, it happened before—definitely too many times for you to comfortably look them in the eye without your cheeks going on fire.

Bucky can smell your arousal, but his mind is clouded with his own pleasure to understand what’s happening around him.

He’s finally doing it, he’s drinking your milk directly from the source. This might potentially be the hottest thing you’ve ever done.

Well, apart from that time you fucked in one of the empty meeting rooms in his office. 

Now that Bucky thinks about it, you probably conceived your baby boy that time. He remembers too clearly how aroused the both of you were. His body was on fire that day, he felt like a fucking animal in heat trapped in a cage after he was urgently called by his secretary as he was slowly thrusting his cock into your half-asleep body that morning. And you… well, it was actually your idea to have sex there.

You showed up at his workplace, calling him Congressman with that whiny voice of yours, and claimed you needed to have his cock inside you so bad as you both stood in front of his two secretaries hurriedly fixing his schedule around you, since it was a well-known fact that Bucky would abandon anything if his wife needed him.

Then you dragged him in one of the empty rooms by his tie, and God, he still shivers at the memory of how you rode him on that damn chair, only wearing that stupid little sundress he bought you on his last work trip, just because it looked cute. And fuck, now it was hanging loosely from your waist as you moaned loud enough for his whole staff to hear when he finally came inside you, stuffing you with his cum as you cried and trembled around him, his cock refusing to soften so Bucky picked you up and brought you to the conference table to roughly thrust inside you, making you squirt all over his pants—

Yeah... that’s a story for another time. 

One of your hands cups the back of his head, slightly pulling at his hair as you lean forward with a whimper. 

“Jesus Christ.” Your man groans through a mouthful of you.

“Yeah? Is it good?” You tease, giggling at the eager nod he gives you. 

“So good, pretty girl.” He whines, pulling away from your nipple only to move onto the other. 

His tongue plays with the hard peak, moaning when a quiet whine falls from your lips. The lewd, wet sounds of his licking and sucking prompt you to wrap your thighs around his hips and push against him, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders to try and find a crumb of stimulation against his belly for your pussy. It’s so messy your arousal soaks through your thin shorts, now sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin.

Despite Bucky being completely lost into his own bliss, he still finds the mental strength to tighten his hold around your waist to keep you still against the counter and enjoy his midnight snack peacefully. 

Your nipples are tender by now, abused and wet by one very hungry super soldier. Your head falls back unconsciously, a little embarrassed at the fact that you are probably ready to come and your pussy has been touched a total of zero times.

His large palm languidly slides down your thigh, until it cups your pussy, the vibrations of his low moan further stimulating your nub as your slick coats his fingers through the fabric. You urge him on, grinding onto the heel of his hand.

Two fingers finally travel under the waistband, the rough pads working over your clit, firm but not too fast, just how you like it.

Pleasure burns hotter and hotter with each press of his fingers against your nub, until they find your entrance, delicately rubbing over your folds and collecting your wetness before he nudges them in. Your jaw slackens around a silent moan as they stretch you out so deliciously, curling and rubbing that sweet spot that always makes you gush so prettily around him.

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, still suckling on your nipples as your hole hungrily swallows his fingers. He is borderline dizzy from how good he feels with his fingers in your pussy and your milk down his throat.

“Feels good, doll?” The words are nothing short of a murmur against your skin. “She’s so needy for me, hm? Doesn’t wanna let go.”

Your cheeks are on fire, and he receives only a quick nod as an answer. The touch his lips leave across your chest burn, causing your lips to prettily open around a silent moan.

“Jamie, just like that, fuck—” You sigh blissed out, flinching when his thumb slowly goes back to toying with your puffy clit. Bucky didn’t realize how much he missed the way your core would turn all swollen with arousal.

“Missed this so much, missed you, honey.” A needy whimper claws out of his throat. “Talk to me, tell me what you wanna do to me.”

“Fucking hell,” he takes a deep breath, pressing soft pecks over your breasts. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. Can’t stop thinking about it, how gorgeous you looked all full with my baby.” His eyes briefly close in a futile attempt to ward off the painful throbbing of his cock pushing against his sweatpants.

You clamp around him, shivering when his other hand squeezes your hips.

“‘S all I can think about. Day and night.” He rambles brokenly. “So perfect, my perfect wife with her perfect pussy and her perfect tits—” His words dissolve into a low groan, still softly massaging your walls, the stretch so good it makes your legs tremble around his hips.

“Jamie, more.” You mewl, your hips twitching up helplessly. “Wanna feel you inside, need you to come over and over until it takes again. Jamie, pretty please?”

Bucky grits his teeth.

You can’t stay stuff like that, not when it’s only been two months. Not when he’s been desperate to see you round with his baby once more. Not when you are leaking milk from your breasts while begging for his cock.

“Can’t, babygirl.” He pants. You make your displeasure known loudly with a little wail, clinging tightly onto his shoulders.

“Please, Jamie.” Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your orgasm builds steadily in your belly.

“I know doll, I know. ‘M sorry, ‘m so sorry.”

Your body goes rigid for a second before turning pliant under his calloused hand abandoning your hips to properly take care of your swollen clit. Your pussy clenches, little squeaky moans slipping from your lips and muffled into his hair as you hug Bucky closer to your chest, sagging against him.

“Gonna make it up to you, baby, I swear.” He slurs out dizzily. “Wanna keep this pussy full and give my pretty wife all the babies she wants.”

“Jamie! Close—‘m so close, don’ stop.” He desperately focuses on matching the rhythm of his fingers thrusting inside with the ones rubbing your clit, savoring the eager twitches his cock gives at your pussy tightening.

Bucky then parts his lips, blindly mouthing at your skin until they finally latch onto your nipple once more, and start sucking like a wounded man seeing water after days spent under the scorching sun.

At the intense pressure around your sensitive nubs, the knot in your belly gets tighter and tighter. Your toes curl, and your orgasm finally hits you violently. You come with a gasp, the tension in your belly shattering all at once as your head falls back. Your chest pushes against his greedy mouth, flinching and panting as you find yourself stuck in a limbo of maddening pleasure with Bucky’s fingers still relentless on your pussy, even when small tears run down your cheeks.

And then, your husband grunts loudly, harshly exhaling against the fat of your chest. 

“Fucking—shit.” His mouth leaves your nipple with a wet pop, and his head slowly lifts up, leaving your wet nubs exposed to the cold air of the kitchen. You shiver at the change of temperature, slumping against his shoulders as you feel your tits tingle with overstimulation.

He is gentle in removing his fingers from your puffy core, finally embracing you as you mourn the loss. His chin lazily rests on the top of your head for a bit, small kisses swarming your glistening forehead in hopes of easing the trembling of your limbs.

That’s when you see it. Opening your eyes with effort, you are directly met with the sight of a huge stain right on Bucky’s crotch, the grey fabric of his sweatpants darker in that exact place. 

“Did you just come in your pants, baby?” You raise your head to look at him with a little grin.

Bucky’s already flushed cheeks flame up, and his eyes refuse to meet yours. Instead, he buries his face in the valley between your tits, hugging you tight. 

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Was it good?”

“No need to be sorry.” You hum. “It was so hot, Jamie.” Sighing satisfied, your arms wrap around his neck to caress his hair. 

“I’ll help you from now on.” He adds solemnly, looking straight into your eyes. “After you pump out the milk for Bean, I get the last bits.” You can’t help but burst out laughing before pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Alright, alright. But baby, you are at work until late in the afternoon.”

“Don’t care.” He grunts, nuzzling your neck like a cat in need of cuddles. “I’ll do it at night.” Your eyes widen, immediately protesting.

“Bucky, no. You already take care of Bean when he wakes up throughout the night, then wake up early to go to work… I won’t wake you up just to—to drink my milk.” Your cheeks heat up at the absurdity of your statement.

Bucky huffs, coming out of his hiding place with an offended wrinkle between his brows. 

“Doll,” he whines just like a kid trying to convince his mom to stay up later on a school day. His head falls back tiredly. “I’m a super soldier. The super soldier. I don’t need to rest.”

With a sigh you shake your head at his apparently innocent eyes, vaguely reminding you of Alpine when she’s trying to soften you up after pushing something off the table that probably ended up shattering on the floor. 

“Please, please, please!” He attacks you with kisses, delicately holding your pliant body in his arms as his lips travel from your face to the slope of your neck, and then back up again.

Your attempts at keeping your laugh down are awful, but you can’t help it when your husband is being this adorable. 

“Alright alright! Hey—okay stop, please stop! Stop!” Your lips press together to avoid releasing any loud noise that could potentially interrupt this rare, peaceful night.

Finally, Bucky relents, one hand cradling your cheek while the other massages your lower back with purpose.

“Promise?” His eyebrows raise expectantly and you just have to kiss him. 

“Yeah yeah, promise, you hungry super soldier.” 

“Good.” He mumbles against your mouth, following your lips for another kiss. “Now, let me properly take care of my wife.”

“What—Bucky!” You gasp as he picks you up, making his way towards the couch.

A devious grin blooms on his handsome face when you whimper at the way he deliberately moves your hips so your puffy folds brush against his imposing bulge with every step he takes. 

“Tell me sweet girl, since I can’t fill you up yet, where do you want it? Face or tits?”

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading! my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.

There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.

Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.

You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.

You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”

That had been the end of it.

No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.

The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.

So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”

So here you were.

A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.

There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

“Liar.”

You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.

“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”

From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”

“It won’t.”

“It already kind of is.”

“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”

You barked out a real laugh at that.

“There she is,” Lena said softly.

You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”

“Of course you’re still upset.”

“It’s been weeks.”

“And?”

“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”

Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”

That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.

Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.

Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”

Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”

“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”

From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”

“And I’m starving,” Tori added.

“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”

Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”

You stared at it for a second, then took it.

The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.

Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.

Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.

By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.

By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.

“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”

“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.

Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”

You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”

“Renewed annually,” Mia said.

“With references,” Jess added.

“And an essay portion,” Tori said.

You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”

The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.

Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.

It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.

You set your glass down too carefully.

Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”

Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”

You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.

The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.

This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.

You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.

“Not your night either, huh?”

The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.

You turned.

He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.

Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.

Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.

But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.

Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.

His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”

“Escaping?”

A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”

He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”

“And what look is that?”

“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”

You stared at him.

Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.

“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”

“Kind of?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”

There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.

You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.

He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”

You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”

His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.

It should not have affected you as much as it did.

“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”

You should have lied.

You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.

Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”

His expression changed instantly.

Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.

“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.

“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”

For one beat, he said nothing.

Then: “He’s an idiot.”

The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.

“You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to.”

That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.

You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”

“Smart women.”

“They are.”

He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”

You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.

A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”

There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.

That, more than anything, disarmed you.

“You always this honest?” you asked.

“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“That your plan?”

“Wasn’t, originally.”

“And now?”

His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”

Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.

You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”

“Not a very polished one.”

“No.”

“I can do worse, if it helps.”

You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.

Lord. It changed him completely.

The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.

Dangerous thought.

You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”

He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”

“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”

“Seems that way.”

“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”

He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.

Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.

The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.

And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.

“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”

“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”

“Fair point.”

The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.

You should probably go back inside.

That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.

Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”

“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”

His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”

“Very observant.”

“Could ask you to dance.”

You blinked.

Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.

Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.

“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”

There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.

It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.

You looked at him for a long second.

Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.

“Would you let me have this dance?”

Oh.

That was unfair too.

You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.

And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.

But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.

He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.

Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.

“Still okay?” he asked quietly.

You looked up.

He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.

The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”

He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.

The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.

You hadn’t expected that either.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Dancing?”

“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”

Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.

“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”

Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.

“Bucky.”

“Too much?”

You should’ve said yes.

Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.

His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.

At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.

You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.

“What?”

“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”

He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”

“They mean well.”

“I know.”

“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”

“That so?”

“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”

“Got good answers for most of that.”

“Most?”

He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.

The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.

You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.

Your breath slowed.

His did too.

He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.

Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”

Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

That landed.

He went very still, his eyes on yours.

From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.

But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.

It made your chest ache in a whole new way.

“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”

“Were you?”

“Tryin’ to be.”

“And now?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.

Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.

Hope, maybe.

Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.

You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”

The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.

Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.

It didn’t.

“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.

“I probably should.”

He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.

The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.

You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”

You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”

One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”

The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.

You smiled. “Yes.”

By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.

Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”

Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”

Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”

“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”

You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.

Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”

“What?” you demanded, already defensive.

“You like him.”

“Shut up.”

“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.

“It was one dance.”

“One very charged dance,” Tori said.

Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”

The question quieted everything.

You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.

And then you looked back up at your friends.

For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.

“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The first thing you became aware of was the light.

Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.

Aggressive light.

Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.

You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.

Something crinkled beneath your cheek.

You opened one eye.

A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.

Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.

This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.

You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.

Then the memories began filtering in.

Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.

Bucky.

Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.

Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.

Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.

You squinted at the screen.

9:47 a.m.

Three notifications from your group chat.

One missed photo drop from Mia.

One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.

No text from Bucky.

Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.

It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.

Still.

Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.

Nothing.

You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.

From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at her.

Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.

“You look incredible,” you croaked.

“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”

Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.

“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.

“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.

Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”

The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.

“Alive?” she asked.

“No,” Jess said.

“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.

You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”

“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”

“There are no updates.”

That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.

Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.

Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”

You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”

Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”

“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”

You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”

“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”

“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.

“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.

“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.

You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”

“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”

You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”

“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.

You hated that you cared.

That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.

It was caring at all.

After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.

And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.

Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.

“Hey,” she said, quieter now.

You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb.”

“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”

Jess was quiet for once.

Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.

Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”

That hit too close.

You looked away.

Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”

The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.

“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.

It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.

Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”

You gave her a look.

“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”

“I missed so much.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”

Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”

“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.

“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”

“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.

“Exactly.”

You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”

“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”

“Balance,” Jess said.

“Healthy,” Tori agreed.

A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.

“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.

“No,” Jess yelled.

The door opened anyway.

Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.

She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.

“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.

Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.

Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”

“How did you know?”

“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”

Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”

You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”

You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”

“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”

Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”

“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”

Your phone lit up.

All five heads turned toward it.

You froze.

The screen showed only a weather alert.

Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”

You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”

Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.

The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.

You tried not to check your phone.

You failed six times.

No text.

By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.

Almost.

The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.

You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.

Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”

“I need eggs,” Tori said.

“I need silence,” Jess muttered.

“You need toast,” Lena told her.

“I need justice.”

You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.

Once.

A real buzz this time.

Not a weather alert.

Not the group chat.

A single notification slid across the screen.

Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.

Your entire body went still.

Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.

Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.

“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”

You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.

Lena leaned in. “Read it.”

“No.”

Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”

“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”

“Try me.”

You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.

There was a collective pause.

Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”

Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”

Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”

“I’m analyzing the enemy.”

You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.

Bucky had texted.

Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.

Possibly both.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.

You stared at it.

“Too much?” you asked.

Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”

Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”

“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”

“Anytime.”

You hit send before you could lose your nerve.

The reply came faster than expected.

Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.

Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.

You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.

You: That’s a bold confession before noon.

Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.

You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.

Lena’s face softened when you showed them.

“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”

“Kind of?” Tori demanded.

“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.

“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”

You huffed a laugh and typed back.

You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.

Bucky: Little of both, probably.

You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.

Bucky: Worked last night.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.

“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.

“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.

Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”

Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”

The waiter smiled politely and fled.

You looked back at your phone.

You: Did it?

A few seconds passed. Then:

Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?

Your cheeks went warm.

Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”

Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”

Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”

“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.

You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.

You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.

Bucky: I was getting there.

You: Were you?

Bucky: Eventually.

You: Very smooth.

Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.

Oh. There went your pulse again.

You stared at the words for too long. Interested.

Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.

Lena studied your face. “Good text?”

You handed her the phone without speaking.

She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.

Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”

Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Jess.”

She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”

Tori beamed. “Progress!”

You were about to reply when another message came through.

Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.

The table went quiet.

For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.

Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.

Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.

You swallowed and looked down at your lap.

Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.

“You okay?” she murmured.

You nodded.

Then you typed carefully.

You: I liked talking to you too.

You hesitated, then added:

You: And dancing with you.

His reply came a moment later.

Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.

Then another:

Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.

You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.

Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.

Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.

You slowly lowered the phone.

Four faces stared back at you.

“What?” Mia asked.

“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”

There was an immediate eruption.

“Us?” Tori squealed.

“All of us?” Lena asked.

Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”

Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”

You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.

Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”

Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”

“Strategic,” Jess said.

“Respectful,” Lena countered.

“Could be both.”

Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”

You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”

All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.

“Excuse me?” Tori said.

“I mean, we just met them.”

“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”

You typed.

You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?

Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.

You showed them.

Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”

Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”

“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.

“Statistically.”

“Less reassuring.”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”

Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”

The question quieted the table again.

You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.

Did you want to go?

Yes.

That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.

You wanted to hear his laugh again.

You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.

You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.

And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.

“I don’t know,” you said softly.

Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, staring at the table.

Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”

Tori’s whole face melted.

Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”

Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”

Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”

Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”

Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”

You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.

“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.

They all drank to that.

You typed back before you could overthink it.

You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.

His reply came almost immediately.

Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.

Your chest squeezed again.

A second message followed.

Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.

You smiled down at your phone.

You: Should I be worried?

Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.

You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.

Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.

You: Mostly?

Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.

You read the last two words three times.

Pretty women.

Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”

“No.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”

You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”

“Not on this trip,” Tori said.

You typed:

You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?

There was a longer pause this time.

Then:

Bucky: Woman. Singular.

Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.

The girls exploded.

“What?” Lena demanded.

“What did he say?”

“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”

“That’s illegal.”

You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said. 

Tori actually squeaked.

Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”

Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”

“No, you don’t,” Tori said.

“I hate that one might be doing well.”

Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.

There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.

“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”

“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.

“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”

“I am sitting right here,” you said.

“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.

Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”

Everyone looked at her.

“What?”

“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”

You grimaced. “Agreed.”

“Black?” Mia suggested.

“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”

“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”

“Too soon?” Tori asked.

You considered it.

Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”

Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.

It felt good.

That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.

After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.

Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.

Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.

You laughed out loud in the dressing area.

Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”

You nodded, reading the text aloud.

Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”

You typed:

You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.

Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.

You: She is. Fear her.

Bucky: Noted.

Then, after a beat:

Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.

You snorted.

You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.

Bucky: Bullied?

You: Affectionately.

Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.

Your smile went soft before you could stop it.

You: You think you could?

Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.

You: Against my friends?

Bucky: Absolutely not.

That one you showed the group.

Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”

“He knows his limits,” Lena said.

“Green flag?” Tori asked.

“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.

In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.

You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.

But the deep blue one made you pause.

It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.

It just felt like you.

When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.

Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”

Lena’s expression softened. “No.”

Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”

Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”

Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”

You looked back at the mirror.

For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.

Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.

Pretty.

Interested.

Maybe even beginning again.

You bought the dress.

The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.

You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.

He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.

At 2:13 p.m.:

Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.

You: Please tell me you said no.

Bucky: I said hell no.

You: Strong leadership.

Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.

You: Did you?

Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.

At 3:02 p.m.:

You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?

Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.

You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.

Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.

Then, a moment later:

Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.

You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.

You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.

The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.

You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.

A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.

But Bucky had said it like he remembered.

Like he had thought about you after you left.

You typed back slowly.

You: Thank you.

That felt too small, so you added:

You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.

His response took thirty seconds.

Bucky: That was smooth.

You: I’m capable of growth.

Bucky: Proud of you.

The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.

Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s disgusting.”

“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”

Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”

Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.

Careful, but happy for you.

By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.

Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.

Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”

Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”

“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.

“Exactly. Respect your elders.”

The room became chaos again.

Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters. 

Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.

You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.

“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.

You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t feel calm.”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

You looked down at your hands.

That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.

Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.

Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.

Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.

Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“It’ll look spontaneous.”

You laughed, then your phone buzzed.

Lena’s eyebrows rose.

You picked it up.

Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?

Your smile came before you could stop it.

You: You can tell me.

Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.

A second message came right after.

Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.

Your pulse warmed.

You: That was almost smooth again.

Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.

You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.

Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.

You laughed.

You: Please don’t.

Bucky: I won’t.

The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.

You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”

You did.

In. Out.

The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.

She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.

Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.

But not empty.

Not defeated.

By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.

“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.

“Phone charger.”

“Mini sunscreen.”

“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.

“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”

“That is not science.”

“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.

Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”

Lena paused.

Everyone stared at her.

She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.

“Leadership,” Tori whispered.

You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.

It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.

You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.

Not because she was proving a point.

Not because she was running from pain.

Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.

That was all.

That could be enough for tonight.

Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”

“Nervous.”

“Good nervous or bad nervous?”

You thought about it.

“Both.”

“That’s allowed.”

Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”

“Noted.”

Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”

Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.

But it was yours.

The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.

All of it.

Yours.

Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.

Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.

You bit your lip against a smile.

You: We’re leaving now.

His reply came almost instantly.

Bucky: Good.

Then, after a few seconds:

Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.

You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.

“Well?” Jess asked.

You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”

Tori made an ungodly noise.

Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”

The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.

The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.

The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.

Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.

But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.

You crested the wooden path toward the beach.

A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.

And somewhere beyond it, waiting in the firelight, was Bucky.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

For a few moments, his attention drifted back outside. The rain lashed violently against the windows of the room in a relentless patter. Every few seconds, a clap of thunder tore through the sky, so close it made the glass rattle. It didn’t take long for him to focus on what was right in front of him when he heard your muffled moan and felt your hips move as he fucked you with his fingers.

Bucky gave a crooked smile at the sight of you in need. His fingers shot out of your wet, swollen pussy to deliver a quick slap that made you whimper, then he mercilessly thrust those long fingers back inside you.

“Your father’s worried because his beloved daughter is away from home, and all you’re thinking about is coming.” He taunted as he thrust and curled his fingers harder.

Your lips parted to let out a sharp moan as Bucky pressed upward, right on that spot he knew so well thanks to all those secret encounters.

“O-Oh, fuck,” you gasped as you arched your back. “Keep going, Bucky.”

He could see you were getting close just from his fingers, but he knew better than anyone what drove you wild.

Without wasting any time, he pulled his fingers out again, making you whine in frustration until his hands moved to your thighs, spreading your legs wider as he knelt on the floor.

He didn’t hesitate to bury his face between your legs, sealing his lips around your swollen clitoris and sucking hard enough to make your legs tremble and release your flesh with a wet pop. His tongue slid through your slippery folds, savoring you as if you were his favorite meal.

His thick, graying beard rubbed against your inner thighs and your swollen flesh with every movement of his licks and sucks.

Bucky loved being loud and making it clear to you that only he would eat your pussy like that. And of course, you loved him all the more for it.

Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, pushing him even closer to your pussy as you felt that intense pleasure coil through your belly.

“D-Don’t stop!” you commanded, your voice broken by moans.

Your hips shook as the orgasm hit you with devastating force.

His tongue licked desperately, refusing to let a single drop of your juices go to waste.

You gasped for breath as your body went limp in a haze of pleasure and satisfaction, while Bucky trailed open-mouthed kisses down your abdomen, leaving a trail of saliva and your arousal on your skin.

His large hands reached for your breasts, squeezing them gently, and his lips pressed against yours in a passionate kiss.

“Will you tell me what you were doing out here at this hour, gorgeous?” he asked between kisses on your jaw and neck.

Your hands slid down his torso, savoring the contours of his abdomen and letting his kisses set you ablaze once more.

“Just… a date with a guy,” you whispered as your hand brushed against his erection.

Bucky’s body tensed for a second. A second in which that pang of jealousy and possessiveness flashed through his chest, but he could brush it off as a reaction to the movement of your hand over his underwear.

“A guy?” he teased as he leaned in to take a playful bite out of one of your breasts. “You and I both know a guy couldn’t treat you the way you like… Only a real man can do that.”

His comment didn’t surprise you at all. After all, every time a boy showed up in your life, Bucky would tease you, saying, “Oh, come on. You can do better than that,” or “Stay away from boys and date a man.”

He pushed you to the center of the bed and effortlessly turned you face down. One hand pressed between your shoulder blades to hold you down while the other guided your hips upward.

“And are you really that man, James?” you teased playfully.

His palm immediately smacked your butt, making you let out a little yelp, then he immediately spread your butt cheeks apart and his thumb teased that tight little ring just to watch you squirm in embarrassment.

It was clear he wouldn’t go in the back door if you weren’t ready, but damn, how he enjoyed making you nervous and bringing you down a notch.

“You know the answer.”

Bucky pulled his boxers down just enough to finally pull out his hard cock, the tip flushed and dripping.

The way the head brushed against your pussy made you gasp until it finally began to press against your entrance, forcing you to press your chest against the mattress as you moaned at the sensation of it sliding in.

Feeling it thrust those last few inches in one go made your hands clench the bedsheets.

The initial rhythm consisted of slow glides and quick thrusts, simply because James enjoyed the doggy-style position—it allowed him to see every detail of your ass bouncing and his cock disappearing into your tight heat, while controlling the depth and pace.

“Yes… I love it…” you blurted out without thinking. His voice was tense and breathless. “I love seeing my beautiful girl take it like this.”

His hand on your waist and your hip held you in place to receive the thrusts that were beginning to increase in strength and speed. Each pelvic thrust made your skin slap loudly and the bed sway beneath you.

“O-Oh, Bucky! You fuck me so good.” You moaned as you buried your face in the sheets.

Each thrust was accompanied by a moan or a growl from him as your words pierced his chest.

If he fucked you so well and your little pussy squeezed him so perfectly, it could only mean one thing to him: you were meant for him.

It didn’t matter that you were younger than him, that your relationship was casual and without commitment, or that you were his best friend’s daughter; he didn’t want to let you go anymore—you fit perfectly in his arms.

His movements grew wilder, more primal.

His body leaned over yours to wrap one arm around your torso while his other hand slid between your legs. The touch on your clitoris was bold; his fingers pinched and rolled the swollen nub in time with his thrusts.

“Mine. My pretty girl,” he growled into your ear. “My little toy.”

Your tight walls clenched around him as you moaned uncontrollably and tears streamed down your cheeks. Each contraction made his vision blur for a second and his muscles tense like a spring ready to snap.

“I should knock you up…” he whispered to himself at first. “No more worried dad because you’re away from home. No more idiots who don’t know how to treat a girl like you. Just me, having my beautiful girl at home and being so sweet as to let me use her gorgeous pussy whenever I want.

His cock slid in as if its sole purpose were to tear your tight pussy apart as it should be.

You trembled uncontrollably beneath him while your face was covered in tears and saliva—you’d started drooling, completely drunk on his cock. It was the first time James had been so possessive and talked about getting you pregnant, but you were so overwhelmed that you could only nod weakly.

Bucky’s hips shuddered. He was thrilled to know you were willing to be his.

“I’m going to fill you up… I’m going to put a baby inside you.”

Your eyes rolled back as the orgasm left you breathless for a few seconds and your walls squeezed him tightly. With a hoarse groan, he slammed his hips into you one last time, burying himself deep inside you as his orgasm washed over him.

His hips jerked with every spurt that was released inside you; for your part, you could only tremble and whimper as his throbbing cock pulsed against your sensitive pussy.

“That’s it… Good girl. Take it all.”

He was still fucking you shallowly to squeeze every last drop from his balls, while his hand moved to your belly and he let himself imagine a future in which he would have you all to himself, living in his house with his child growing inside you.

☆*⁀‧₊˚☆*⁀‧₊˚☆*⁀‧₊˚☆*⁀‧₊˚☆*⁀‧₊˚☆*⁀‧₊˚☆*⁀‧₊˚