C.

it wasn’t a secret that you and dean had feelings for each other.

in fact, sam was getting tired of the way you two were acting. always having to be sat next to each other, the subtle reaching for his hand to be touching, dean constantly checking on you during hunts, him double checking your weapons and tending to any injuries even though you could easily do those things yourself.

what wouldn’t be so tiring, is if you’d just be together.

if anyone who didn’t know you, saw the way you two interacted with one another, they’d assume you were dating. it was clear in the way dean would pay for your meals, order your drinks, open doors so you didn’t have to do it yourself, and most of all, a hand always on your shoulder, hovering on the small of your back, or his fingers linking with yours.

you were yet to take that step with him though. to make things official. to say you would be dating, be boyfriend and girlfriend. you hadn’t thought much on it, but what you didn’t know, is that dean had. he thought about it in the moments you seemed hesitant, the times you’d pull away and he wasn’t completely set on why.

every time dean wanted to talk to you alone about what was going on, if you wanted to try things out between the two of you, sam always turned up. or you’d make a breakthrough on a case, would want to go out and help with interviewing victims. there was never any time.

until today.

a day off from any cases. no research to do, no talking to people involved, no hunting to deal with. that meant a day to relax in the bunker, not think about books to read through to find information, no way to get stressed out. most of all, it meant you’d most likely spend half the morning in your room.

in dean’s mind, that meant he could have some time alone with you. time to be close to you as normal, see how you’d act, if he could talk to you about what had been going on. you were usually more chatty on the days in between.

key word, usually.

it wasn’t unknown that you’d had your struggles with mental health here and there. a past with anxiety before you managed to get that under control. then came the depression, which you put down to how you used to argue with your parents, followed by this job, losing people, being tired often. it all added up.

sometimes, the days where you had less to think about, the depression would seep in. your mind more susceptible to the bad thoughts, letting it all flood your mind, settling into your bones. it made you more exhausted, but you tried hard to not show it too much around anyone. especially dean. but he could always tell what was going on anyway.

once it got to late morning, almost afternoon, dean made his way to your room. he stood outside for a moment, trying to hear if you were awake just yet. once he heard the sound of your footsteps, he knocked gently on door.

after hearing that knock, you froze. dean frowned, wondering why you wouldn’t be opening the door. you always did for him.

“sweetheart?” he called softly. “it’s me.”

the door opened, just slightly, dean stood there, soft smile on his face as he looked at you. he noticed how tired you looked instantly, already worrying.

“everything okay?” he asked, stepping inside your room after you let him. then, he was confused. “you’re doing research? last time i checked we didn’t have a case.”

you sighed, sitting back down on your bed, “needed something to do,” you explained. “too much of… nothing going on.”

as he looked around properly, he started to get it. the mess of dirty clothes on your floor from the previous hunt, towels left from when you showered, books and paper all over your bed. classic for you when things started feeling heavy again.

“i’ve been up,” dean sat on the end of the bed first. “coulda come and sat with me.”

“sam was up too though.”

he nodded, “he understands too, you know,” dean moved closer, sitting with a tiny gap between you. “when you feel like this, we’re here for you, sweetheart.”

“but he always— he asks too many questions when i’m upset,” you fiddle with your hands, tugging the sleeves of your hoodie over them. “it’s easier with you. you just let me be.”

you weren’t wrong. dean knew why sam asked questions though. he just wanted to understand why you felt the way you did, if anything specific triggered your depression to show itself, if it’s anything he or dean had said, if it was something from the previous hunt. it was a lot for you to deal with, that was all.

dean, on the other hand, would sit with you, pull you against his side or into his lap. he’d hold you, wrap his arms around you, keep you grounded and feeling safe and comforted. no questions would be asked until you decided you were ready to talk about how you felt in your own time.

“that mean i can stay for a while?” he questioned, placing his arm around your waist.

you moved that little bit closer, leaning against dean, head on his shoulder, “course you can stay,” you let out a long breath. “your company always makes me feel better.”

once he’d got the all okay from you, it didn’t take long to swap how he was sitting. moving to sit back against your headboard, pulling you to sit between his legs without letting you protest. his hands rested on your waist, thumbs caressing softly until you relaxed back against him properly.

he leaned his chin atop your head, wrapping his arms around your front. you found his hands, holding onto them for a moment before going back to the articles you had been looking at on your laptop.

you pulled your laptop onto your lap, starting to click away again, finding an article you wanted to bring up to dean. it was a close one, seemed like something you’d go after.

“so, i found this in the news—“

dean reached for the top of your laptop, slowly closing it until there was a small click. you leaned to look at him, a frown on your face. not annoyed, just questioning why he would do that.

“day off,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “that means a day off from trying to find a new case.”

you sighed, “what do you suppose i do instead?” you folded your arms. “i need something to do, dean. i can’t just sit and do nothing all day.”

he could hear the almost panic in your voice. a worry of letting your mind take over. if you spent even a second not focusing on something else it gave time for the depressive feeling to get stronger. you couldn’t have that, you didn’t want it.

“okay,” dean paused, thinking. “i could take you out for lunch, or we could stay in, watch a movie, anything you want, sweetheart.”

you looked away, huffing out a breath. you didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, making it sound like you were frustrated with dean. that maybe you’d prefer to be left alone. it felt better with dean here, it was just hard.

“woah, hey, hey,” he leaned forwards, chest pressing against your back as his hands went to your shoulders. “tell me what i can do, anything at all.”

“just— i don’t know, dean,” you sounded defeated.

the next second, he was leaning beside you, cupping your cheek so you’d look at him. you leaned into his palm, feeling the warmth spreading comfort throughout you. there was no hiding that. he was close, the eye contact hard to look away from.

you didn’t miss the glance he took down to your lips. heart beginning to race, hand tightening to keep you looking at him. there were so many signs that this should’ve been okay, that you would’ve wanted this. but like every time before, you hesitated.

dean missed it, started to lean in, his breath fanning your lips… and you turned your head. looking down as you closed your eyes. it was quiet for a few seconds after that, he dropped his hand, leaning back to give you some space.

“m’sorry,” you mumbled. “i just can’t—“

“no, no, it’s okay,” dean’s hands rubbed up and down your arms in comfort. “i get it.”

that’s when you took a breath, moved away properly, and turned around to sit facing him, “you don’t get it though, dean,” your voice was harsher than he’d heard before. “i can’t be with you.”

this might have been the first time dean seemed speechless. he didn’t know what to say, no words coming to him as fast as they usually did. no way of answering, no idea how to respond to you saying you couldn’t be with him in that way. he wasn’t understanding, didn’t know why you’d be saying that.

you’d always acted the same with him as he did with you, in a way people did when they liked each other, loved each other. it wasn’t a secret thing that you’d let him hold you, kiss your head or cheek. why would you let him do those things if you already decided you didn’t want to date him?

“so, what was all of this?” he shrugged. “you can’t tell me you never felt anything, i know you did.”

“of course i did— do,” you corrected yourself quickly. “i don’t think i’ve ever been so in love with someone before.”

that was the first time you were admitting you loved him. that he was the one person you really did love most in this world. out of everyone who you’d come across, it had always been dean.

he shook his head, “then i don’t— i don’t understand.”

somewhere deep down you knew you would have to have this conversation one day. you just didn’t expect for it to be so soon. although, your feelings have been going on for a while, you really thought you be okay by now, but you weren’t.

“this— this thing that goes on in my head,” you sigh, now pointing to the mess in your room. “i find it hard a lot of the time, i don’t wanna lump you with it too.”

dean started understanding, “you think i can’t handle your depression?”

“it’s not just that,” you ran your hands frustratedly through your hair. “it’s all of it, the upset, the anger, the not being able to understand why i feel the way i do— all while not being able to do certain things because i’m too exhausted, or not wanting to talk for extended amounts of time cause even thinking about it gets too much and—“

“sweetheart,” he interrupted you, reaching over to place his hand on your knee. “take a breath for me, deep breath in and out— that’s it, there we go.”

he was right, you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. a mix of this conversation along with realising all the things you were having to deal with, the things you couldn’t do right now because everything seemed too much.

“i find this difficult enough to deal with on my own,” you continued after a few deep breaths. “i don’t want to burden you with it all as well.”

much like before, dean’s brow furrowed, “you think—“ he paused, a long one. “you think you’re a burden?”

you blinked rapidly, looking away, “sorta, i guess,” you chuckled, mostly at yourself. “with how hard it is on me, i don’t know if i’d mentally be able to be in a relationship.”

that’s when dean fully understood. it wasn’t that you didn’t want to be with him, it was the thought of having the energy with depression on top of being in a committed relationship. it was difficult to have both, especially with how bad things got for you at times.

“alright,” dean’s voice softened. “so, talk to me about that, what is it that you feel like is too much?”

you sat and thought about it for a moment. dean was prepared to listen, to hear you out on what it was you didn’t think you could deal with. which very much was a breath of fresh air.

but it was dean, you knew he cared a lot.

“i guess it’s the mentally being able to be in it at all times,” you started. “i don’t know if i can put my all in to paying attention to little details, or the physical aspects when i need space a lot. and i find talking overwhelming when i get into certain states with it, so i don’t want that messing things up.”

finally, you looked at dean again. all you saw was softness, a calm that you didn’t expect to see. he was listening to you, trying to understand the way you feel about all this. the truth was that he loved you, and he wanted to do anything he could to make things at least a little bit better.

“listen,” dean reached out, took your hands gently in his. “i’ve known you for quite a few years now, seen everything good and bad… i’d understand if you wanted space from me, or if you just wanted to sit in silence. i’d be there through it all.”

you sighed, “but it’s not about you understanding,” you let go of one of his hands. “it’s that i don’t know if i’d always be able to reciprocate the love you give me, because i feel so drained that i just… don’t feel anything.”

again, you looked away, feeling tears welling up. you’d never talked about the way you feel this much before. never in this much detail. you didn’t like talking about it, preferred to deal with your feelings on your own without involving other people.

but here you were. explaining it to the person who you loved most, the person who loved you just as much. now there were tears, ones you tried to hold back. dean saw it though, saw the way your lip quivered, how you really couldn’t look at him this time.

“hey,” dean whispered, taking your chin between his thumb and finger. “look at me.”

reluctantly, you let him turn your head. now seeing the upset on your face front on. he frowned, instantly reaching to wipe away your tears. he still managed to smile, trying to show you that it was okay to be feeling whatever you were in this moment.

“i love you, okay?” dean went quiet until you nodded, showing you believed him. “i have for a long time, which i’m sure you know by now.”

that got a smile out of you, hearing dean actually say it to you. he’d shown it a lot over the past few months, more than he ever had before.

“i know the way you feel can be a lot, can be overwhelming. i see that,” he brushed your hair back, catching a few tears as they fell once more. “but, i wanna be there for you, as more than a friend. i want you to know you can talk to me, you can get angry about things to me, and— and i’ll give you space when you need it.”

he paused, hoping this did all mean something to you, “i get it, when you can’t have the energy for everything all of the time. i know that mental health can take all of that from you,” he took your hands again, squeezing. “i just— i wanna be able to show that i care. properly, sweetheart.”

you looked down at your hands in his, moving to fiddle with his fingers a little, something to keep you occupied while you thought about everything he said.

“i don’t wanna hurt you,” you kept looking down, not at him. “that’s the last thing i’d ever wanna do.”

dean shook his head, “have you ever hurt me before?”

“i mean, there was that time i shouted at you for—“

“no, hurt me, you silly girl,” dean chuckled. “you’ve never pushed me away enough to make me mad at you. i could never get mad at you.”

now, you looked at him knowing exactly what he was saying was true. he was right about it all. you’d pushed him away, made him leave you alone, got him to give you space. he did it every time without question, coming to check on you every so often.

if you didn’t want to see anyone, he always had his own little ways of showing he cared. he’d slip a messy note under your door, leave food or drink outside in case you wanted it, do a patterned knock as a goodnight. it was always the little things that mattered the most.

most importantly, dean never overstepped. if you weren’t feeling good, he’d know about it before you even said anything. he’d ask if there was anything he could do, or he’d let you have some quiet time to yourself.

if you didn’t want to say anything at all, he’d just sit for a while. slightly away from you. if you wanted company, he’d hold you in his arms until you gave him a sign you felt better.

in your mind, he was doing what any friend would do. now it all came down to this, he had been acting like a boyfriend this whole time. already knew how to handle different moods, how to make you feel better. he’d learnt different things and seen it all.

“god i’m sorry, dean,” you placed your head in your hands. “all this time, i’ve been so worried about being too much for you… when in reality—“

“i’ve already experienced it all,” he finished your sentence, causing your eyes to meet his. “i know you, i know your good parts and i know your depression… but that doesn’t define you.”

he shuffled forwards, hands moving to your waist to cautiously pull you to sit in his lap. you accepted it, placed your hands on his shoulders once you got settled, legs either side of his.

“to me…” dean thought about it well. “you’re this incredibly beautiful, strong girl, who fights demons, not just the physical kind, who knows exactly how to handle herself and anyone who gives her shit.”

“dean—“ you blushed, chuckling softly.

“i’m not done,” he shushes you with a laugh. “somehow you still care about everyone else, make sure we’re all safe for hunts, check in if you haven’t heard from us for a while after things are over, all while dealing with your own battle. it’s inspiring.”

“inspiring?” your eyes lit up.

dean nodded, “hell yea it is,” then a small pause. “from what you’ve told me, i think you’re doing extremely well with fighting this crap.”

“you really think so? cause it doesn’t feel like it most of the time.”

“i mean it, sweetheart,” dean cautiously leaned forwards, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

when he sat back, you had a red tint to your cheeks, small smile staying on your lips. he thought he’d said enough, until your smile faded and you looked unsure again.

“i need to know you’ll be okay with how fast my moods can change,” you were being serious, more than before. “as in, i’ll be happier than ever one minute, and lowest of the lows the next.”

he went to answer, but you spoke again, “and i can’t always predict it. it just happens out of nowhere sometimes.”

all dean did was pull you closer. one arm wrapped around your waist, his other hand cupping your cheek as his thumb brushed back and fourth ever so gently. you looked at him, all of the emotion his eyes just for you to see.

“i wanna do this, with you,” dean already made up his mind. “i need you to be honest with me though, okay? we’ll set boundaries if you need them, just say the word.”

you took a deep breath, “okay.”

“okay?” his eyes widened just slightly.

“yea, o—“

his lips were on yours in an instant. perhaps harder than you’d expected after such a long and emotional conversation. you did settle into it, your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt as you kissed back with just as much as he was.

“sorry—“ he pulled away abruptly. “too much? i suggested boundaries and then did that.”

taking him by surprise, you lean in again, kissing him for a moment, “it was perfect,” you smile, the way you had just been feeling dissipating for now.

you hugged yourself against dean, leaning your head on his shoulder as you began feeling his hands rubbing up and down your back. this had happened before, but it all felt different now. you felt closer, more comforted, more loved.

it was a while before either of you moved, enjoying the peace of this overdue moment. one that dean was over the moon about. all he hoped, is that he did the right things for you, that he could at least try to make you happy, do everything you wanted him to.

sure, you were slightly worried. mostly about not wanting to scare dean away, not wanting to hurt his feelings in any way. you’d been friends for long enough for him to have dealt with all of the emotions of your depression already. glad that it was dean here with you over anyone else.

“hey,” dean whispered, moving to lean back so he could see you properly again. “i know today is a heavy day, so, anything you need, just say the word.”

“well,” you slowly ran a hand through his hair, smiling. “i think i’ve got all i need right here.”

in this moment, you didn’t feel so alone, so cornered with your mental health. you’d always had dean by your side during times like this, but now you had more. he could love you as he’d wanted to for a long time, full feelings on show. no more hiding. that all started here.

he kissed you once more, taking a good look at you, “i’ve got you, okay?” a promise, one he’d definitely keep. “i love you, sweetheart.”

those were words you knew you’d never get tired of hearing, “i love you too, dean.”

⟢ ─ after-party of two 𝜗𝜚 ⤷ ft. rockstar!bucky, popstar!reader

⋆˙⟡ scandals and cameras can’t keep you away from bucky, not when he’s looking at you like that. (this is set in the same universe as the vocal economy but can be read separately!)

⟢ ─ bucky bossa nova 𝜗𝜚 ❀ ᯽ ⤷ ft. congressman!bucky, fwb to lovers

⋆˙⟡ opening night of your broadway debut, the last thing you expect to see is a familiar set of blue eyes watching from the balcony. is it normal for fuck-buddies to show up for each other’s big moments? alternatively,, is bucky barnes an emotional fuckboy or is local woman oblivious to signs and in need of a visit to an opticians? this, & more, at 11!

⟢ ─ emergency contact 𝜗𝜚 ❀ ᯽ ⤷ ft. ex-avenger!reader, ex-friends to lovers

⋆˙⟡ you and bucky are friends... or, at least you were 2 months ago, before he cut all contact. if you had known an injury and a hostage situation was all you needed to finally get some answers out of the stubborn soldier, you would have handed yourself over to karli morgenthau months ago.

⟢ ─ helping hand 𝜗𝜚 ⤷ ft. sorority sister!nat, loser!bucky.

⋆˙⟡ nat knows her precious sorority sister is always eager to lend a helping hand… well, in this case, take a helping hand.

⟢ ─ incu-bust! 𝜗𝜚 ᯽ ⤷ ft. incubus!bucky, virgin!reader.

⋆˙⟡ following the untimely death of your mother, you purchase a charming yet abandoned farm-house. between creaky floorboards and squeaky doors, a creature lurks in the darkness of your new home. waiting, watching, lusting for the right moment to smudge the air of purity that surrounds you.

⟢ ─ my bloody valentine 𝜗𝜚 ᯽ ⤷ ft. congressman!bucky, enemies with benefits.

⋆˙⟡ based on a tiktok prompt: an enemy showing up at your door covered in blood, “i had nowhere else to go.”

⟢ ─ oh, christmas three! 𝜗𝜚 .ᐟ

⋆˙⟡ in the midst of cleaning your apartment post-christmas party, your two overly-competitive roommates accidentally reveal the existence of a bet: whoever kisses you under the mistletoe first gets to confess his feelings for you.

⟢ ─ only bucky 𝜗𝜚 ⤷ ft. stepdad!bucky, camstar!reader

⋆˙⟡ they can all watch, but only he can touch.

⟢ ─santa doesn't know you like i do 𝜗𝜚 ❀ .ᐟ ⤷ ft. stepdad!bucky, daddy kink.

⋆˙⟡ you’ve made a nasty habit out of calling bucky barnes whenever you find yourself one drink too deep to drive. maybe the habit wouldn’t be so nasty if he wasn’t your mother’s ex-husband.

⟢ ─ the vocal economy 𝜗𝜚 ❀ ᯽ ᯓ★ ⤷ ft. rockstar!bucky, popstar!reader

⋆˙⟡ after a chance encounter at paris fashion week, you find yourself entangled in a web of sex, lies, and watchful eyes alongside the drummer of beloved rock band the howling commandos. a problematic boyfriend is a rite of passage for every pop-girlie… but bucky barnes is not your boyfriend, he’s your drug. no matter how hard you try, can you truly quit him?

⟢ ─ tear you down, wear you out 𝜗𝜚 ❀ ᯽ ⤷ ft. spy!reader, bucky’s pov.

⋆˙⟡ to everyone else on the team, you're a ball of sunshine, a quick-thinking spy, a genius pair of eyes keeping track of anything suspicious during missions. to bucky, however, you are the bane of his existence, the knife in his back, the ire in his blood. he'll stop at nothing to get you kicked off the team, even if it means risking his own life. unfortunately, he never planned for this: you pinned beneath him on the training mat, wide-eyed and fully aware how hard he is against your thigh.

⟢ ─ what’s your favourite dirty movie? 𝜗𝜚 ⤷ ft. ghostface!bucky, dubcon.

⋆˙⟡ hot, bothered, and stood-up for phone-sex by your beloved boyfriend, you decide to take matters (ie. your pussy) into your own hands... until the phone rings.

⟢ ─ white xmas 𝜗𝜚 ❀ ᯽ .ᐟ ᯓ★

⋆˙⟡ mission report winter 1999: two hydra assets infiltrate a quiet town in norway under the guise of being newly weds. one hydra asset returns. http-error-403 — the assets fall in love.

bucky comes home & cums in you + bucky has a prise kink + congressman!bucky restrains you with his tie + husband!bucky gets you in trouble + riding beefy!bucky + munch!bucky

Bucky grunts something noncommittal and drops onto the opposite end of the couch. He’s fresh from a shower, hair damp and pushed back, wearing gray sweats and a black Henley that stretches across his shoulders. He smells like clean soap and something warm and distinctly him.

You hum in acknowledgment, keep scrolling.

It’s less than three minutes before you glance over and realize his head has tipped back against the cushions, mouth parted slightly, breathing slow and even.

You blink.

“Barnes?”

No response.

You lean closer. He’s out cold.

You stare at him for a second, then snort quietly to yourself. He had been tense when he walked in, shoulders tight like piano wire. Now he looks… soft. Younger. Peaceful in a way you don’t get to see often.

You slide the blanket off your legs and drape it over him instead.

The next night it happens again.

And the next.

It becomes a pattern so quickly it’s almost ridiculous. You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he nurses a cup of tea? He’s asleep at the table before it cools. You’re on the training mats stretching after a workout? He sits down “just for a minute” and is snoring softly within five. You’re on the Quinjet, shoulder brushing his, and he’s gone before takeoff.

The first time Sam notices, he nearly chokes on his drink.

“Man,” he says slowly, eyes bouncing between you and the unconscious super soldier slumped in his chair, “I have never seen him do that.”

“What?” you ask innocently.

“Sleep. Like that.”

You glance at Bucky. He’s folded in on himself in one of the common room armchairs, chin tucked to his chest, looking so deeply asleep it borders on absurd.

“Maybe he’s tired,” you shrug.

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, squinting.

Natasha catches on next.

She tests it.

One evening, she corners Bucky in the kitchen while you’re still in the gym. She talks to him about mission reports, about old Hydra intel, about nothing at all. She even sits him down on the couch and lowers her voice to that smooth, soothing cadence she uses on frightened witnesses.

He doesn’t so much as yawn.

You walk in ten minutes later, towel around your neck, cheeks flushed from sparring.

“Hey,” you say, smiling when you see them.

Bucky looks up at the sound of your voice.

And promptly passes out mid-sentence.

Natasha stares at him.

Then at you.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Within a week it’s a full-blown investigation.

Clint tries keeping Bucky company in the rec room. Steve insists on staying up with him one night to “see what’s going on.” Sam even suggests it might be some weird delayed serum side effect.

Nothing.

Bucky stays stubbornly, frustratingly awake with everyone else.

But the second you’re alone with him?

Lights out.

The breaking point comes during movie night.

The whole team is sprawled across the couches. Bucky is sitting ramrod straight on one end, clearly determined to prove a point. He even says as much.

“I’m not tired,” he mutters, jaw tight.

You bite your lip to keep from smiling and sit beside him anyway. Not touching. Just close enough that your knees almost brush.

The movie starts.

Thirty seconds later, his head tips sideways.

And lands squarely on your shoulder.

The room erupts.

Sam howls. Clint actually applauds. Natasha hides her smirk behind her hand. Even Steve’s lips twitch.

Bucky jerks upright, horrified. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”

“You were snoring,” Sam informs him gleefully.

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were,” Clint says. “Like a tiny chainsaw.”

You’re laughing now, warmth blooming in your chest as Bucky’s ears turn pink.

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles, refusing to look at you.

It is funny.

But it’s also… something else.

Because you’ve started to notice the details. The way his breathing evens out almost immediately when you’re near. The way his shoulders drop. The way the constant, subtle vigilance that hums beneath his skin finally goes quiet.

It hits you one evening when it’s just the two of you in your room.

He hadn’t meant to come in. He was pacing the hall after a nightmare, trying not to wake anyone. You’d opened your door at the sound of his footsteps.

“You okay?” you’d asked softly.

He hesitated.

Then nodded, once.

“C’mere,” you’d said, stepping aside.

He perches on the edge of your bed like he’s afraid it might bite him. You sit cross-legged across from him, close but not touching.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says roughly.

“I know.”

You talk about nothing. About the new recruits. About a recipe Sam ruined. About the weather.

His eyelids start to droop.

You watch it happen in real time.

“Buck,” you murmur gently.

He blinks at you, trying to fight it.

“You’re safe,” you tell him, because you think maybe that’s the key. “You can sleep.”

It’s like someone flips a switch.

He sways once.

Then slumps forward, forehead pressing lightly against your shoulder as he goes completely limp.

You freeze for a second.

Then slowly, carefully, you ease him down against your pillows and pull the comforter over him.

He doesn’t stir.

The next morning, the team finds him there.

In your bed.

Still asleep.

Sam leans against the doorway, grinning. “Well. Mystery solved.”

Bucky groans and buries his face in your pillow. “Kill me.”

You just smile, brushing your fingers gently through his hair.

“Or,” you say sweetly, “you could just start sleeping in here.”

His eyes flick up to yours, wary but hopeful.

“You serious?”

“Seems like you only sleep when I’m around,” you shrug. “Might as well get a full night out of it.”

There’s a beat.

Then, slowly, shyly, he nods.

The team never lets him live it down.

But that night—and every night after—Bucky falls asleep within minutes of you climbing into bed beside him.

If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.

That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.

He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.

Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.

Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?

And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.

He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.

Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.

But anyway, that was not the point right now.

The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.

The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.

While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.

“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.

“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.

“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.

“Connections to who?”

“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.

That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.

But that was exactly what happened.

Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.

Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.

But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.

But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.

He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.

When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.

Superman stood in front of you.

Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.

“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.

You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.

“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.

Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.

You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.

No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.

Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.

You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.

You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.

“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.

“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.

You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.

There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.

Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.

It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.

You were just his coworker. Nothing more.

But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.

Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.

After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.

A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.

The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.

He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.

He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.

You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.

You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.

“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.

Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.

Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.

“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.

You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:

“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Of course you were not easy to fool.

She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.

But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.

You only seemed curious.

You only seemed… interested.

“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.

“Really?” you asked skeptically.

“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.

He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.

Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.

He came back.

He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.

“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.

“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”

Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.

You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.

“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”

He took the plate carefully.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”

Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.

And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.

The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.

One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.

“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”

Clark smiled inwardly.

Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.

So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.

After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.

And now you shared that with Clark.

Well… with Superman.

But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.

One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”

“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”

Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”

“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”

“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”

Your eyes widened.

“What?”

“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.

“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”

“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.

“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.

The two of you ended up laughing.

You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.

That became his favorite part of every day.

Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.

But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.

And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.

Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.

Because he had someone waiting for him.

And that someone was you.

That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.

You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.

In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.

And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.

Oh, God, he thought.

He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.

But he still wanted to test it.

He needed to know.

So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.

Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.

“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.

His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.

You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.

“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.

Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.

He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.

Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.

“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.

You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.

“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.

Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.

“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.

He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”

Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.

“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”

Superman lowered his gaze.

He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.

You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.

“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”

That made everything worse.

Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.

Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.

“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.

Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.

You looked at him with a frown, still worried.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.

Superman nodded slowly.

“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.

You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.

Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.

“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.

You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.

“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.

“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”

Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.

“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”

He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.

“I never imagined,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.

“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”

Clark felt his stomach flip.

“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.

You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.

“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.

You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.

Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.

“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”

You let out a short laugh.

“I already know that.”

“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.

He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.

“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.

“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.

Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.

So he simply nodded again, harder this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”

Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.

“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.

Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.

He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.

He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.

He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.

Nothing else mattered.

Only you.

Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.

Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.

He was going to ask you out.

That was a fact.

He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.

Or fly around the world.

Or both.

“You look like you just got stood up,” he had said to you that night.

You glanced up at him. “I wasn’t,” you corrected, taking a sip of your drink. “Just… broken up with.”

“Damn, that’s even worse,” he said, chuckling. “Guess you wouldn’t mind some company, then?”

You shrugged. “Depends. You a creep?”

“Nah,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “I’m Sam. Air Force. And a gentleman, despite what my sister says.”

So you introduced yourself to him.

It started casual between you. Late-night texts, stolen weekends when he was not in a war zone. Sam wanted someone to fool around with in between deployments, and you had this fucked-up military fantasy that he fulfilled. You became friends with benefits, sharing nights in tangled sheets and lazy mornings where neither of you bothered to define whatever this was. You were young, reckless, and Sam had the kind of charm that made it easy to keep things short-sighted.

And then, one day, he stopped texting.  

Not in a cruel way. Life just… happened.  The deployments got longer, life got busier, and you had to move away to take a job. No hard feelings, it was just time pulling you both in different directions.   

—

Years later, after the whole Flag Smashers mess, Sam found you again. It was pure coincidence—he ran into you at a coffee shop in D.C., and the moment your eyes met, it was like no time had passed.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam said, smiling as he approached your table.

You looked up, startled. “Sam?”

“In the flesh,” he said, arms outstretched like he was waiting for a hug. “Wow, you look good.”

You laughed, standing up to hug him. “And you look... exactly the same.”

“I age like fine wine, sweetheart.” He pulled back, winking. “What are you even doing here?”

“Living,” you teased. “I moved back a while ago. What about you? You flying around saving the world now, Cap?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to look modest. “Something like that.”

That coffee turned into lunch, which turned into dinner, which turned into you waking up in his bed the next morning, except this time, things weren’t just casual fun. Sam wanted more.

“You know I’m not just passing through this time, right?” he murmured against your bare shoulder, tracing patterns on your skin.

And before you knew it, you weren’t just someone he called when he was in town— you were his girlfriend.

—

A couple of months later, Sam took you by the hand and said, “Okay, you gotta meet my boy. He’s a softie, you’re gonna love him.”

“Who, Joaquin?” you teased.

“Nah, not Torres. My other best friend.”

That was how you found yourself sitting across from Bucky Barnes in a small cafe, nursing a cup of coffee while Sam rambled about something you weren’t really paying attention to. 

See, Bucky was exactly as advertised. Standoffish at first, eyes studying you like he was assessing a threat. But the thing about Bucky was that even if he didn’t talk much, he listened. And once he realised you weren’t just Sam’s temporary fling, he started to warm up.  

From that moment on, it was easy.

You and Bucky clicked in a way that surprised you both. He was quiet, but you could get him to laugh. You teased each other, shared inside jokes, and—much to Sam’s delight—became friends faster than either of you expected.

“You two are like… my proudest achievement,” Sam said one night, slinging an arm around both of you as you sat on the dock behind his house. “My best friend and my girl? Getting along? Life is great.”

You leaned into Sam’s side, content. You glanced at Bucky as Sam rambled on about how great this all was. And for a second, you let yourself admit it— Bucky was handsome.

Not in the same way Sam was, not in the way that made you dizzy with laughter. No, Bucky’s was different. It was something you would never—never—act on.

Right?

Over time, Bucky watched you and Sam together, and saw the way Sam beamed every time you saw each other. He could see how much you cared about each other.

But Bucky also saw the cracks.

The way your smile faltered when Sam’s phone rang. How Sam never hesitated before answering. How you always waited. 

Bucky had seen it before. Sam’s heart belonged to the job. It always had.

But it wasn’t Bucky’s place to say anything.

—

Two years later, things weren’t bad between you and Sam. Not exactly.

But they weren’t good, either.

Sam had spent the last two years becoming Captain America— taking on mission after mission, rebuilding trust with the government, working with Joaquin, training, speeches, outreach programs, meetings. 

Always something.

And you understood. You knew who Sam was before you got involved with him. You knew what being with him meant.

But lately, it felt like you weren’t his girlfriend so much as his afterthought.

It was little things at first.

He’d cancel dinner plans last minute because Joaquin needed him at the base. He’d text you not to wait up because a job he couldn't refuse came up. He’d say he was exhausted when you finally got time together, and then turn around and fly across the country at a moment’s notice.

The worst part was you didn’t even think he realised he was doing it.

So, you didn’t say anything—  not at first.

The night it all came to a head, you were sitting at a restaurant alone, your fingers tracing patterns on the linen tablecloth. 

Sam was supposed to be here. It was your anniversary.

Then, you heard a notification. 

Your boyfriend texted you: Something important came up. Rain check?

That was it. No apology. No phone call. 

Were you not something important to him?

You should’ve seen it coming, but it didn’t make it sting any less.

You scrolled through your contacts, wondering if anyone would be available for a rant. 

Bucky. He was your friend, too, right?

So you texted him: are you free tonight?

Not a minute later, he answered: Yeah. Sam told me something came up. You okay?

You stared at the message for a second too long. 

A few minutes later, you called. Bucky answered on the second ring.

“You still at the restaurant?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” you admitted. “But I think I’m heading home.”

“I’ll meet you at yours,” he said, and you didn’t argue.

—

By the time Bucky arrived at your place, you had already changed into sweats and wiped off your makeup. You looked tired. Almost…  defeated.

Bucky sighed, setting down a bag of takeout. “Figured you didn’t eat,” he said.

You gave him a small smile. “You figured right.”

He sat down next to you on the couch, cracking open a takeout container. “So. You wanna talk about it?”

You let out a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say that I haven’t already said to myself a hundred times before.”

“Try me,” Bucky said, handing you a fork.

You poked at the food, hungry but not really having the energy to eat. “I just… I feel like I come second. Like, if it’s between me and the job, it's always going to be the job.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then, he said carefully, “And is that something you can live with?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I mean, it’s not Sam’s fault that he puts the job first, that’s just who he is,” Bucky said, watching you closely. “But if he’s not willing to compromise, then maybe his values are… not suited to you.”

Your throat tightened. “I care about him, Bucky.”

“I know,” Bucky said, gently. “But do you see a future like this?”

You didn’t answer.

And Bucky didn’t push. He just stayed with you, eating in silence, ignoring his phone when it buzzed. Sam’s name lit up on the screen, probably to ask him to check on you.

And he ignored it. Because you had called first.

—

You didn’t sleep.

The hours bled together, stretching endlessly as you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the too-quiet nothingness.

Sam wasn’t here— not that he usually was.

Maybe that’s why this hurt so much. You had already felt alone for so long.

The sun had barely risen when you sent Sam a text.

Can I come over? I need to talk to you.

His response came an hour later. 

Sure, sweetheart.

When you walked through Sam’s door, he looked tired— his uniform still slung across the kitchen table, his hair slightly damp from a shower, like he’d come straight from a mission. Like always.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as you sat down in the kitchen. “Sorry about last night. I know I messed up, I just—”

“Sam.”

Your voice wasn’t malicious by any means, but it stopped him in his tracks anyway.

Slowly, he turned to face you. His eyes scanned your face. He sighed as he sat down, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What’s wrong?”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat.

Here goes nothing. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His expression didn't change right away. It was like his brain refused to register the words. Then, after trying to process, his brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly. “What?”

You let out a shaky breath. “I love you, Sam.” Your voice cracked at the mention of his name, and that made his entire body go still. “I do. But I can’t keep coming second to everything else in your life.”

He blinked, thoughts shifting behind his eyes. “Come on, that’s not fair—”

“But it is.” Your voice was firmer now, more desperate. “It’s fair, Sam. Because I get it. I get why you put the job first. I get that the world needs you. I get that you’re Captain America.” Your throat tightened. “But I need you, too.”

For a second, there was only silence. Sam’s muscles flexed. He looked away for a moment, inhaling through his nose. “I’m here now.”

“No,” you whispered. “You’re here today. But what about next time? And the time after that?” Your voice wavered, hands starting to tremble now. “How many more anniversaries are we going to rain check?”

Sam didn’t answer. Because you both already knew the answer.

Your chest ached with dull pain. You felt like you were holding onto sand, the last of it slipping through your fingers.

And fuck. Fuck. He wasn’t even fighting for you.

He should’ve said, Stay. Please, stay.

He should’ve said, I’ll do better.

But he didn’t. Because those were promises he just couldn’t keep. 

So you reached for his hand instead, threading your fingers through his fingers like you had so many times before. 

For two years he had been your safe place. Your home.

“I will always care about you,” you whispered, blinking back tears. Sam shook his head, looking down on your clasped hands, his fingers tightening around yours like he could hold you here forever if he just gripped hard enough.

“Then why are you leaving?” he asked, barely above a whisper. 

Your heart shattered. “Because I care about myself, too.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, finally, you leaned in… and kissed him.

It was slow and painful. The kind of kiss that felt more like a gunshot. The kind of kiss that left a wound behind, that dug into your ribs like a knife and twisted around in your flesh. You kissed him like you wanted to memorise him one last time— how he felt, how he breathed, how he tasted.

He tasted like salt and sweat and regret. Like the past. Like he was already slipping away.

Sam kissed you back— just once. Like if he just kissed you hard enough, maybe you’d change your mind.

But you didn’t.

So you pulled away.

And Sam let you go.

You turned toward the door, pausing only once to glance back.

He was sitting there, looking at you like he wanted to stop you, but he didn’t know how.

But he didn’t say anything.

So you left.

—

That night, Sam called Bucky.

“Meet me at the gym,” was all he said.

Bucky didn’t ask why. He just went.

When he arrived, Sam was already wrapping his hands, his movements more rigid and mechanical than usual, like he was just itching to hit something.

Bucky grabbed his own wraps and joined him. They didn’t start with words nor questions. They sparred in silence for a long time, fists landing against pads, grunts filling the space where words should’ve been.

Then, finally, Sam stepped back, rolling his shoulders.

“She broke up with me,” he finally said.

Bucky already knew that. Or at least, he suspected. He had watched you cry last night as Sam ditched your anniversary dinner for a mission, but hearing Sam say it out loud… That made it real.

“I’m sorry,” was all Bucky had to offer. 

Sam let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. “Man, I—” His voice broke.

And suddenly, he wasn’t okay.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

Because Sam Wilson—Captain America—was crying.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. His sobs came in choked breaths, his hands on his hips, his head dropping forward.

Bucky had never seen him like this. Ever.

“…Shit,” Bucky muttered, pulling off his gloves. He hesitated, then stepped closer. “Sam—”

Sam wiped his face, shaking his head. “I knew,” he said, voice open like a fresh wound. “I think I knew this would happen. I knew I wasn’t giving her… enough. I just—I thought I had time to fix everything.”

Bucky swallowed hard, and repeated. “I’m sorry, man.”

Sam let out a shaky breath, blinking up at the ceiling. 

“I got a mission coming up,” he said. “Couple of weeks.” His voice was quieter now, like he hated the words coming out of his mouth, because this had proved you right— that the mission will always come first. He finally looked at Bucky with red eyes. “Can you just… make sure she’s not alone?”

Bucky hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

Sam nodded too, like he already knew Bucky would say yes. 

You were his friend, too. 

And then, without another word, Sam threw his fists back up.

And Bucky let him punch the grief out of his body.

—

The next day, he found himself on your doorstep.

And Bucky didn’t knock.

He just let himself into your apartment, the way he always did when Sam asked him to check on you. But this time, Sam wasn’t your boyfriend anymore.

The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn, the television playing some random sitcom you weren’t even paying attention to. You were curled up on the couch, buried under a blanket, staring at the screen but not really seeing it.

You looked… tired. Worn down, the way people got when they spent too much time wanting something they couldn’t have.

Bucky sighed, setting yet another takeout bag down on the coffee table before sitting beside you. Close, but not too close that it felt claustrophobic. 

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than usual.

You blinked, slowly turning your head to look at him. But you didn’t respond.

Bucky nudged your foot lightly with his knee. “C’mon. Say something. At least yell at me for letting myself in.”

You said nothing. Perhaps because you felt nothing— numb and hollow, because you just broke it off with the man you loved.

You had been Captain America’s girlfriend for two years. You have occupied that space, and he had filled in so much of your life, that you don’t even know what made you special if you weren’t tied to his whole Stars and Stripes career.

Bucky, perhaps, knew a little of what that felt like. 

He frowned, leaning forward. “You miss him.” It was an observation. 

Your breath hitched, and just like that— you broke.

A choked sob clawed its way out of your throat. You pressed the sleeve of your sweatshirt to your mouth like you could somehow shove it back down, like you could hold it in if you just tried hard enough.

But you couldn’t.

Tears spilled over, your shoulders trembling, and you turned away from him. You didn’t want him to see.

Bucky could only lean back against the couch. He didn’t tell you not to cry. He didn’t tell you Sam wasn’t worth it. He didn’t say it was going to be okay.

And when you finally stopped pretending he wasn’t there and pressed your forehead against his shoulders, he didn’t hesitate putting his arm around you.

Bucky held on to you until you stopped shaking. Until your breathing evened out, until the tears slowed down. 

Eventually, you spoke. “I-it’s only been a day,” you choked out, “a-and I already miss him.”

Bucky sighed. “I know.”

You exhaled shakily. “I miss everything. I miss how he always made me feel safe. I miss how he would bring me coffee in the mornings he was available and complain about how mine was too sweet. I miss how he always smelled like clean laundry and aftershave. I miss how he laughed at his own jokes— God, his dumb fuckin’ bird jokes.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “They were terrible.”

“They were,” you whispered. “But I loved them anyway.”

A comfortable silence stretched between you, letting your thoughts settle. 

Then, softly, you said, “I miss the way he used to look at me like I was his whole world.”

Bucky swallowed hard. He had seen that look. Had seen Sam look at you like you were everything.

But he had also seen the way it faded. The way he took your presence for granted.

And now Sam was not your boyfriend anymore, and you were here, sitting beside his best friend instead.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “You’ll be okay.”

You closed your eyes. “I don’t feel okay.”

He nodded. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But you will be.”

You didn’t argue. You just sat there, leaning into him.

—

It became a habit. He’d visit every other day. 

The third time Bucky checked on you, you didn’t let him leave. Not really. 

You weren’t okay, and he could see it in the way you hesitated when he got up, the way your eyes darted toward the door like you were already dreading being alone again.

So he sighed and said, “I’ll crash on the couch.”

You’d say “thank you” and hand him a pillow and a blanket before retreating to your bedroom.

That was the first night. Then the second.

And then, without really thinking about it, Bucky just… stayed every once in a while. 

He spent his nights on the couch, spent his mornings making coffee in your kitchen, spent his afternoons convincing you to leave the apartment to do small things to keep you from going insane. Sometimes, he offered a walk. Maybe a visit to the  bookstore. Or a late-night grocery run because he laughed and said he couldn’t eat another one of your sad freezer meals.

Little by little, you started getting back on your feet.

Until one night, you saw Sam on TV.

You had just started feeling normal again—had started breathing without it hurting, had started waking up without reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then there he was.

The news anchor was talking about Captain America, but all you saw was Sam. He was at a podium, addressing the country about a recent mission. He looked strong, like he always did. He looked… whole.

And God, if it made you selfish… but it hurt that he wasn’t shattered, that he hadn’t fallen apart the way you had.

That he didn’t seem like he was missing you at all. 

You weren’t sure when the tears started again.

Bucky walked in just as you swiped at your face. His eyes flicked from the TV to you.

Oh.

Sam looked.. fine on screen. But Bucky knew his best friend. And his best friend hid his emotions well when he wanted to.

“You’re not okay,” he muttered.

You let out a huff. “You think?”

He tilted his head, watching you for a second before stepping in to turn off the TV.  “So, what’s the verdict? You planning on crying yourself into dehydration, or is this just a one-night special?”

You shot him a glare. “You have the emotional depth of a teaspoon.”

“That’s not true,” he said, faking offense. “I’m at least a ladle.”

You huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was amused enough. 

Bucky took that as a win.

“Listen,” he continued, plopping down onto your couch like he lived there (He practically did at this point), “I’m heading out of town for a couple of weeks. Campaign stuff.”

Ah, right. Congress. Everyone said he had a real shot. An honest man in politics— you knew Capitol Hill could use a guy like him.

He stretched his arms behind his head, shooting you a glance. “And, uh… clearly, you can’t be left alone for two seconds without turning into a wet puddle—”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“—so, I’m just gonna extend the offer.” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Come with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“To events,” he clarified. “Speeches. Dinners. Awkward meet-and-greets with people who pretend to care about the public’s welfare.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds awful.”

“Right? Misery loves company.” He chuckled. “And clearly, you could use an excuse to get out of the house. And I might need you to hold me back from punching a lobbyist.”

You frowned. “So, what, I’m your emotional support human now?”

“I mean.” He shrugged. “I seem to be yours right now.”

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it with a kind grin.

“I just figured…” He hesitated, the playful edge in his voice smoothed out by sympathy. “Instead of sitting here, waiting for things to get better, you could go out and use my campaign circus as a distraction.”

You stared at him.

Sam would’ve left you behind.

Sam would’ve told you to “take care of yourself,” give you a kiss, and assumed you’d be fine.

But Bucky…

Bucky was asking you to come with him.

Because maybe this wasn’t just about you being alone. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone, either.

Your throat tightened. “Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yeah?”

You swallowed, nodded. “Yeah.”

He nodded, rocking back slightly like he hadn’t expected you to actually agree. Then, because he was Bucky Barnes, he just shrugged.

“Cool. Pack something nice.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” he stood up and stretched, “if I gotta suffer through these events, I’d rather not do it with someone in smelly sweatpants.”

You gasped, pressing a hand to your chest. “Are you insulting my loungewear?”

“Not insulting. Just… you’ve been wearing those for five days.”

You hurled yet another pillow at him. He caught it easily, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“But these are comfy.”

He groaned, heading for the door. “Fine. Stay here. Cry over Sam.”

You laughed, catching his sleeve before he could escape. “I’ll pack something nice.”

He paused to look at you.

Then, quieter than ever before, he said, “okay.”

You weren’t sure why that made your stomach flip.

Or why you let yourself watch him walk away, just a little longer than necessary.

And you definitely weren’t sure why, when you finally dragged yourself to your room to pack, you found yourself reaching for something really nice.

Something you knew would make Bucky look twice.

Not that you cared.

Obviously.

It was just… strategic. For the campaign.

That was all.

Right?

—

When you showed up at the airport the next day, Bucky told himself he was just doing Sam a favour.

That was all this was.

He was keeping you company, making sure you weren’t alone, just like Sam had asked.

It wasn’t because he liked having you around.

It wasn’t because he liked the way you smiled at him.

It wasn’t because you made him feel more human that he had even been. 

It wasn’t any of that.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

—

Campaign life was a whirlwind. Speeches, press conferences, stiff handshakes with people who smiled too wide and cared too little.

Bucky took it all in stride. He gritted his teeth and smiled through the fake pleasantries, rolled his eyes at the bullshit, and kept himself calm when answering the same three questions a hundred times.

You, however, were just trying to survive.

“You didn’t tell me there’d be this much small talk,” you whispered at one of the evening fundraisers, swirling the champagne in your glass as you stood beside him in a too-shiny ballroom.

“I figured you’d figure it out,” Bucky said, scanning the crowd. “Besides, you like talking.”

“Not this kind of talking,” you grumbled.

And it was easy—easier than it should’ve been—to fall into step with him. To stay by his side during conversations. To steal each other’s untouched hors d'oeuvres when no one was looking. To sit beside him in the car after a long day, both of you half-asleep, Bucky rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, stretching his legs out with a tired groan that you definitely didn’t stare at.

And somewhere in between the speeches and the late-night drives and the endless political nonsense, he became the person you talked to about everything.

And, yes, that included Sam.

“I mean, I get it,” you sighed one evening, your shoes discarded on his hotel couch. “I get why things didn’t work out. I do.”

Bucky nodded, sitting beside you, his tie loose, his jacket ohh. “Mhm.”

“And I get that he’s this whole… larger-than-life thing now.” You exhaled, stretching your legs across the couch in his hotel room. “But it’s like—he thought of me like I was a footnote.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. “Trust me,” he told you, “You were never a footnote to him.”

You scoffed. “Sure feels like it.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I’m not saying Sam’s not an idiot—”

You rolled your eyes. “Good start.”

“—but I need you to know he didn’t mean to hurt you,” Bucky said. “He’s just… Sam. He doesn’t always see things the way other people do.”

You rolled your eyes. “You always defend him.”

“Because I know him,” Bucky said simply. 

—

Somehow, you got more… involved in his campaign.

When he muttered, “I fucking hate this paperwork,” and you just laughed, took the folder from him, and organised it yourself.

The next morning, after you restructured his entire PR strategy, Bucky stared at you in horror. “I’m gonna have to hire you.”

You scoffed, flipping through notes. “Bucky, no. This is just a favour for a friend.”

Yeah. A favour.

A friend.

You both kept pretending that’s all it was.

That’s all you were. 

—

It had been two months since you walked out of Sam’s apartment. Two months since you had kissed him one last time. 

You were sitting on your hotel bed, curled up in one of Bucky’s campaign sweatshirts—because apparently, there was merch now—scrolling mindlessly on your phone when the screen lit up with a name you hadn’t seen in weeks.

Sam.

Your stomach didn’t drop the way you expected it to.

You hesitated for half a second before answering.

“Hey.”

There was a pause. 

“Hey.”

His voice was steady. A little too steady, like he was putting conscious effort into making sure it stayed that way.

You weren’t sure what to say.

And maybe he wasn’t either, because for a moment, there was nothing but silence.

“How are you?” He finally asked. 

You blinked. That was not what you expected.

“I’m…” You thought about it. “I’m okay.”

You could hear him processing that.

“You are?” His voice was careful, as if he didn’t believe you.

You shifted against the pillows. “Yeah. I mean—don’t get me wrong, I was a mess for a while.” You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “But, y’know. Time, distractions. That kinda thing.”

“Distractions?” He echoed.

You hummed. “Bucky’s been dragging me around on his campaign. Keeping me busy. Making sure I don’t, I don’t know, waste away in my apartment or something.”

Something changed in Sam’s breath. It wasn’t loud, nor was it obvious. But you knew him.

“…You’re travelling with Bucky?”

You frowned slightly. “I mean, yeah. It’s not—” You hesitated. “It’s not a big deal.”

It shouldn’t have been a big deal.

And yet, on the other end of the line, Sam was gripping the edge of his kitchen counter, staring at the floor, trying to ignore the splintering feeling in his chest.

Because he had been so sure you were still drowning without him.

Had convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, you were just as wrecked as he was.

But here you were, saying you were okay.

That Bucky—his best friend—was the one making sure you were okay. Sure, he had asked him to, but he didn’t realise the lengths he would go to just to make sure you weren’t lonely. 

And now, Sam was suddenly, completely, unbearably aware of the fact that he wasn’t okay.

“That’s good,” he finally said, “I’m—I’m glad.”

For the first time, you heard a break in his voice. 

It should’ve made you angry— should’ve made you want to throw his own actions back in his face. You left me no choice, Sam. 

But instead, you just felt… tired. Because it was too late for both of you.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Me too.”

Sam cleared his throat. “When are you back home?”

You glanced at your calendar, thumb hovering over the screen. “Two weeks. Tuesday.”

“Oh.” His tone was unreadable. “Well… call me then. I want to pick up my stuff from your place.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of seeing him again. “You have a spare key, Sam. Just use it.” You still trusted him— of course you did. That had never been the issue. 

Sam let out a deep breath, like he was tiptoeing around glass. “I know. I just… I wanted to do it in person.”

Oh.

Your fingers curled against your palm. “Okay.” The word felt insignificant, but what else was there to say? Sam would come over. He’d gather his things. You’d stand in the doorway, hands tucked into your sleeves, watching as he took the last of himself out of your space.

Or maybe… he had something to say. Maybe he needed an excuse to see you again. 

“Take care of yourself, Sam,” you said finally, gentler this time. “I better not see you outside the hotel room window, throwing hands with another rage monster.” You joked, because maybe, you wanted to make sure this didn’t become awkward. You wanted to make sure that even if you weren’t his, he would always be your friend.

“Yeah,” he chuckled in a whisper. “You too.”

And so, even when the call ended and the silence settled back in, you didn’t feel like crying.

On the other side of the country, Sam put his phone down, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and wished, for the first time, that he had done things differently.

—

You knocked on Bucky’s hotel room door.

“Hey.” He said when he answered voice was a little rough from disuse— maybe he’d been winding down for the night. He was in a Henley and sweatpants, barefoot, hair in a bun a little messier than usual. 

You sucked in a breath, needing to just…  talk. “Sam called.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside to let you in.

You sank onto the edge of his bed, arms wrapping around yourself. He sat across from you in the chair by the window, forearms resting on his knees.

“I think we needed to hear each other’s voices again,” you admitted. 

Bucky nodded, waiting for more.

You shook your head. “And I think… I think he really did care about me.” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “But he was always looking at the next thing. The next fight. The next problem to fix. And I— never felt like I could share my problems.”

“You know…,” Bucky started, “The break up wasn’t your fault.”

Your throat tightened. “Then why did it feel like it?”

Bucky inhaled sharply, like he’d given this a lot of thought. “Because it wasn’t his fault either,” he said simply. “You just wanted different things.”

You licked your lips, but you saw it— that look in his eyes— a certainty, as if he had been sitting on this for years.

You narrowed your eyes. “You knew it was never gonna work between me and Sam, didn’t you?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Your heart ached. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t my place.”

You studied him. “But you knew.”

“I knew Sam,” he admitted. “And I got to know you. You needed more than he could give.”

“And what was that?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours, hands nervously twitching. “He did love you.” His voice was quiet. He felt like he needed to preface that. “But I think… I don’t think love was enough.” He considered. “I think you… wanted time with him. I think you wanted attention.”

You closed your eyes briefly, nodding. You knew that. You had always known that— that Sam’s attention was always on the good of all mankind. 

“Bucky, I—” You stopped mid-sentence.

Because suddenly, the realisation hit you.

Time. Attention.

The things you’d never gotten from Sam.

Bucky had stayed. He had been there, making sure you got out of bed, making sure you were okay, pulling you along on this campaign, keeping you close.

And suddenly, you were seeing it—him—differently.

“Those are the things you’re giving me now,” you whispered. 

Bucky gulped.

His teeth clicked. His fingers curled against his thighs. His eyes didn’t move from yours.

Neither of you said anything for a moment, but the silence wasn’t empty. It reminded you of every moment you’d spent together the past few weeks. The banter. The glances. The way you gravitated toward each other in a crowded room without even thinking about it.

“You should go to bed,” Bucky finally muttered. His voice was low, a little uneven. Fuck, was he scared. You were getting too close to the truth, to how he’s always felt about you. 

“Yeah.” You agreed but didn’t move. Neither did he.

His fingers twitched. Your breath hitched.

“This is—” He groaned like something inside him snapped, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so stupid.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“He’s my best friend.”

“I know.”

“And you’re…” He trailed off, shaking his head, eyes flicking down to where your trousers met his sheets. You should’ve moved. You should have gone. You should’ve this should’ve that. 

But you couldn’t bring yourself to. 

Bucky’s fingers curled, gripping the edge of his chair like he needed to ground himself. 

“This… this is nothing, right?” you said, and you said it like a warning. You were trying to convince yourself to believe.

His jaw was tight, his throat bobbing. So quietly you almost missed it, he whispered, “Then stop looking at me like that.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Like what?”

His fingers curled against his thighs. “Like I’m your next mistake.”

A heat bloomed in your chest— something that felt too much like frustration, like a want that you had denied, that had been simmering under the surface for weeks and was finally clawing its way out.

Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, your hands fisting against your lap. “You could never be a mistake.”

Bucky flinched. 

And the way his shoulders stiffened made it seem like he didn’t believe you, because of course he didn’t.

Of course he thought this was wrong.

Of course he thought he wasn’t allowed to want this. Want you. 

Bucky’s breath was shallow. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—like he wanted something.

And then—

“Fuck it.”

His chair scraped back. His fingers found your wrist.

And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was desperate.

Sam kissed like a promise. Bucky kissed like he was drowning and begging for air. 

His hands were firm but hesitant, gripping your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you— like he was waiting for you to push him away.

You didn’t. Instead, you were pressing closer, fingers fisting in his shirt, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, gasping when his hand trailed up your spine, leaving a burning trail of in its wake.

You had only broken up with Sam two months ago. But you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered against your lips, exhaling hard, like he was trying to catch his breath. His forehead pressed against yours, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. “We shouldn’t—”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“Then why does it feel like I’ll fucking die if I stop?” His voice was ragged. This was killing him.

You closed the gap and kissed him again, because kissing Bucky was addicting. 

Sam had always kissed you slowly, held you like you were fragile.

Bucky?

Bucky kissed you like the wild thing he was. Like he had been starving for you.

His hands were firm, his mouth rough against your skin, his hips moving like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed this, like he needed you to survive.

He gripped your waist, mouth moving against yours, the way he groaned when your fingers tangled in his hair—God, you couldn’t stop.

He sighed when you moaned against his lips. He gripped your thighs hard, dragging you closer, deeper, until there was nothing left between you but heat and aching want. Soon, your back was against the mattress, your clothes discarded. 

His weight pressed you into the sheets, his lips dragging down your throat, hot and desperate. His stubble scraped your skin, sending sparks of heat curling in your stomach.

Sam used to be careful. Always controlled, always measured.

Bucky was not.

His hands were everywhere. Rough, needy. His metal fingers traced over your ribs, cool against skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your throat. His breathing was ragged. “If you want me to stop, just—”

You didn’t.

You grabbed his face, dragging him back to your mouth to taste him— and he tasted sweet. He tasted like your future.

His name slipped from your lips like a prayer, and when he finally sank into you, you shattered.

Sam was always slow. Always careful, murmuring praises against your skin, pressing feather-light kisses to your collarbone.

Bucky was none of those things.

He buried himself in you, his forehead pressing against yours. He felt so good, so full, so much— it was overwhelming.

And fuck, he looked at you like you were a vice he wasn’t supposed to have, but took you anyway.

Sam used to say your name, pressing kisses to your jaw. Bucky grunted your name like a prayer, like he was losing himself.

And you wanted him to.

You wanted him to lose himself in you.

Because right now, you weren’t thinking about Sam.

Right now, you weren’t second place to a job. 

And when you finally broke apart beneath him, gasping, trembling, falling apart at the seams—

Bucky followed right after.

—

Bucky was a light sleeper. After years of war, of Hydra—his body never let him sleep too deeply.

Which was why, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand, his eyes snapped open instantly.

His arm was still wrapped around you, your bare skin pressed against his. You were still asleep, your breathing soft, lips slightly parted.

Fuck.

His chest tightened, guilt gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

He carefully reached for his phone, trying not to wake you, and when he saw the caller ID—

Sam.

Fuck.

He answered anyway. “Hey.”

“Hey, man.” Sam’s voice was too kind, like he was trying to mask something else. “Uh, thanks for keeping an eye on my girl—” he stopped in his tracks, before letting out a quiet, bitter laugh. “I mean… well. Not my girl anymore. Just—uh, I didn’t expect you to bring her with you.”

Bucky glanced down at you. What was he doing? What was he supposed to say? 

“She was in no place to be alone in D.C.,” he replied. “I did what I had to.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “Yeah, I get that.”

Then, Sam said something so soft Bucky almost didn’t hear it.

“Do you think there’s a chance she might want me back?”

Bucky closed his eyes. 

No. No, no no. Sam couldn’t still love you that way, right?

He swallowed hard. “Sam… you… this…” He exhaled. “You know how this ends.”

Then, he heard a longer sigh.

“Right.” Sam’s voice was strained. “You’re right.”

Bucky stayed silent, listening as Sam shifted on the other end of the line.

“I’d just hurt her again,” Sam murmured, almost to himself. “Wouldn’t I?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. “Hm.”

“I don’t want that,” Sam admitted. His voice was stripped back. “I don’t want to do that to her again.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “Guess we should just be friends.”

Bucky swallowed. “Hm.”

Sam was quiet for a long time, before saying, “Take care of her, alright?”

Bucky looked down at you again, at the way you had shifted slightly, brow furrowing, lips parting. His fingers brushed over your shoulder.

“I will.”

And for the first time since he answered the phone, Bucky didn’t feel guilty about it.

—

When your eyes fluttered open, you woke to the scent of him still lingering in the sheets. The room was still dark, the hotel curtains muting the scorching sunlight.

You could hear the faint rustling of clothes, the sound of trainers being laced up.

Bucky was standing near the desk, already dressed in his jogging clothes— sweatpants, a t-shirt that clung to his frame, a hoodie zipped halfway up. His hair was damp, probably from a shower. He glanced at you when he noticed you stirring.

“Mornin’,” he greeted.

You sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist. Your eyes went to the clock— 8.45 AM. “Press today?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured I’d go on a coffee run first.”

You tilted your head, watching him. Then, before you could overthink it, you pushed the blankets back and stretched. “I’ll come with you.”

—

The café smelled like burnt espresso and fresh pastries, the morning rush having finally calmed enough for you and Bucky to claim a quiet booth in the corner. The windows fogged up, the city humming on the other side of the glass. 

Bucky sat across from you, stirring sugar into his coffee even though you knew he drank it black. A distraction, maybe. Or maybe…  he needed a shock to his system.

“You good?” he finally asked, hesitantly.

You nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

“I…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t regret it.”

The spoon in his hand stilled. The soft clink of metal against ceramic was the only sound between you. Then, slowly, he looked up, blue eyes searching for any sign of a lie. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Even though it’s… messy?”

You huffed, almost amused. “Bucky, our lives have been messy for a long time.”

That made him laugh. His shoulders relaxed, just a little.

“What about you?” You tilted your head, arms crossing over your chest. “Do you regret it?”

He exhaled through his nose, glancing out the window like the answer might be written in the crowds. “I thought I would,” he admitted. “I thought I’d wake up and… feel like I’d done something wrong.”

“But you don’t?”

His fingers tapped against the side of his cup, like he was cataloguing his thoughts. Then, quietly, almost like a cardinal sin, “No. I don’t.”

The silence between you stretched before you swallowed, voice quieter this time. “I’ll always care about Sam.”

Bucky nodded. He had already known that. 

You sipped your coffee. “When I was younger…” You sighed, choosing your words carefully. “When I first hooked up with Sam, it was just a fling. I knew he could get up and leave at any time, and I wouldn’t blame him. So when he offered a relationship, I was over the fucking moon. I thought it would be different. I thought—if I could make it work—it would prove I wasn’t disposable.” You let out a self-deprecating laugh.“I think staying as long as I did—knowing I’d never ask him to stop being Captain America—just gave me… abandonment issues.”

Bucky’s eyes softened, “You were never disposable.” He reassured. “Not to me. Not to Sam, either.”

You looked away. “It doesn’t matter if he thinks so. I don’t feel like I’m not.” You exhaled, barely believing that even after you had just slept with Bucky, after breaking things off with Sam, yet here he was, still defending his best friend.

“Sam… He’ll always put the world first.” And you understood that. So you let the statement steep in silence.

He stared down at his coffee for a long moment. His fingers drummed against the ceramic, like he was debating whether to say something, anything. Then, so softly you almost didn’t hear it, he said, “I’ve been in love with you for a long, long time.”

Your breath hitched.

He let out an almost bitter chuckle. “Figured I should put that out there.”

Your heart pounded in your ears “How long?”

Bucky’s eyes darted, like he was debating whether to tell you the truth. “Since the first time you laughed at one of my jokes.”

A disbelieving gasp left your throat. “Bucky—”

“I hated it,” He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head like he didnt like admitting it. “I fucking hated it, because you were with Sam. He’s my best friend.” His voice cracked, just a little. “And I’d never do that to him.”

Your chest tightened. “Did you ever think about telling me?”

He hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “Not as long as you loved him.”

But you didn’t, didn’t you? Not anymore, not in any way that mattered in this conversation, anyway.

You swallowed hard, the truth pressing against your ribs. “I think… in the last couple of months, when Sam started taking on more and more missions—after the president, after everything—I think I started… having… feelings for you.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto yours so fast it almost startled you. What?

You didn’t let yourself back down. Not when you owed him this—owed yourself this. “But… I was with Sam.”

Bucky didn’t say anything right away, but you could see his fingers twitching where they rested on the table. When he finally nodded, it was slow, like he was letting each word sink into his skin. “And now you’re not.”

You nodded, searching his eyes. “Now I’m not.”

You could always tell when he was holding something back, his muscles would tighten just a little too much, his fingers would tap away. He was doing it now, tracing the rim of his coffee cup. His lips parted, “I didn’t tell you something.”

Your stomach twisted. “What?”

He looked up at you then, “Sam called this morning.”

You blinked. “Oh…”

Bucky’s grip on the cup tightened. “He asked me if I thought you’d take him back.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

A month ago, you would’ve said yes without hesitation.

A month ago, if Sam had promised to change—to make more time, to choose you over the mission just once—you would’ve taken that deal in a heartbeat.

But now, after knowing what it felt like to have someone who was there, who made sure you were okay before you even thought to ask, who would make you his first priority— You couldn’t imagine life without him.

Your throat felt tight. “What… did you say?”

He shook his head,  “I told him he knew how this ended.”

You looked down nervously at your lap.

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I—maybe I shouldn’t’ve assumed—”

“Do you think I should take him back?” you interrupted.

He went still. His blue eyes locked onto yours, and they looked like they were burning.

“No,” he said, hopeful.

The café buzzed with life around you—clinking mugs, distant chatter, the hiss of steam from the espresso machine—but none of it mattered.

All that mattered was the way Bucky was looking at you the way you wanted him to.

You swallowed. “Do you think I’m a bad person for wanting to be with you instead?”

“No,” he whispered

Your hands found the sticky vinyl of the booth seat. “Shit,” you shook your head. “I feel like I should feel worse about this.”

Bucky tilted his head, “You loved him.”

“Yeah,” you admitted. You traced the tabletop with your finger, avoiding his eyes. “But I love you more.”

Bucky took a deep breath, like you’d knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His pupils blew wide, and for a second, he just stared at you, lips parted like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

“Say that again,” he breathed, almost begging. “Please.”

Your throat went dry, finally looking him in the eyes.“I love you more.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath, raking a hand through his hair, like he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself. He dragged his tongue over his bottom lip. “I shouldn’t be this happy, should I?”

“Probably not,” you admitted, laughing weakly.

Bucky leaned in slightly, nearly knocking over his coffee. “If you let me,” he promised, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel disposable again.”

The world outside your little coffee booth faded into nothing. Just you and him and this inevitable connection.

“Deal.”

Bucky froze, just for a fraction of a second, before shoving the contained aside, climbed halfway over the table, and kissed you like a man starved. His hands cradled your face, fingers tangling in your hair as his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was messy, and perhaps a half apology for making you wait this long.

You gasped against his mouth, fisting the front of his jacket to pull him even closer. His metal hand slid against your neck.

Somewhere in the distance, a throat cleared.

“Uh.” The barista’s voice rang in your ears. “Not to kill the vibe, but this is a family-friendly establishment.”

Bucky pulled back slightly, forehead pressed against yours, and let out a breathless laugh.

You bit your lip, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, still dazed, “Sorry.” He leaned back, but not before pressing one last, fleeting kiss to your lips. And then you just looked at him.

Hair tousled from your fingers, lips kiss-swollen, eyes alive in a way you hadn’t seen before. He grinned—grinned, like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

In that moment, you realised that while Sam had spent the last two years figuring out what it meant to be Captain America, Bucky had spent that time figuring out who he was outside of the Winter Soldier.

So of course Sam couldn’t put you first. He had the whole damn world resting on his shoulders.

But Bucky could.

Bucky would.

And maybe it was complicated. Maybe it would get messy.

But with Bucky smiling at you like that, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

—

But how do you even bring something like this up to Sam?

How do you look him in the eye and say, Hey, I know we broke up, but your best friend and I…

So, you didn’t. Not yet.

When you got home two weeks later, you didn’t call Sam like you said you would. You figured he could survive a night without the spare clothes you still had.

But Sam had texted earlier, even called a couple of times, too. When neither you nor Bucky answered, he started to get worried. It wasn’t like either of you to ignore him completely.

That worry led him here.

Standing at your door, with his spare key in hand.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

That was… weird.

He hesitated—just for a second—before slipping it into the lock. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, expecting a dark apartment. Maybe you were curled up on the couch watching something with Bucky eating ice cream, both too distracted to check your phones.

What he didn’t expect—what he never could have expected— was the sound that stopped him cold in the doorway.

“Oh—God—please, please—”

His stomach turned to ice.

He heard the bed creak, he heard the sound of skin hitting skin at a pace so incredibly intense, he felt like he was about to throw up. 

Then Bucky’s voice followed, so goddamn gentle.

“That’s it, that’s it. Let me hear you.”

Oh. 

Oh. No.

Why did it have to be Bucky? Sam thought, why couldn’t it have been anyone else?

Sam’s lungs filled like it might as well have collapsed.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be hearing this, but his feet wouldn’t let him move. His fingers gripped the key so tightly it cut into his palm.

“You like that, sweetheart? You know I’d give you anything. Just gotta tell me what you need.”

Sweetheart.

Sam used to call you sweetheart all the damn time. He used to say it over breakfast, in sleepy murmurs when he curled around you at night, with laughter in his voice when you teased him. You had smiled, then. You had kissed him. You had never asked him for more.

“Please…”

Sam could count on one hand the number of times you had begged him for anything.

You had never been needy with him. Never desperate. You had been understanding. You had been patient.

“Buck— James—please, I—”

And the worst part?

You had never once said his name like that— like it was a prayer, like it was the only thing tethering you to this world.

A choked sound tore out of him before he could stop it.

He barely managed to step in, barely remembered to breathe as he forced his legs to carry him into the kitchen, blinking rapidly.

The spare key felt heavy as he set it down on the table. His hands shook as he reached for a pen, vision blurring as he scribbled the words before he could think too hard about them.

He left immediately.

—

Bucky was up before you the next morning.

When he walked into the kitchen, he saw the key.

The note.

The second he recognised Sam’s familiar handwriting, his stomach dropped.

‘Sounds like this key belongs to you, Barnes. -S’

His fingers trembled as he picked up the key, as if it might vanish between his fingertips.

He knows.

The room suddenly felt too small, his chest too tight.

You walked in a moment later, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, his henley hanging off your frame. “Sweetie… you left me alone,” you mumbled adorably, voice still groggy.

But the second you saw his face, your brows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just handed you the note, watching as your expression shifted from confusion to horror.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Sam had heard, Sam had been here, and Bucky hadn’t even noticed. He had been too caught up in you, too caught up in the way you had fallen apart beneath him.

“I’ll call him.” he gulped, “I’ll meet him. I’ll talk to him.”

You swallowed, watching the tension grow in his shoulders. “I could come with—”

“No,” Bucky interrupted, “I need to do it on my own.”

You didn’t push, though concern flickered in your eyes. You just nodded.

—

Bucky had asked to meet in a text.

Sam had agreed.

The bar was nearly empty, the kind of place where no one asked questions and no one cared about anyone else’s problems.

Bucky sat across from Sam, hands wrapped around a half pint of beer he hadn’t touched. Sam hadn’t touched his either. Neither of them were here for that.

Sam didn’t waste time. He didn’t dance around it. “How long?”

Bucky blinked. “How long what?”

Sam’s teeth clenched, his fingers curling into fists against the wooden tabletop. “How long have you been in love with her?”

What was the point of lying?

“Longer than I’d like to admit.”

Sam sucked in a deep breath. He shook his head once, like he could shake them off. “How long have you been waiting for me to fail?” He demanded, “How long were you just waiting to step in?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “That’s not what happened.”

“No?”  Sam let out a humourless laugh. “Then tell me what did.”

Bucky didn’t answer fast enough for Sam’s liking.

“Tell me,” Sam repeated, “Tell me everything.”

God, it was terrifying to see Sam like this.

He was always so level-headed, so in control. But now his anger crackled like a live wire.

It didn’t feel like him. It didn’t look like him.

“Sam,” Bucky said slowly, “I never told her to leave you.”

Sam leaned back. “Sure.”

“I didn’t—” Bucky insisted, leaning forward. “I just— I pointed out that you two had different values. That maybe you weren’t giving her what she needed. That’s it.” His mechanical fingers whirred. “I did nothing wrong.”

Sam’s eyes flashed with red. “Nothing wrong,” he repeated, like he could barely believe the words. His voice was quieter now, but it cut deeper. “You knew.”

Bucky didn’t move.

“You knew how much I loved her.”

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sam—”

“No. Don’t ‘Sam’ me,” Sam snapped. His voice was rough. “You answered the call and listened to me talk about her. You knew how much I still cared, and you l—” He stopped himself, chest rising and falling too fast.

“She wanted more,” Bucky said, exasperated, “You didn’t see it, or maybe you did and you didn’t care, but she was waiting for you, Sam. And she got tired of waiting.”

Sam’s hands curled into fists. “And you just happened to be there when she did, huh?” His voice was scathing.

“I didn’t plan this!”

“But you sure as hell didn’t stop it,” Sam shot back. “You sure as hell didn’t tell me—”

“What was I supposed to say?” Bucky’s voice rose into a subtle shout now, frustration bleeding through. “That I’ve been in love with your girl for longer than I can remember? That every time I saw her look at you, I wished—” He cut himself off before he could spiral, shaking his head. “What would that have changed, Sam? Huh? Would you have treated her any different?”

Sam’s nostrils flared. “I loved her,” he could only repeat those words. 

“I never told her to leave you,” Bucky said again, as if to drive the point home. “But I wasn’t gonna tell her to stay, either.”

Sam shook his head, laughing under his breath, but there was no humour in it. “Yeah. Yeah, I bet you weren’t.”

Bucky let out a deep breath. “Sam—”

Sam shoved back from the table, chair scraping against the tile as he stood.

For a second, it looked like Sam might say something else.

But he didn’t.

He just turned and walked out.

And Bucky let him go.

—

When you saw Bucky by your door, you knew something was wrong.

He looked drained, like he had been hollowed out from the inside. 

You reached for him the second he stepped in. “Bucky—”

“I told him,” he said, voice rough. “We talked.” A dry chuckle left his lips. “If you can call it that.”

Your chest tightened. “That bad?”

Bucky closed the door behind him. “Yeah.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand on his hipbones. “Did he say anything else?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know.” His voice was quieter now, more worn out. “He’s hurt. He’s pissed. And I— I don’t know if he’ll get over this.”

You didn’t push for more. Instead, you just pulled him into you, wrapping your arms around his waist.

The moment your arms circled him, his entire body gave out. He melted against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“I got you,” you cooed, one hand threading through his hair, the other rubbing slow circles over his back.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there like that, but eventually, Bucky’s weight grew heavier against you. You carefully guided him to the couch, easing him down beside you.

The second you settled in, he curled into you without hesitation, head resting against your chest. You ran your fingers through his hair, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Get some rest, baby,” you said.

Bucky sighed. He nuzzled closer, and within moments, he was asleep in your arms.

—

Two hours later, Bucky was still asleep. He hadn’t moved in a long time—so emotionally exhausted that even when you carefully shifted out from under him, he barely stirred.

You knew you had to do something about this. 

If you left this too long, the fallout between Sam and Bucky would be worse than when you and Sam broke up. So much worse.

So you grabbed Sam’s spare key buried at the bottom of a drawer, shoved there weeks ago like out of sight meant out of mind.

On the way out, you grabbed the last of his things— the small pile he had planned to come back for. A sweatshirt, a couple of books, little trinkets he probably hadn’t even realised he left behind.

You called Joaquin on your way there.

When he answered, he was half-yawning. “Kinda late, isn’t it?”

You shifted the bag higher on your shoulder. “Yeah. Just—checking in.”

Joaquin sighed. He already knew why you were calling. 

“It’s bad,” he admitted. “Not gonna lie.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I checked on him after he met with Bucky and… He’s not talking much, which is weird for Sam.” Joaquin’s voice was quiet, like he wasn’t sure he should even be telling you this. “Just kinda… sitting in it, you know?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Joaquin hesitated. “He’s pissed. I think he’s just—” He sighed. “I don’t know, man. It’s rough.”

You knew this would hurt him. You knew it would break something between you, between all of you.

But knowing didn’t make it easier.

“I’m bringing his stuff now,” you said.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Joaquin asked.

No.

But it didn’t matter.

—

Sam opened the door on your first knock like he had been waiting for you.

The circles under his eyes were deeper than you remembered. His usual magnetic warmth, that easy charm, was gone. 

Without a word, you held up the bag. “Brought your stuff.”

Sam didn’t reach for it. He just stepped aside. "Come in."

The apartment looked the same. It was the same kitchen where you used to make coffee while he read the news, the same living room he used to sneak up behind you, pressing a sleepy kiss to your temple.

But it didn’t feel the same.

It felt… abandoned. Like a house after the fire has burned out—everything still standing, but covered in soot.

You set the bag down and turned to face him. 

Joaquin had warned you that he was not himself.

But seeing him like this… made it real.

He broke the silence first. “Joaquin said you called.”

"Yeah."

Sam let out a dry chuckle. “Checking to see if I’m still breathing?”

You looked at him in half-shock. He had always been so calm and collected. He had never, ever been self-destructive before. "Sam."

He shook his head, looking away. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I care about you, Sam.”

That made him laugh. “Funny way of showing it.”

You flinched, but held your ground.

"Come on,” you said, voice tight. “You know this isn’t about that.”

His eyes flashed. “Enlighten me, then.”

"We just weren’t a good fit,” You trailed a hand on his forearm, somehow feeling too close and not close enough. “We kept pretending, we kept trying, but deep down, we both knew it wasn’t right.” You gestured between the two of you. “I did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong. We just— We just weren’t meant for each other.”

His fingers trembled just a little. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

"I know.” You soothed. “I know it hurts.”

For a moment, the anger bled out of him. "He should’ve told me before it happened."

"He– we,” you corrected, “We didn’t plan this.”

Sam scoffed. 

Your frustration bubbled over. “You’re really gonna let your friendship with Bucky die over a girl?” You shook your head, voice finally rising. “Over me?”

He had nothing to say to that.

"Two months, Sam.” You swallowed hard. “Two months we weren’t together before anything even happened. You can’t sit here and act like we were still—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head.

He swallowed hard, finally meeting your eyes.

"I loved you," he said, voice rough, like the words had splintered on the way out.

"I know," you whispered.

He looked away. His fists unclenched. “Well this fucking sucks.”

"Yeah." You gave a sad, tired smile. “It does, but I’m always going to be your friend." You gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “And Bucky… Bucky is your best friend.”

Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line.

"Don’t treat him like this,” you almost pleaded. “Not over me.”

With a long, tired sigh, he nodded. He never could argue his way out with you. 

"J-just give me time," he said.

And you did.

—

A week later, Sam wasn’t angry anymore. Not really.

But he didn’t know how to fix it.

He had never really exploded on anyone before, not in a way that left wreckage behind. He had spent so much of his life learning how to hold it together, how to bite his tongue and keep moving forward.

But this wasn't something he could outrun.

Because now, when he looked at Bucky, all he saw was you leaving him.

Maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe that was selfish.

So yeah, he was not angry anymore, but he hadn’t really processed the fact that you had found something with Bucky that you couldn’t find with him.

And Sam didn’t know how to move past that.

He let the days blur together, filling them with distractions that didn’t work, pretending he wasn’t falling apart.

Until Joaquin called him on his shit.

"Alright, man. Enough of this."

Sam barely looked up.

Joaquin stood across the room, arms crossed. Sam had been so unfocused while working on his wingpack that Joaquin had finally just snatched it from him, setting it down with a loud clank.

"You can sulk all you want, but this is ridiculous." Sam sat at the table, fingers loosely curled around the glass of iced coffee he hadn’t touched in over an hour.

"Didn’t know my personal life was any of your business," Sam shrugged.

Joaquin scoffed. "You broke the law for him, Sam.” His patience was running thin. He was sick of being stuck at work with a fucking brick wall that only said one or two words every two hours. “You broke the damn law for that man, stood by him when no one else would, risked your life a hundred times over. And you’re not even talking to him!”

Sam’s fingers tightened around his glass. "It ain’t that simple.”

"It is," Joaquin said. "I’m not saying Bucky isn’t a dumbass for falling in love with your ex— but have you even tried being happy for them? The guy who’d take a bullet for you is the same guy who’d take a bullet for her— You think that’s a coincidence?”

He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to admit that Joaquin was right.

But… he knew had to face it.

Sam let out a long breath, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes before finally pulling out his phone.

Then, finally, he typed:

I’m ready to talk again.

And he hit send.

—

So now, here they were.

Sitting in silence in the same bar, drinks in front of them.

Sam just sat there, studying Bucky like he was waiting for something—an explanation, an apology, hell, maybe a fight.

“So… you ready to yell at me again,” Bucky sighed, rolling his shoulders, “Or can we just talk?”

Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “You act like I’m the unreasonable one.”

"I mean." Bucky gestured vaguely. “You did storm out of a diner after accusing me of stealing your girl.”

Sam leveled him with a flat look. “Because you did.”

“We’re already doing this wrong.” He leaned back. “Look, I don’t wanna fight you. But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I don’t—” He stopped, considering whether or not Sam wanted to hear him out. Then, quieter, “Like I don’t love her.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Bucky huffed out a laugh. “Look, I am sick for her, man.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"No, I mean it," Bucky continued, rubbing a hand over his face. "It’s disgusting. You ever see a dog get left alone for too long and lose its goddamn mind the second someone walks through the door? That’s me. She walks in, and suddenly I forget every bad thing that’s ever happened to me."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sam’s lips curled into a small smile. “That’s pathetic.”

"I know."

"You’re a grown man."

"I know."

Sam took a slow sip of his drink. "That’s embarrassing for you."

Bucky just shrugged.

“…Was it always like that?” Sam’s voice was quieter now, but not accusing. “Did you always love her like that?”

Bucky’s fingers tapped against his glass. “I tried not to. I really did.” He huffed. “Told myself you were my best friend, told myself it wouldn’t happen. But—” He shook his head. “It wasn’t something I could turn off.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. He knew he had asked his next question before, but he had to ask again. He had to be sure.

"So did you?” Sam leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Did you sit there the whole time, waiting for me to fuck up?”

“No,” Bucky said without missing a beat. “I sat there hoping you wouldn’t.”

That shut Sam up. How was he supposed to answer that?

Bucky sighed, his fingers curling loosely around his glass. "Sam, you’re a better man than me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Don’t start with that dramatic ass—"

"I mean it." Bucky turned toward him fully, "The world will always be your priority. You are a hero, Sam. You always will be. That makes you a better man."

Sam scoffed, tipping back the rest of his drink. "Yeah? And what does that make you?"

"More selfish." He admitted. "More broken."

Sam didn’t think so, but he didn’t argue, either.

Bucky’s voice went a bit more quiet. “You will always protect the world." He looked him in the eyes. "I will burn the world for her."

Sam froze.

"Have you ever thought that’s what she wants?" Bucky asked.

He hated how much sense it made.

"Sam." Bucky leaned forward, elbows on the bar. "She is as selfish as I am."

Sam shook his head. "She’s not selfish—"

"She is." Bucky’s voice was firm, no room for argument. "She asked to be the center of my world. And I can give her that."

Sam inhaled deeply, tilting his head back. “Shit.”

Bucky huffed. “Yeah.”

Then, Sam shook his head, letting out a cynical laugh. “You know what pisses me off?”

"What?"

"That I have to admit I overreacted.” Sam let out a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “I was mad, I was hurt, but—shit, Buck. She wasn’t mine anymore. And I acted like—” He shook his head. “I acted like an asshole.”

Bucky smirked. “Yeah, you did.”

Sam shot him a pointed look.

Bucky held up his hands. “Hey, your words, not mine.”

Sam sighed. "I still think you should’ve at least told me."

“I know,” Bucky nodded. "And I’m sorry you found out the way you did."

Sam groaned, shaking his head. "Man, I did not need to hear all that."

"Yeah, that was rough."

Sam groaned louder, rubbing his temples.

“So…” Bucky nudged his shoulders. “You done being mad at me?”

Sam shrugged, shaking his head. "You’re still a pain in my ass."

Bucky smirked. "You wouldn’t know what to do without me."

"Whatever,” he dismissed, but there was no real disdain behind it.

Bucky arched an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

"Man, what do you want from me?” Sam finally chuckled. “You already stole my girl, you want my blessing too?"

Bucky grinned. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Sam groaned, shoving at his shoulder. “Fuck off, Barnes. Now buy me a drink before I change my mind.”

Bucky just laughed, and somehow, somehow, it felt like things might just be okay.

—

A Year Later…

"To the left."

"No, the other left."

"Barnes, if you drop that couch, I swear to God—"

"It’s fine, Sam, I got it."

"Do you? Do you really? Because that thing is tilting real suspiciously—"

"Bucky, sweetie, please don’t break the couch before we even sit on it."

"I got it."

THUD.

Joaquin snorted. “Yeah, you totally got it.”

Bucky shot him a glare as he flexed his metal fingers. The couch had technically made it inside, albeit with a new scuff mark or two. It now sat in the middle of the living room—your living room. Yours and Bucky’s.

"I should’ve stayed home," Sam muttered.

"Me too," Joaquin agreed, clapping him on the back.

"No one asked you two to help," Bucky pointed out.

"We came because she asked," Sam insisted, pointing his chin at you.

You grinned, stepping around Bucky and squeezing both his arms. "Alright, enough whining, boys," you said. "We need to get everything unpacked before we drown in boxes."

Bucky sighed but gave in, nudging Joaquin toward the kitchen to help with electronics. Before he left, he pressed a kiss to your lips. It was a bit rough, but still loving, as it always was. He never failed to make your heart flutter.

When Bucky was out of earshot, Sam leaned against the wall. “You know,” he said after a moment, holding up his hand. “I was this close to asking you to move in with me our second year together.”

You turned to him, "Oh?"

He shrugged, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Figured it would’ve been nice. You and me. House in the suburbs, co-parenting Redwing…”

You laughed, shaking your head. "Sam…” it was a gentle warning.

“I know, I know.” He shook his head, crossing his arms. “You’re with him now.”

And that was okay.

It really was.

“Hey,” you stepped closer, bumping your shoulder against his. “I’m glad you boys came around.”

Sam huffed, shaking his head. He glanced toward the kitchen, where Joaquin was currently attempting to swindle Bucky out of the last slice of pizza.

“I just—” He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure he should say it, “—I’m glad it’s him.”

You blinked. "What?"

Sam sighed. “With you. If it had to be anyone else, I’m glad it’s Bucky.”

You hadn’t expected that. A year ago, he might’ve made a snide remark. Maybe stormed out.

But he’d done the work to balance job and life. He’d gone to therapy. He’d let himself heal.

And now, here he was. Helping you move in together with his best friend. 

You swallowed. "Me too."

He shrugged, then sighed. "You know what I realised?"

You shook your head.

"I was never mad that you moved on with him," he admitted. "I was mad that you moved on easier than I did."

You let the confession settle between you.

Then you broke the silence, “I’m… I’m proud of you.”

For putting in the work. 

For being happy for you.

For being happy with himself.

And you meant it.

He only smiled.

You and Sam were always going to be friends. Maybe not in the way you once were, but in a way that still mattered. That would always matter.

Then, Bucky caught both you and Sam staring at him, he waved.

Sam waved back.

And when Bucky smiled at you again, this time with an adoring look, like you were the best damn thing that had ever happened to him— Sam knew, without a doubt, that the truth had always been simple:

Bringing you and Bucky together was still his proudest achievement.

-End.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

it was absolutely risky, but god, you would lie if you said that you didn’t like the thrill.

and steve seemed to like it as well—at least it looked like that when you pulled him through the door, lips moving against his and finding him already hard in his pants.

“you know… it wouldn’t be so hard for me to hold myself back if you’d just loose that damn uniform… because stevie, this is absolutely sexy,” you murmured, giving the tip of his cock a kitten lick.

his hips bucked upwards instinctively, a low groan rumbling through his chest while one hand flew to the back of your head, clenching in the strands.

“jesus christ…” he whispered, pupils dark with lust, “it’s my work outfit. you know i can’t just ‘lose it’.”

that earned him a gentle suck on the head, and you felt him twitching greedily in your hand.

it all started when you came to him about two weeks ago, right after your date dumped you.

he was clearly convinced that an inexperienced girl like you wasn’t good in bed, that’s why he wanted to find someone else—someone with more experience.

shortly, not a virgin.

and so you came to your best friend, since you where twelve years old, asking him to help you get some of that experience.

since then, you made out almost every day.

and god, steve was a mess. he always was.

his eyes were pressed shut, biting down on those plump and pink lips, looking like some sex god who just jumped right out of your dreams.

the only difference: he was your best friend and all of this happened because you only needed him to teach you in things like blowjobs.

but lord, it was the best thing that ever happened to you.

“fuck! you’re…” steve grunted, more precum spilling out and coating your lips. “you’re learning so fast, princess.”

you decided to go further then. by now, you knew what drove him crazy.

so you took him slowly, swallowing on the way down until his head hit the back of your throat, making you gag.

steve’s hand gripped the arm of the chair he was sitting on, knuckles turning white while he other hand stayed in your hair, guiding you gently.

“oh shit, baby. just like that,” he choked out, his hips thrusting up, further into the heat but you stopped him by wrapping your hand around his base—the only part you couldn’t take.

the squeeze made him twitch against your tongue and you hummed, eyes beginning to water from the intensity of holding back more gags.

“you’re taking it so well…” you hear the praise and it made you press your thighs together. “such a good girl.”

then, his control snapped.

he bucked his hips upwards again, hitting the back of your throat again and you gagged, one single tear dropping down as your fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his hairy thighs.

“just like that… good girl…” he chanted out, his hips setting a steady rhythm, fucking up into your mouth.

you took steady breaths through your nose, relaxing your jaw, giving him the space he needed to get off.

he made you choke on him, tears streaming down your face and saliva dripping from your chin, making everything messy.

after a while, you swallowed again, his cock pulsing, signaling you he was close.

now it was you, starting to bob your head. up and down, letting him slip out, suckling on the tip before taking him all the way in again.

“baby, baby, i’m gonna—fuuuck—i’m gonna cum. you need to—“

you knew what he wanted to say. he always did. but you never pulled away.

thick ropes of his cum shot out, spilling down your throat and all over your lips and face when you pulled away.

it was messy, but god, it was absolutely perfect.

steve’s head lolled to the side, his cock still twitching as he came down from that intense high, his gaze on you without daring to look away.

you licked your lips clean from his semen, grinning when he let out a gasp. “you just… did it again,” he murmured, reaching out, his thumb brushing some drops of his cum away from your chin.

“licking my cum like it’s some kind of candy. my dirty little slut, hm?” he teased, but you knew better.

he meant every single word.

2026 whispersoflost

26th May 2026

Clark K.: Take all the time you need!! READ

27th May 2026

Clark K.: Morning. Clark K.: I got you your oat-milk vanilla latte. Are you coming down soon?

You: Sorry. I left earlier. See you at work?

Clark K.: Ok! No worries. 🥸 See you. READ

28th May 2026

Clark K.: I know you said you wanted a little space from our morning walks. I put a gift card from the coffee shop on your desk. In case you fancy a cup on your way to work. READ

3rd June 2026

↳ CLARK K. FORWARDED AN ARTICLE.

HOW TO GIVE SOMEONE SPACE: IT'S TIME TO LET GO.

Clark K.: I'm so sorry. Ignore that. I didn't mean to send it to you. READ

5th June 2026

Clark K.: Are you free this weekend? Let's talk about it. Please.

Today

Clark K.: I miss you so so much. Please let me talk to you. READ

You: I thought about it. Let's give this a shot.

the message sends off with an ominous woosh with the added liquid courage you had in your system. you hadn't expected a response so soon, considering the emotional whiplash you were giving him.

"t-this, am I hallucinating? do you mean it? do you really mean it?"

you certainly hadn't expected clark to spring right up from his slouched position beside your front door. looking like an absolute and utter mess. his glasses were nearly tucked in his breast pocket, hair combed upward in one spot he must've been running his hand through all night while waiting for you.

clark's shadow towers over you, like an anxious spirit, bouncing on his heels, too wary to touch you.

your heels hang loosely by the way you hold them by the straps.

"i—you're here. i didn't—…"

"i know," he cuts in, shaking his head, barely being able to contain the relief coursing through his veins. "too soon, zero buffer time. i was…just here to apologise for that…'i miss you' text. it was awfully pushy. and i felt really silly, especially when i promised you time and space —"

you quickly close the distance, cupping his jaw with both palms. tip-toeing to kiss once. completely sure of yourself. his surprised hum melts the second your lips slot between his. and he sighs, content and deep to curl his arm by your hips, lifting you up in the process.

"had my fill —" a soft, separation, and then you press another kiss, "all the time an'space." you continue, words broken by the urgent need to have him as close as you could.

clark turns you around, with your legs locked around his hips. he presses you flush against your front door, hiking you securely around him. he lets you have the room to speak, dragging the gentle curves of his nose down your jaw. his own bated breath warms your sensitive skin.

you tilt your head, panting in the aftermath of your confession. "i'm sure." you whisper, breathily, his mouth leaving urgent pecks to the column of your throat.

"i want you, clark."

So when he presses you into an unlit corner in the radio station's basement—facing away from him, wedged between unfinished drywall and dust-coated shelves, whispering about how tight your pussy feels—bet it'd get even tighter if someone walked in, huh? you want that, baby? want someone to see how good you take this cock?—fucking you so hard until you have to bite down on the meat of his palm to keep from screaming—it isn't really because he wants an audience.

If anything, the possibility of one is secondary.

What he wants is proof.

Proof that you're still here, that you still want him. Proof that, out of everything happening around you, you're still choosing him.

The tangible, undeniable affirmation that, even as the world is ending around him, there's still this: your hands on him, his hands on you, the two of you choosing each other in spite of everything.

For a few stolen moments, there's physical evidence of something good still existing in his life. Something worth fighting for. Something that belongs to him just as much as he belongs to it.

And of course, it’s not something he’d ever say out loud—because naming it would mean having to sit with where it actually comes from.

What? It's hot, he'll say, the next time he pulls you into the tiny bathroom in the sqwk basement, smirking in the mirror as he bends you over the sink, shoving his pants down and stroking his cock; it's been hard the last half hour, straining against his jeans while he sat on the couch with his legs crossed, watching the group busy themselves with strategizing about tonight’s crawl, trying to figure out how to stop the world from ending—or at least pretend they can.

He'll insist it's about the thrill.

You look so good, honey, can't help myself.

What he'll never say is that it goes deeper than that.

He'll never admit that those reckless, impulsive moments are rooted in the same fear he's been carrying inside him for years. The fear of loss. The fear of loving people so completely and still being unable to keep them. He's spent his life watching people disappear, leave, die, or slip beyond his reach.

So he finds whatever excuse he can to steal a few minutes alone with you in a world that never seems to stop demanding something from him.

And for a man who's spent so much of his life losing things, those few minutes of certainty are intoxicating.

The irony of I-don't-give-a-fuck-anymore Steve is that, in some ways, he's the most frightened version of himself.

Then the pain starts settling in.

At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.

“We managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.”

You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.

“You’ll be off active duty for several months,” the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. “You’ll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.”

His voice sounds farther away now, as though he’s standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.

“Okay,” you rasp out, "thank you."

Even speaking hurts.

You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesn’t feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.

The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.

Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.

You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.

With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.

That’s when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.

At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediately—you could’ve sworn the men’s and women’s recovery rooms were separated.

As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.

The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. There’s faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes you’re awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression you’re giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.

Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.

“Why are you here?”

Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.

“Too many casualties,” he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. “Hospital’s full. Had to stick you in a spare room.”

You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.

“Okay.”

And just like that, silence returns.

─☆*:・

You can’t sleep, not even close.

The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.

But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You can’t walk—not yet, at least.

A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.

Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.

You glance toward the man again. “What happened to you?”

He doesn’t look at you this time.

“Got shot,” his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. “Upper abdomen,” he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter weakly.

“Yeah,” despite his—still flat—tone, there’s dry humor buried underneath it. “Didn’t hit anything vital, though.”

“Lucky, I guess.”

“Still feels like shit.”

A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.

“What’s your rank?” you ask once the silence stretches too long again.

“Lieutenant.”

That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.

“SAS?” you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.

Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesn’t ring any bells at all.

It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.

“You’re Simon Riley?”

That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.

How the hell did you figure that out?

“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Only lieutenant whose face I’ve never seen.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. “Yes. It’s me.”

Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.

Well.

That’s one hell of a roommate assignment.

─☆*:・

The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.

The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.

“You’re staring,” he says flatly.

You blink, realizing you absolutely are. “Just making sure you’re real.”

His visible eye narrows slightly. “Disappointed?”

“A little,” you admit. “Thought you’d be uglier.” A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.

“You always this chatty?” he asks eventually.

His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but there’s still something dryly amused underneath them.

You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.

“Just heavily medicated, don't get used to it,” you mumble and he just grunts in response.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way that’s starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.

You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting way—he got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skin’s paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.

Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.

"You're staring. Again."

"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"

"I'd say it's rude."

“You're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.”

Simon’s brow furrows almost immediately.

“You're dramatic.”

"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, “you've got quite the reputation.”

His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."

"Definitely," you agree with him, “probably terrorize recruits with it.”

"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.

You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The pain’s still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.

Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.

Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.

“You look less murderous now.”

You crack one eye open toward him. “Don’t worry,” you mumble sleepily. “Still judging your face.”

"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.

"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.

"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"

"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."

Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laugh—not a full one, though. He probably hasn’t laughed properly since birth, but it’s there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.

─☆*:・

Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.

Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.

The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."

"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.

His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.

“Go back to sleep,” you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.

“Tempting,” he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Doesn't look like it."

"Shut up."

The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.

"I hate this."

"Everyone does."

The room falls into a quieter silence afterward—not awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.

“First time being benched?” he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrong—being this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?”

“A bit.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. “I don’t know how to sit still,” the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.

Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Gets ugly in your head when you stop moving.”

The words settle heavily between you.

You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.

"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.

"Try not to kill yourself."

"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"

"It's true."

"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"

"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.

"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.

Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.

—☆*:・

 By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.

Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.

One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isn’t there before reality catches up.

The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.

You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.

Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.

You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.

Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.

You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.

One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.

You stare at him for a long moment.

“Riley.”

“I got it.”

You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."

"Said I got it."

“You look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.”

“'M fine.”

“I'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.”

His visible eye narrows immediately.

“Thought ya leg didn’t work.”

“Temporarily,” you shoot back. “Unlike your brain apparently.”

A dangerous silence follows.

Then, somehow, he takes another step.

Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn’t catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.

You sigh heavily.

“Congratulations,” you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."

“I was getting water.”

“There is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.”

“I can do it on my own.”

You blink at him.

"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.” you say flatly. “You’re allowed to ask for help, just—go sit down.”

His mouth twitches faintly at that. You’re strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didn’t make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.

But there’s another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, he’s a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.

Doesn’t feel fair.

─☆*:・

The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.

The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinical—sort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.

You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nurses’ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.

Then the pain hits—one brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.

Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.

Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.

Your eyes snap open.

The ceiling above you blurs immediately.

“Oh, fuck—”

The words barely make it out.

Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.

Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.

Your stomach twists sharply.

Another pulse hits.

White flashes behind your eyes.

For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.

Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.

Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. There’s the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.

“What happened?” still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.

You try answering him—you really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.

You hate this—how helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.

You’ve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldn’t. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like you’re falling apart at the seams.

The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.

Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomen—he had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.

Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.

The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.

“Hey,” he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.

You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.

Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeeze—hard, maybe too hard.

The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.

His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.

Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.

“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.

Simon’s brows knit slightly.

“Whot?”

“Don't look at me like this,” the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.

For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesn’t answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.

“How’m I looking at you?”

You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know how to explain it. He is looking at you like you’re something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.

Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.

Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.

You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.

The movement is weak.

Exhausted.

Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.

Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.

“You need a nurse,” he says quietly.

“No.”

The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.

Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.

Simon studies your face for a long moment. There’s exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, there’s something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasn’t there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.

Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.

Simon’s grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.

Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like he’s trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.

Nobody’s ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.

His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.

The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just full—heavy with things neither of you knows how to say.

Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.

“Scared me for a moment,” the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.

He doesn’t look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.

You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.

Most people wouldn’t even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.

The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.

Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.

The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.

Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.

Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.

That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.

His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity that’s become strangely familiar over the last few days. You’re beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough to—tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.

It should feel invasive.

Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.

“You should sleep,” he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.

The words settle into the dim room quietly.

You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.

Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.

He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.

And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact he’s still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.

"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simon’s eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.

“'M fine.”

“Go lay down,” your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.

"Said I’m fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.

The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.

"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.

"Negative."

"You're insufferable."

“Hm.”

“You’re injured.” you debate a second later.

“So’re you.”

“Yes, but I’m clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.”

That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadn’t realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.

The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.

Your eyelids begin growing heavier.

Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because you’re afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesn’t want him to leave yet.

Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.

“You don’t have to stay over here,” you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.

Simon glances toward you.

“I know,” the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.

You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.

Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.

"You'll get used to it"

"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.

"Everything about the job is scary."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."

"I can't even walk."

"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."

"Still sucks."

After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.

“I know.”

Just two words, but they land heavily.

Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.

Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. He’s already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.

And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you both—all of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.

Simon’s gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.

Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.

Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.

You study him quietly.

The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.

A strange tenderness catches you off guard.

“Go sleep,” you murmur softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

─☆*:・

 Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.

The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.

Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.

At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bed—advice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.

Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.

Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.

Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.

Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldn’t: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomen—fingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.

The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.

You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because he’s already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.

“You make it difficult not to,” you answer before thinking better of it.

The words settle into the quiet room between you.

His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.

A subtle movement.

Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.

“Should I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?” he asks eventually.

There’s dry amusement in the question.

You study him for a second before answering.

“No,” the honesty slips out easier than expected.

Simon’s expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.

Not surprise exactly.

Just awareness.

The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.

Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.

Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.

“How bad is it?”

“Better now.” You answer without looking at him.

Something flickers behind his eye at that—relief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.

No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.

You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.

“You stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.

Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”

He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.

“You know,” you murmur softly, “you’re not nearly as cold as everyone says.”

Simon’s eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."

"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."

He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.

You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.

His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. “You should sleep,” you whisper.

Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. “Eventually.”

You roll your eyes softly. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

There’s a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, you’ve been staring at for the past three days while Simon’s stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.

The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.

“We should go out once we’re discharged.”

His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. “Are you asking me out?”

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Thought I was being obvious.”

A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.

“You know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?” you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, “not a problem.”

You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, “Date sounds fun."

"Tried to talk with Laswell but we both know your head isn't here Lieutenant."

"Sir-"

"After recent events... you haven't been the same." Price sighed, "I can't risk putting you or the team in danger."

"So I'm a liability now?"

He knew he was being a prick.

They all had been going through it. Including Price- who was trying oh so hard to keep everything togheter when he was rotting on the inside.

"Ghost-"

"I can still serve-"

"Simon."

The air was tense, every breath they took feeling like water was being filled in their lungs instead of oxygen. The harsh lights of Price's office making his already red eyes sting.

"It was an honor serving with you soldier. Take care of yourself."

So that's how he found himself back in his dingy run down flat in a rather unpleasant neighborhood in Manchester.

After years devoted to serving for his country, one wrong call and circumstance cost him his brother. Another person he thought of as home gone because he wasn't there to have his back.

It wasn't obscure to think that he would lose his mind- yes he was considered heartless and untouchable in the eyes of new recruits that would enlist- hell even his colleagues and higher ups thought the same. In reality, Ghost was only ever a facade to mask his hurt.

So how does one, who spent so long being a soldier, a machine built for war, go back to being a civilian?

He can't.

Simon Riley died a long time ago.

As much as he hated to admit it... Price was right.

He is a liability- became lost in his own rage and pain, blacking out and going on a rampage, killing multiple men like they were going to bring him back.

Months of him not sleeping, taking unnecessary risks, causing outbursts and overall punishing himself- ultimately leading to the death of Makarov. Killed by a bullet going perfectly straight through his skull.

Ghost made sure he put ten more for good measure and a few stab wounds before he was eventually pulled away.

He wasn't himself and he knew that.

Long gone was the calm and collected lieutenant.

Sounds of traffic, beeping horns, yelling, construction workers- drowned out by his own thoughts. Some random football game played in the background while he was on his... God knows what bottle of bourbon- he stopped counting after the tenth one.

Gaz and Price visited, took him out for a pint or two, went grocery shopping for him- but they still had work. Still had six months of deployment ahead of them. He doesn't blame them for losing track of time.

Just how he lost track of when he was supposed to pay his rent, the eviction letter pilled up next to the other useless junk mail.

So what was a man who was unable to integrate into society supposed to do? Pack his measly half empty suitcase and buy a house somewhere off the coast of course.

A two story beach house swallowed inside the overgrown forest that opened up to an unkept beach. Forgotten.

It was perfect.

So he got to work, started repairing the interior, plaster that had fallen off or old windows needing to be replaced by better insulated ones. Bringing in his minimal furniture from his flat after he finished repainting the whole house. He was slowly clearing out the outside as well, cutting down some smaller trees and tending to the grass.

It was sort of nice, he had something to do instead of live on his miserable couch, drinking and wallowing in self pity- I mean he still did that but that was time reserved for after he had finished working.

He even started a small garden for vegetables- mostly potatoes- considering the closest town was a relatively small one that was a 10 minute drive from where he was. He went once a week for basic supplies and food, even started selling fish on the market.

There was an old fishing boat that came with the property, he scraped off the algae and bought himself some new gear... Finding the whole experience quite relaxing.

Watching how the serene water shifted ever so slightly, the sunlight bouncing on the surface as he cast his fishing line once more.

It was familiar, yet...

No matter how much he enjoyed being out on his little boat, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

Call it paranoia.

But years in the military have taught him to be aware of his surroundings and he knew when there was a pair of eyes on him. He could tell when he was being hunted.

Yet he could never pin point exactly where it was coming from.

He finished up for the day, deciding to head back to his humble abode. Not before looking at the water and gazing at his reflection, his scarred and burnt face staring right back at him.

Yeah... Enough for today.

Soon, the weather got warmer- almost six months since...

The water was frantic that morning, small waves moving and splashing due to the slightly windy weather. He had been fixing up the deck, sure it worked fine but it was a question of when it wouldn't. The screws were all rusty and crooked, wooden planks moldy and rotting away- so he bought some new ones from town and began unloading his truck. No doubt there was going to be a storm coming in so he just piled the wood and covered them with a tarp.

Good thing he already fixed most of the leaks in the attic, he was going to redo the entire roof at some point but it worked for now- before he had placed a multitude of different pots and pans to catch each individual leak.

He enjoyed it here far more than the city. There wasn't any loud banging or yelling, no nosy people, only the soft melody of crickets, waves and occasionally rain letting him go numb.

Fishing helped as well, it was a quiet past time.

No ghosts are coming to haunt him here.

Well...

Almost no ghosts.

He narrowed his eyes toward the window overlooking the water, taking a long drag from his cigarette. No matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't help shake that feeling that someone was watching him.

It had started weeks ago, a little after he moved in. Little things at first. Tools moved when he swore he'd left them elsewhere, or the occasional glimpse of movement beyond the rocks offshore.

Every instinct he had screamed he wasn't alone out here and every time he grabbed a rifle to check, he found nothing.

"Bloody losing it," he muttered under his breath.

The storm worsened by evening.

Waves crashed violently against the shore while Simon pulled on his jacket and headed outside with a flashlight. One of his spare fishing nets had come loose near the waterline, dragged halfway towards the rocks littering the beach.

He could've left it for tomorrow morning, could've stayed in the warmth of his living room instead of stomping across wet sand, boots sinking deep.

Then the beam of his flashlight caught movement, his muscles tensing up and seemingly all of his senses being on high alert.

Something thrashed inside the tangled net.

Not something.

Someone.

For some time his brain was struggling to take into account what exactly he was seeing. Pale skin slick with seawater. Long strands of hair tangled with rope. Wide terrified eyes reflecting in the light.

And below the waist- a fish tail.

Massive. Powerful. Covered in dark iridescent scales that shimmered a sort of turquoise color beneath the rain.

You jerked violently as Simon approached, claws catching uselessly in the netting.

"Easy," he barked automatically like he was giving an order, that only made things worse.

You hissed at him, sharp teeth flashing as you desperately tried to drag yourself backward toward the sea. The net tightening around your tail, cutting into the scales hard enough to draw blood.

Simon stared for another second.

Any normal person would've probably panicked.

But he had fought beside highly trained men, wearing a skull mask while missiles fell from the sky. His scale for "impossible" was far from broken.

He crouched carefully, slowly approaching you while drawing a dagger from his belt. Your eyes widening at the metal.

"Oi," he said gruffly, holding one hand up slightly. "Not gonna hurt you."

The words sounded ridiculous considering they were coming from him, six foot something, pure muscle of a man with a knife in his hand.

Of course you didn't trust him.

The moment he moved closer, you snapped at him hard enough that he jerked back on instinct.

"...Right. Fair."

Rain dripped from the edge of his hood while he studied the mess of rope wrapped around you.

The fishing line had dug deep between the scales of your tail. Every movement tightened it further.

Simon clicked his tongue, patience running thin.

"Hold still unless you fancy losing the whole bloody fin." He grumbled, left to only assume that you don't understand the words, but maybe you had understood the tone.

Barely.

Your breathing remained sharp and panicked, but you had stopped fighting long enough for Simon to start cutting through the net. The knife worked carefully between ropes, severing one knot at a time.

Up close, he could see details that made his chest tighten strangely.

Scars.

Old ones.

Across your shoulders. Along parts of your tail, not natural and definitely not accidental. Something had hurt you before.

"There," he muttered after cutting another line loose. You flinched when his hand brushed against your tail accidentally. The scales were colder than he expected.

Human enough to look fragile.

Not human enough to feel real.

One final rope snapped and the net fell loose entirely.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then you surged backward fast enough to splash seawater across his boots, dragging yourself toward deeper water, strong fins treading through the rough waves.

Simon stood slowly, knife still hanging loosely in his grip as he watched you swim away- only to stop and turn around to gaze right into his eyes.

Rain poured between you in silver sheets while your eyes stayed fixed on him- cautious, frightened, curious. Like you'd been watching him for far longer than he realized.

With a flip of your tail you disappeared into the waves while Simon remained there alone on the shore, soaked to the bone.

After a long silence, he looked down at the shredded fishing net beside his feet.

"...The hell just happened?"

If Simon couldn't sleep before, he sure as hell couldn't now. Sitting on his worn out mattress with a cigarette on his lips, taking deep breaths of it as he stared with wide eyes through his window. His wet clothes thrown in the laundry hamper while he contemplated whether or not what happened was real or not.

A fucking mermaid.

He truly has lost his mind.

Surely it's the lack of sleep, maybe even a rusty old pipe burst and he's getting high off of gas because there is no way in hell that what he saw was real.

The storm had long since passed, wind clearing out the nasty clouds as sunlight found its way and crept through his windows.

He must be crazy.

So why the fuck is there a torn up fishing net where you had been? Why did he find shiny scales around it and deep groves in the sand where you had dragged your body when you jumped in?

And most importantly- why were there missing fish in his catch from the day before? You have bloody claws and teeth and yet you chose to take his? He spent a few solid hours using his heavy duty equipment to catch those. Not to mention his perfectly good net that he had to tear up in a million pieces since you got yourself tangled up in it.

The nerve of some people- or fish.

A part of him wished it stoped then and there. But of course it didn't and you were still around.

He could still feel your eyes on him, frankly he isn't sure if it's better now that he knows who is stalking him- might've been better to live in paranoia instead of delusion.

You weren't being slick either, he could see the slight ripples on the water when there was no wind, or the silhouette sitting by the rocks at dawn.

When he was fixing up the house though? Yeah, that was apparently peak entertainment for you. Curious eyes staring at him from the water while he worked on the deck, trying to finish it up before another storm rolled in.

He got used to the staring.

It meant he wasn't alone.

Your voice was soothing as well. You'd spent nights perched up on your rock, singing a soft melody that lulled him to sleep whenever he was restless- which was almost every night but your songs made him get at least two more hours of sleep to his measly none.

So what if he accidentally left a fish on his deck?

It's not like he purposefully placed the biggest one and stayed perched on his window waiting for your little webbed hands to find it- or how his chest filled with pride when he noticed that it was gone.

Meaningless.

Just like the pretty shells and smooth sea glass he would find after accidentally misplacing a fish every morning. He doesn't miss the little pleased click you'd do when he picked it up, glancing unamused at your general direction and watching you plop back into the water like a child getting caught stealing.

Sure it was embarrassing, but he was so fascinating to you- humans were always afraid of your kind, hunting and poaching you for god knows what sort of imaginary tale they spread about you. Forcing your kind to retreat into deep water just to be safe, turning into a myth or legend that was told to young children.

But he was different. He could've easily taken you, practically served on a silver plater for him since your already caught yourself... he didn't though.

Simon soon realized you had been watching for far longer than what he thought.

You've had your eyes on him since the very first day he'd set foot on the property. Seen him open the door to the house and watch in amusement when the handle was left in his hand. Seen him drunk on his porch at 3am. Seen him awake pacing on the beach after a gruesome nightmare. Seen him sitting on the ground of that same beach and talking to ghosts that weren't there.

You've seen him entirely and saw yourself.

Weeks spent at a distance, knowing of one another and yet scared to get close- because for both of you, getting close meant nothing good.

Though, you couldn't help but sit closer and closer to the shore.

Who could blame you? That man had the most treasures you've ever seen- simple work equipment had you in awe whenever he would use it. Surely he wouldn't mind if you tinkered with them, holding them and mimicking what he did. And yeah, it did annoy him to find his tools wet and not where had left them- but he drew the line when he saw that his pack of cigarettes were gone.

He heard you laugh for the first time that day. Your sweet voice giggling behind a rock while holding his things hostage.

Slowly that giggle turned into words.

He'd sit on the now sturdy and well built deck while you were perched up on your rock. Listening to him speak, about his day, the fish he'd catch or the nosy townsfolk that make up stories about him. In time he started to open up about his childhood, the rare but fonder memories- then some of his time serving.

You loved his voice, gruff and raspy but soft when he spoke to you... Nothing like the fishermen you'd listen in on whilst you got curious and swam up to the surface. Their voices were loud- but you did learn a few words here and there just by observing them.

Eventually you became more comfortable around Simon, swimming closer to him and trying to form your own sentences. You could understand most of what he was saying, having him explain new words to you as you tried your hardest to remember them.

You in turn, would teach him about tide patterns, giving him insight on the underwater life and how they react to them- along with how to identify and stay away from dangerous currents.

Now, whenever he'd go fishing you would be trailing close behind, telling him what time of day it was best to go out. His eyes just followed you while you were herding up some fish and leading them directly to his net, careful not to catch your own fins since you already cost him one.

He'd reward you by giving you the biggest fish to eat, and you'd give him the shiniest shells you could find.

For a while he was just referring to you as Fish. An annoying fish that would meddle with his stuff. He learnt your name of course, it was as beautiful as you- also having him hear you say his name for the first time was something to say the least.

Doesn't stop him from continuing to call you fish.

You were by far the first living thing that made this place feel less empty... First thing to make his lip dare to lift up in a poor attempt at a smile.

His drinking started to decrease as well, the nightmares still haven't left but your singing helped him keep them at bay.

One night in particular he woke up after drinking a whole bottle of bourbon. He wasn't proud of that but if the hangover wasn't a big enough punishment, having a nightmare of him screaming Johnny's name whilst he sees the life drain from his eyes and blood pool around his head. Having his hand firmly pressed to his chest, desperately searching for a heartbeat only for him to turn into ash and dogtags.

Clenching his fist against his own heart, he found himself standing in the water instead on his own bed, the cold salty water to his knees as he lets out a frustrated scream.

Your ears pick up that sound and before you knew it you were moving your tail frantically, looking for him and thinking he drowned but he was just sitting there... Letting the waves hit him as he held his knees to his chest, red eyes filled with tears... Desperately trying to keep them from falling.

"Si...?"

"Couldn't save him."

Oh...

You didn't say much after that.

Just carefully swam up next to him and gently laid your head on his knee.

You've seen how this played out before, he'd have that same nightmare and believe whatever awful things his subconscious thought up to torture him that night. Although you didn't know what atrocity had woken him up or the extent of what he had endured... Pain is something you sadly recognized easily.

The only thing you could do is offer your presence to him, wishing to take or at most share his hurt.

That was the first physical comfort he'd accepted in years.

You stayed like that for a while, the soft waves hitting the both of you as you sit in silence, not wanting to move an inch in fear of startling him. Simon, whose ragged breathing had slowed down a bit, just stared out into the open sea.

"Cold" you mutter, feeling how cold his skin was. Humans weren't built like mer, he was going to get sick if he didn't go.

As much as he hated the thought of leaving, once he looked into your worried eyes he slowly got up. Your hands dropping to the wet sand as you looked up at him.

He just gave you a nod. Making his way to his house where a warm shower would do him some good.

The morning after he sat by the dock and waited for you to pop up, not uttering a word before giving you the fish he would've otherwise left.

You couldn't help the happy clicking coming from the back of your throat when you snatched the fish up, biting into it as if you were given the best meal ever- because you were given more than just food.

Since then he's made an effort to always greet you when the sun rises with breakfast. Started bringing his own food because last time you'd insisted on sharing the raw bloody fish with him and he almost took your offer. Food poisoning be damned.

On the other hand you always show up early, a shiny treasure in your hands and waiting for him to make his way down when you pop up from the water. He gave you a pleased grunt whenever you'd present them to him. Not nearly as much excitement as you but when it came to him, that was enough.

Well, the first time you'd had the pleasure of hearing him laugh- more like a small chuckle but it still counted- was when you tried getting up on the dock with him.

It wasn't that high.

But it wasn't that low either.

You could've pulled yourself up, sure, it would've been easier- but you decided to jump instead. Landing face first into the planks and bruising your cheek. Shrieking and flapping your fins like a fish out of water.

It's safe to say that whatever pain you felt was momentarily forgotten once you heard him scoff and saw the tiniest hint of a grin. Stilling yourself as you gazed at him, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards.

He pushed you back in the water for staring too long. Much to your protests. He watched you for a good five minutes just flapping around glaring at him before hauling you up next to him.

You huffed, taking a big bite from your food.

From this close you could make out more of his features, every line, scar and mark. You'd trace them all, your interest peaking at the ink that lined his arm. Asking him about his tattoos and looking closely at them- you didn't ask him about his scars though. You had your own share of them to knew how painful it is to remember how you'd gotten them.

Eventually you'll open up to him, once where you noticed how he let his eyes wander before looking away as to not make you uncomfortable. Painfully respectful- yet he couldn't shake the feeling of dread whenever he'd see your wounds.

"My kind dislikes yours," you'd start quietly. "We were driven away by fear, forbidden from going near the surface."

Your fingers ran absentmindedly along your scales as you stared out at the dark water. "I was a curious kid. Always sneaking away, always asking questions. I wanted to see your world." A small, bitter smile tugged at your lips. "Paid the price for it."

Simon followed your gaze before his eyes settled on the scar stretching across your back. Unlike the others, it was clean and deliberate, the kind of wound that hadn't come from an accident. His expression hardened almost instantly.

"Did they..."

You nodded. "They made an example of me. Said i didn't belong among them."

The waves rolled under the wood bellow you, filling the silence that followed. You expected questions, maybe even pity, but Simon only stared at the scar for a moment longer before looking away.

"Wasn't right of em"

Your head turned toward him.

"They were our rules-"

"Don't mean shit."

For so long you've tried to justify what they did to you, to see reason within the truth... Swimming alone near the surface you once dreamt to see, running away from hooks and nets as the sharp blades pierced your skin.

Humans who would hunt you and whenever you'd tried to make a friend they would only care to have your tail on a line. You knew Simon was different. A human like them but he hadn't harmed you.

Hesitantly, you take his hand in your own and bring it up to your cheek, holding it there as you closed your eyes.

"Thank you."

For a moment, Simon only looked at you, the walls he kept around him were suddenly not so solid. He only grunted in response, yet he didn't pull his hand away.

Days started to blur togheter from that point on. He would wake up early to have breakfast with you, then do some work around the house as you watched him whilst you sunbathed on your rock. Once you gave him the clear on the weather, he'd set off on his fishing boat while you swam next to him.

You made sure to gather only the best fish for him, climbing on the boat once you were done to have some lunch. Giving him a playful splash from your tail before he heads back for town to sell his catch.

So what if he stopped by the small jewelers shop, the shiny necklace on display catching his attention. So what if he bought it for you? You seemed to like that sort of stuff anyway.

Judging by your reaction you more than loved it.

He helped you put it on as you held your hair up, only to look down and see how the light reflected off of it. The sun setting in the background as you laid down on the shore next to him.

It felt natural how he had somehow revolved his entire schedule around you.

He woke up thinking about you, worked around the property just listening you talk about everything and anything. Whenever he was in town he'd think of how you'd react to life on land, all of his mundane reactions would be tainted with thoughts of how excited you would be to see this. He'd spend the ends of his days watching the sun set peacefully with you by his side.

Which makes whatever emotions that built up hit harder when he shows up one day on the dock, carrying a sandwich for him and your favorite fish. Expecting to find you waiting there for him, either you'd be plopped on the deck already or hiding in the water trying to scare him- but you weren't there. Not when he scanned the entire area or called out your name. Maybe you just overslept. Didn't stop him from sitting there waiting for you. Telling himself you're fine.

But he wasn't fine.

Breakfast came and went without a glimpse of you. Simon told himself it didn't matter, carrying on with repairs around the house, an old plumbing leak he'd been putting off doing.

Yet every time he straightened up, his eyes drifted toward the water. By midday he'd checked the shoreline more times than he cared to admit, his tea long gone cold beside him. The afternoon passed no easier, each movement in the waves caught his attention only to turn out to be nothing.

By the time evening settled over the coast, Simon found himself standing on the porch with his arms crossed, staring out at the darkening sea. The realization that he'd spent the entire day waiting for you sat heavily in his chest, irritating him far more than your absence ever could.

To anyone else he would've seemed mental. Staring out into the open sea waiting for a damn mermaid to show up.

"Bloody fish." He muttered under his breath, feet already taking him away from the shore.

Then he heard it, a small splash in his direction and when he turned around- there you were. The second your head broke the surface of the water, Simon was already moving down the beach.

"Where the hell were you?" he barked, frustration getting the better of him. "Been gone all bloody day without a word-"

The rest died in his throat.

You'd stopped a few feet away, and only then did he notice the water around you wasn't just dark from the evening shadows.

It was red.

His eyes then dropped to your tail. A deep gash ran along one side of your fin, fresh blood slipping between the scales and disappearing into the sea.

The irritation vanished instantly, replaced with a feeling he knew all too well.

"What happened?"

His voice came out lower this time, sharper in a different way. He was already crouching at the water's edge, reaching for you before he even realized he'd moved.

"Current took me farther out..." you let him pick you up from the water, "Some fishermen managed to hit me-"

You hesitated before adding "I'm sorry."

Simon's expression darkened immediately as his eyes stayed focused on the blood staining your fin.

"Don't apologize."

The words came out sharper than intended. He crouched beside you, inspecting the wound before muttering a curse under his breath.

"Stay here."

Without another word, he turned and headed for the house, returning minutes later with a first aid kit, clean cloths, and a bucket of fresh water. By the time he knelt beside you again, the irritation from earlier had vanished completely, replaced by a focus you were beginning to recognize.

"Let me see it."

You pulled your hands away from your wound and hissed in pain when he started working on it. His hands were precise, cleaning and disinfecting, later wrapping you up in some waterproof gauze.

He finished tying off the bandage and sat back with a quiet grunt. The cut would heal, eventually. He told himself that was all that mattered.

Still, the image of blood in the water refused to leave his mind.

The silence stretched between you as the sun dipped below the horizon. Simon kept his gaze fixed on the waves, jaw tight. He told himself the anger twisting in his chest was directed at the fishermen, at the carelessness of it all. It had nothing to do with the way his stomach had dropped when you hadn't shown up that morning.

Not at all.

For the next two weeks, your visits became shorter while the wound healed. Simon insisted it was to keep pressure off the injury, though you suspected he was simply looking for an excuse to keep an eye on it. Even so, the beach felt strangely empty whenever you disappeared beneath the waves, leaving him alone with the sound of the sea and thoughts he stubbornly refused to examine.

Your fin had eventually healed enough that Simon no longer had an excuse to fuss over it, though that didn't stop him from glancing at it every now and then whenever he thought you weren't looking. The two of you had slipped back into an easy routine. You sat nearby, talking far more than he ever did, filling the quiet with questions about human life while he hammered boards into place or sanded down old wood. Most of the time, he answered with various grunts, but you'd learned how to translate those by now.

"What was your family like?" you asked, watching him work.

Simon paused briefly before continuing. "Complicated."

You accepted the answer for what it was. Some subjects were harder than others. Instead, you traced patterns into the sand with your fingers, thinking for a moment before looking back up at him.

"Do you ever get lonely?"

The question seemed innocent enough.

Yet the hammer stopped.

For a few seconds, Simon didn't move. His shoulders stiffened, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the half-finished porch as if he were looking at something only he could see. You waited, expecting one of his usual dismissive answers, but none came.

Eventually, he set the hammer down with more force than necessary.

"Don't."

The single word caught you off guard.

"What?"

"Don't ask questions like that."

Confusion flickered across your face. You weren't trying to upset him. It was just another thing you wanted to understand, another piece of him he rarely spoke about. Yet something about the question had struck deeper than you'd intended.

"I was only curious."

"Well stop."

The sharpness in his voice made the air between you suddenly feel colder. Simon scrubbed a hand down his face before looking out toward the ocean, avoiding your eyes entirely.

"It's best if you stay in the water."

The words landed heavily.

You stared at him. "What?"

"Your world's out there." His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "The sea's where you belong."

The confusion in your chest slowly gave way to hurt. For months he'd welcomed your company, taught you about his world, sat beside you for hours without complaint. Now he was acting as though you'd crossed a line you couldn't even see.

For the first time since you'd met him, the silence between you felt uncomfortable. Simon knew it the moment it settled over the beach, knew he'd said the wrong thing, but the thought of taking it back terrified him even more. Because if he did, he'd have to admit why the question had bothered him in the first place.

For a moment, you simply stared at him. The hurt on your face was immediate, impossible to hide no matter how hard you tried. Simon felt it like a knife between his ribs, especially when your eyes began to shine with unshed tears.

"Oh."

The quiet response was somehow worse than shouting.

You lowered your gaze, fingers tightening in fists as sand dug into them. For a second, Simon thought you might argue, might tell him he was being an idiot. Instead, you only nodded.

"Okay."

The word barely rose above a whisper.

Without another look in his direction, you slipped back toward the water. Your movements were slower than usual, lacking the excitement that normally accompanied your visits. Simon watched you go, every instinct screaming at him to say something- to stop you, explain himself, take the words back- but he remained rooted where he stood.

When you disappeared beneath the waves, the beach felt unnaturally quiet.

The first day passed easily enough. Simon threw himself into repairs around the house and convinced himself the silence was for the best. By the third day, he found himself glancing toward the water whenever he stepped outside. By the fifth, he was standing on the porch long after sunset, staring at the empty shoreline. A full week passed without so much as a glimpse of you, and the realization settled heavily in his chest.

The beach hadn't changed.

The house hadn't changed.

Yet somehow everything felt emptier without you there.

Days passed by in silence. Like they were before he met you... It's the same sensations he had when he lost-

He missed you.

No matter how much he denies it, the heaviness in his chest is enough to drown him.

Almost two weeks had passed.

The weather had been clear that morning, the sea calm enough that he'd decided to take the boat farther out than usual. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to stop himself from looking toward the shoreline every five minutes expecting to see someone who wasn't coming.

The engine hummed steadily beneath him as he cast his line overboard. He told himself it was for the best. You belonged to the sea. He'd only said what needed to be said.

Then why did he feel so empty?

A gust of wind cut across the water as the horizon darkened.

What had been clear blue skies less than an hour ago were now swallowed by heavy clouds rolling in far too quickly. The waves began to swell beneath the boat, rocking it hard enough to make him grab the railing.

"Shit."

The storm hit fast. Faster than he could ever anticipate.

Rain lashed against him as the sea turned violent, tossing the boat like driftwood. Simon fought the wheel, trying to turn back towards shore, but another wave slammed into the side making the boat jerk violently.

Something cracked.

Then another wave hit.

The world seemingly flipped as if the ocean was punishing him.

All he could feel in that moment was the cold biting at his skin.

Simon barely had time to suck in a breath before the sea dragged him under. He kicked toward the surface, disoriented, only for another wave to crash over his head. Saltwater filled his lungs as he struggled against the current, his soaked clothes dragging him deeper.

For the first time in years, genuine fear gripped him.

Not of dying.

Of regret.

The last thing he'd said to you echoed in his head.

It's best if you stay in the water.

His chest burned.

Another mouthful of water.

Another failed attempt to reach the surface.

And as darkness crept into the edges of his vision, all Simon could think was that if these were his final moments, then the last thing he'd ever given you was a reason to leave.

Miles away, beneath the crashing waves, something made you stop. You'd been drifting through the empty sea, wishing to go back and see him but you knew better. He didn't want you and that broke your fragile heart in a million pieces.

Suddenly a foreign feeling crept its way to you.

A disturbance in the water.

Something familiar.

And suddenly, without knowing why, your heart dropped as your tail cut through the murky water- frantically swimming like your life depended on it because it wasn't your life on the line but his.

The moment you found him, he wasn't fighting anymore.

His body drifted beneath the surface, dragged by the current as the storm raged overhead. Panic seized your chest as you shot through the water, reaching him just before he disappeared into the darkness below. You had one arm hooked beneath his shoulders while the other struggled to keep his head above the waves whenever he broke the surface. More than once the sea tried to pull him from your grasp, but you held on, ignoring the ache in your muscles as you forced both of you towards the shore.

By the time you reached the beach, you were exhausted.

"Simon."

No response.

You dragged him onto the sand, hands shaking as you pressed against his chest the way he'd once shown you after you'd asked about it. Nothing.

"Simon."

Your voice cracked.

Then suddenly seawater spilled from his mouth. He coughed weakly before falling still once more. Relief flooded through you so hard your vision blurred.

He was alive. Barely holding on but alive nonetheless.

Your gaze snapped toward the distant house.

You couldn't carry him there.

Not like this.

The wind howled around you as you looked down at your tail. Every warning you'd ever been given echoed through your mind. Every story. Every lesson. Every consequence.

There would be no going back.

Not after this.

For a moment, fear rooted you in place. If you did this there would be no taking it back, you'd be forced to live a life unknown to you- but one look at Simon's nearly lifeless face had your doubts wash away.

The choice disappeared and pain exploded through your body.

Your vocal cords burned as you yelled out, your tail thrashing violently against the sand as your sparkly scales split apart beneath your skin. Bones cracked and shifted into unfamiliar shapes. Every nerve in your body felt as though it were being torn apart and rebuilt. All while you could only manage to claw against the wet sand, desperate for relief that never came.

The transformation seemed endless, but when it finally stopped, you collapsed beside him, gasping for breath.

It was over. The relief washed over your body as you forced yourself to look down... What once was a powerful tail had become legs.

Human. Fragile. Permanent.

Tears mixed with rainwater as you stared at them. The sea no longer called to you the way it once had.

You had given it up.

Given up the ocean.

Given up your home.

Given up the only life you'd ever known.

For him.

The realization hurt almost as much as the transformation itself.

Yet when you looked at Simon, unconscious and shivering beside you, you found you couldn't regret it.

Not even for a second.

With trembling limbs, you forced yourself upright. The first step nearly sent you crashing back to the ground, feeling as you were walking on shards of broken glass. The second wasn't much better. Your legs felt wrong, unsteady beneath your weight, but somehow you managed to hook Simon's arm around your shoulders.

The brute was fucking heavy, making the walk to the house slow and miserable.

By the time you reached the front door, every muscle in your body burned and your legs felt ready to give out beneath you.

Still, you kept moving.

Because Simon had freed you from the net once. Shown you the type of kindness that you've forgotten from a life full of loneliness.

Now it was your turn to bring him home.

You'd set him down on the soft couch, started removing his drenched clothes. Drying him off and wrapping him in a thick blanket. The red flickers of coal in the nearly dead fire caught your attention, making you grab some of the logs and arranging them in the same way Simon once did when he showed you how good cooked food could be.

The house is much warmer now. Lulling you into a peaceful slumber as your eyes fell heavy.

A while later, consciousness returned slowly to him.

Everything hurt.

His chest burned with every breath like it was bleeding from the inside, his muscles ached, and there was a pounding headache lodged somewhere behind his eyes. For a moment Simon simply stared at the ceiling, confused by the warmth surrounding him. The last thing he remembered was the storm.

The boat.

The water.

The regret.

Then nothing but darkness.

A crackle drew his attention towards the fireplace. Someone had built a fire. Fresh blankets had been piled over him.

Then he felt it.

A hand.

His gaze dropped.

Your fingers were loosely intertwined with his own, your head resting against the edge of the couch where you'd apparently fallen asleep. For a second, relief hit him so hard it was almost painful.

You were here. Like an angel sent from heaven- was he in heaven? Sure seemed like it if you were next to him.

Then his eyes traveled lower.

And froze.

Legs.

His breath caught as the realization struck with the same force of the wave that knocked him out.

How the storm took him, or the fact that there was absolutely no way you could have gotten him home otherwise. A thousand questions rushed through his mind.

Slowly, carefully, Simon pushed himself upright. The movement made you stir, your brow furrowing as you began to wake.

The second your eyes met his, relief flooded your face.

"Simon."

His grip tightened around your hand before he could stop himself.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then his gaze dropped briefly to your legs before returning to your face.

"What did you do?"

The question came out rough.

Not angry.

Not accusing.

Just afraid of the answer.

Your eyes welled up with tears and you brought his hand to your cheek, "Don't belong in the water anymore."

The weak smile you offered him did nothing to ease the sick feeling twisting in Simon's chest.

Instead it made it worse because only now was he beginning to understand what you'd done.

You'd given up everything for him.

"Jesus Christ..." he breathed.

Your smile faltered.

Before you could say anything else, Simon's hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you forward. The movement was sudden, almost desperate. One second you were sitting beside the couch, the next you were wrapped in his arms.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

You could feel the way his grip tightened around you, as though he were afraid you'd disappear if he let go.

"Dumb fish," he muttered hoarsely into your hair.

The insult lacked any real bite.

Slowly, your arms slipped around him in return.

"I thought you wanted me gone."

The words were barely above a whisper as Simon's chest tightened painfully.

"No."

The answer came immediately.

"No, sweetheart."

The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. You pulled back just enough to look at him and for the first time since waking, Simon met your gaze fully. There was no mask now. No distance. No convenient excuse he could hide behind.

Only relief.

Relief that you were here next to him, and that he'd been given another chance.

His hand rose to cup your face.

"I'm sorry."

Your eyes widened.

It was probably the first genuine apology you'd ever heard from him.

"You don't have to-"

"I do."

His thumb brushed away a tear before it could fall, and for a moment neither of you dared to move.

You were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough to see every scar and line on his face. Simon's gaze dropped briefly to your lips before immediately returning to your eyes, as though he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You didn't.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned in and you felt the brush of his lips against yours.

It was tentative at first, almost uncertain. Simon's hand remained against your cheek while yours found his wrist, holding on as if grounding yourself. It wasn't dramatic or desperate, just soft and lingering, years of loneliness and unspoken feelings finally finding somewhere to go.

When he pulled back, it wasn't far.

His forehead resting against yours as he let out a shaky breath, eyes closing for a moment.

"You belong with me," he murmured quietly, squeezing your hand.

This time, when you smiled, it didn't hurt.

Nuzzling your face closer into his neck as his hands hold you impossibly tighter- making you feel safe. This is your home now. Simon is your home and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You also couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat when your eyes drifted to the little basket under the window, every little treasure you've gifted him was neatly tucked into it and it was the only thing in the house that didn't have a layer of dust covering its surface.

Yeah.

You don't regret one bit of it.

Not when you finally feel wanted.

Not when he'd finally taken you to town, shown you the life you'd yearned for all this time. Or how he'd let you decorate the house in different hues of blues and plants reminiscent of the kelp you'd once swam through. A big aquarium was stationed in the corner along with an assortment of shells and shiny rocks you'd collected with him whilst you walked along the beach hand in hand.

It was safe to say that Simon was right about how you'd react to human life- except for watching tv. You were cursing so much it would make a sailor blush because of the sheer amount of incorrect statements being said about underwater life.

Months later he'd surprise you with a shiny ring, asking you to marry him. You were confused to say the least- you were under the assumption that you were already mated. C'mon, you've given him almost hundreds of shiny treasures and he'd shown himself as a capable mate when he'd presented you with the biggest fish he'd caught.

Were you not mates?

It took a while for Simon to explain human customs and marriage over your hysterical crying, by the end of it you somehow ended up tangled in bed together- he ended up with a multitude of bites and purple hickeys, not like he complained.

You also didn't get the whole wearing white to a wedding. What was the point of wearing such a dull color to a special day? Simon made you cry once again when he showed you a custom made mermaid gown that had the exact hues and shades that once adorned the scales on your tail.

The wedding was small. By small it was just you two accompanied by Price and Gaz to sign as witnesses. The grateful look on their faces didn't go unnoticed by you. You decided it was best not to tell them what you were.

The only person you told was Johnny.

You held Simon's hand tightly as he knelt on the ground where they had once spread his ashes. He still has that nightmare from time to time, but now he has you to help him. A part of him believes that he had sent you to him. A guardian angel to make him die a happy man.

Because he is happy.

Especially the night where you were cuddled up close to him, taking his hand in yours and instead of pressing it to your cheek you lowered it to your stomach... Wordlessly telling him that you were having a little fry of your own.

Now, Simon Riley stood not as a dead man, but as a lucky bastard that was given a second chance at life- a life with you in it. Call it a fairy tale if you will but he is beyond grateful to whatever being there was that gifted you to him.

a/n: Oookay this was a bit of a long one on my part, do I think it could use a bit more flushing out and if given to the right writer it could sound so poetic and beautifully written? Yeah, a lil bit- but it's my lil story and I love mermaids this time of year- hope you enjoyed reading it tho <3

The customary smell of gun oil and metallic solvent usually cleared your head. You’d rub and polish rhythmically, often to the point where any curious eye would worry you’d manage to scrub the finish right off the receiver with a microfiber cloth whilst in that trance. Tonight, though, it just made you sick. 

The armory was dead quiet, save for the hum of a flickering fluorescent bulb three rows over. You were hunched on a low wooden bench in the furthest, dim corner, the shadows cutting you off from the rest of the world, the rest of the team. Hands shaking so persistently that the cleaning rod clattered loudly against the receiver of your rifle, the harsh ring of metal on metal echoing in the empty room. Clack, clack, clack.

You choked back a sob, gripping the cold steel tighter. Even with a blurry vision, you could do this thousand times over. In a pitch black room. With your eyes closed. But now it felt like every time you closed your eyes, you were in that windowless room once again. Breathing in the same heavy, suffocating weight of holding the line. Doing what needs to be done. Playing the part. The unshakeable, cold-blooded soldier. The war criminal.

Now that the adrenaline had crashed, the mask was shattering, and the phantom echoes of the interrogation room were ringing in your ears so loud that you couldn’t hear it when the rusty metal door creaked open, and closed again. Stubborn tears wet the days-old dust off your cheeks in a straight south line, and you didn’t have it in you to blink them away. You could do this with your eyes closed. 

With your chest tight, your breaths came in shallow, jagged gasps. You were drowning. You could swim up to surface with all your limbs tied. But now, you were drowning. Terrified of someone coming to get you. Realizing you didn’t belong. Not one bit. The unshakeable, cold-blooded soldier. So affected, so battered by war. So lost, so broken.

A massive shadow fell over the bench.

You flinched, heart managing to hammer against your ribs despite how constricted it was a brief moment ago, and looked up. LT stood there. Ghost. Simon. Whoever was behind the balaclava, with his eyes — heavy, shadowed, and intensely focused — pinning you to your spot. 

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat to no avail, blinking rapidly to clear the tears away to make way for the sight that your Lieutenant was. Big, burly machine. A force of nature. You often thought that if you were by the opposite side of the muzzle of his gun, you’d proper shit yourself. You scrambled to assemble the rifle still, desperate to look one bit functional. “Lieutenant. I’m just— the carbon buildup—“

Simon didn’t say a word. He didn’t offer a hollow phrase like you did good out there, nor did he tell you to suck it up. You appreciated that in him. He was efficient, both out in the field and back in one on ones like this. He stepped closer and sank down onto the bench right next to yours, the feeble wood creaking and stretching a fraction under the weight. You felt his shoulder rub against yours for a moment. He was a solid, towering wall of heat and mass, and the sheer physical presence of him immediately anchored the spinning room. Anchored you. The shake of your hands, jump of your thigh. 

Without asking, his large, scarred hands reached out. His fingers were steady as they gently but firmly covered your trembling ones, and he didn’t pull away until your grip finally relaxed, letting him take the solvent-soaked cloth and the disassembled pieces of the rifle from your hands. Now with your hands empty, you didn’t know what to do with them. What to do with yourself. Your arms found solace back against your chest, as you suddenly felt small under the weight of his shadow. 

You braced yourself for the lecture still. For the disappointment. For the inevitable confirmation that you were too soft for the 141, that you were exactly what you feared you’d turn out to be: broken. No military shrink could fix you up. No point in trying, either— they could just recruit somebody better. Unfit for duty. Discharged. You’d sit and wallow in an empty apartment save for a shit mattress until there’s nothing left of you. You’d do stupid things to feel something. Because that’s what you were, no? A stupid, useless— 

“Won’t tell you it gets easier,” he murmured, gaze fixed on the rhythmic, grating scrape of wire brush cleaning the bolt carrier group. A metronome for your ragged breathing. He moved with a practical, easy grace born of a man who had cleaned a thousand rifles in a thousand dark rooms just like this one. A man who knew the anatomy of a weapon better than his own reflection. “Gets louder. But you’re out of the room now. Let go.”

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t force you to meet his eyes, granting you the dignity of your breakdown as you made yourself even smaller in your seat. Let go. Just open your palm and watch it drop. It’s gonna feel weightless. It would make you unshakeable again. It would make your blood run cold.

You knew Simon would recognize this exact brand of panic. He lived with it every single day, wore it like a second skin beneath the gear. With his shoulder pressed firmly against yours — a massive, grounding bulkhead which kept your feet planted down on earth at least — he finished reassembling the weapon. The sharp, clean clack of the upper receiver locking back into place broke the longing gaze between you and the floor. You looked up. At him. At the door closing on the afternoon’s horrors. Complete.

He laid the rifle across his heavy thighs, large hands resting flat against the handguard. Finally, he spoke again, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through the thick air and into the depths of your bones. 

“Look at me.”

It wasn’t a command meant to break you, though the sheer gravitational pull of his voice could easily crush lesser soldiers. It was a heavy anchor, dropped straight into the center of your chest, pulling and pulling until you had no space to escape back to. 

Slowly, your chin lifted. The dust on your cheeks felt tight against your skin, tracks of salt and sorrow mapping out the exact anatomy of your much anticipated collapse. You met his gaze. Up close, without the skull plate blocking out the humanity he fought so damn hard to bury, his eyes were a storm of icy blues and lines behind the balaclava. You couldn’t find pity in them, no matter how hard you looked. God, if they held pity, you’d have shattered right then and there once again into a million pieces. But the knowing in them didn’t help much, either.

“You’re thinking too much,” he muttered, fabric of his balaclava shifting slightly as his jaw set. “Can hear it from here. The ticking clock in your head. The bottle or the blade you’ll use to quiet the noise when all that tips over.”

Your breath hitched. Read your damn mind like a standard issue manual. A small, pathetic sound caught in the back of your throat. 

“I’m not gonna let it tip over,” Simon said, his hand moving from the rifle to wrap around the back of your neck. His palm felt massive, calloused, and utterly unyielding there, squeezing just enough to force the scattered thoughts out of your skull and bring you back to the cold reality of the present. The room. The scent of him— tobacco, stale sweat. The weight of your gear. The cold on your fingertips. “But the cost of the uniform isn’t that you get to stop feeling. Either you learn to carry the weight, or it breaks your spine. Choice is yours.”

Those have to be the most words he’s ever uttered to you, you thought. A long, shuddering exhale left you, your forehead automatically sinking forward until it bumped against the heavy tactical nylon covering his shoulder. He didn’t shift away, to your surprise. Didn’t even stiffen, like he was expecting you to do just that. Simon, through all his own fears, held the back of your neck like a solid pillar against the dark. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” 

“That’s Simon for you tonight,” he murmured against your hair, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something almost resembling gentle. Soft. Like it’s not a sin to be soft. To not be an unshakeable, cold-blooded soldier. “We go back out tomorrow. Rifle’s clean, door’s locked. Rest.”

“Roger,” you let out one last, shaky breath, closing your eyes against the rough fabric of his shoulder. “See you at zero-six-hundred.”

It had felt like fate when he’d seen your ad in the shop window. Female, twenties, seeking new roommate. Clean and tidy applicants preferred. Rent negotiated on meeting. The photo provided showed a gorgeous and spacious two-bed apartment with a balcony view over the park. Despite his current situation, Travis couldn’t shake the feeling that this ad had been put there for him to find. Maybe it was stupid of him to believe in fate after everything he’d been through but he tried to remain optimistic that you would like him. Hence the nerve-stricken cab ride he was currently on.

“This is you.” The cab driver told him, jolting him back to reality as the car slowed to a stop. “Nice neighbourhood here.” He glanced at Travis in the rear-view mirror, not being subtle with the look he gave him. Travis suddenly felt very self-conscious, running a hand through his hair nervously.

“Thanks, man.” He threw down the little money he had on him, which included an acceptable tip in an attempt to show that he meant well. “Have a great day.”

He climbed out the cab and checked the directions he’d scribbled down on a piece of paper. Having only spoken to you briefly on the phone to arrange a meeting, you’d given him very specific directions which had warmed his heart a little, clearly you were a conscientious person and it only made him want even more for this to go well. After some searching, he located the building and made his way up, butterflies fluttering around his stomach.

Travis knocked on the door five times and immediately cringed at himself. Was three times too many, was it too insistent? Were you going to think badly of him already? Damn it, he should have stuck with three, that was always a safe bet. His inner monologue was spiralling when you opened the door, beaming out at him with a smile that for some reason made his insides turn to jelly. He straightened up, trying to look presentable.

“Hey.” You held out a hand for him to shake, which he accepted graciously. “You must be Teacake?” You questioned, and he didn’t miss the way your eyes sparkled when he said it.

“Uh, yeah. Hi.” He nodded. “That’s me. I hope I’m not late, I had to take a cab over here and there was a shit-ton of traffic, and then I had to find the place. That actually didn’t take too long, not with the directions you gave me, they were awesome, I found it right away. This is a great building by the way.” He stopped himself when he saw you nodding along, obviously waiting for a break in conversation. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” You waved him off. “I’m glad you appreciated the directions, I’ve been told before that sometimes I worry too much. But you’re here now, so why don’t you come in and we can hash out the details.”

Travis followed you inside, taking in the place. It was so much nicer in person and it was obvious you cared about making the place homely. You led him into the living room and signalled for him to sit on the couch, taking the armchair across from him. He sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped together as you rifled through the application he’d submitted.

“So, you work at Atchinson?” You queried. “You must meet some interesting people there. You know, my uncle has a storage unit over there, maybe you know him?”

Travis ran another hand through his hair. “Yeah, I actually only just started working there. But I’ll get my first pay-check soon, so I’ll be able to cover whatever my half of the rent is. You know, if you offer me the room, that is.”

“What were you doing beforehand?” You asked, not to be nosy but just out of pure curiosity. Travis felt like a bug under a microscope.. He knew at some point he’d have to tell you and he knew once he did, he could most likely kiss the apartment goodbye. He cleared his throat nervously.

“You know, I was sort of between jobs.” He stared down at the floor.

You studied him for a moment, the way he hadn’t quite made it through the door, like he was getting ready to leave at any minute. He was visibly stressed and you could tell there was more to him than he was letting on. “So, uh, Teacake? Is that your real name?”

“Uh, it’s a nickname. Long story.” He told you.

“Right, it’s just I’ll need your name to add to the tenancy if you’re accepted.”

“Oh, yeah.” He grinned. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that. Uh, it’s Travis. Everyone calls me Teacake, though.”

“Alright, Travis.” You nodded, and the way you used his real name made him feel a sense of contentment, the first sense of belonging he’d felt since going to prison. You looked over his application one more time before putting it down and sitting forward, meeting his gaze. “Listen, you seem like a great applicant but I can’t help but feel there’s something you’re not telling me here.”

He sighed, knowing that he’d been caught out. There was no way to side-step this one. “OK, yeah. The truth is, I was just released from prison.”

“Oh.” You blinked in surprise.

“I’m on probation at the moment, I was put up in temporary housing at first but the truth is I wanted someplace new to start over. I saw your ad and it seemed kind of perfect.” He was rambling again. “I know I probably should have said something sooner, but the truth is I’m just tryin’ to make a new start. I swear, no bad intentions. I just want to put the whole thing behind me.”

“Hmm.” You took in everything he was saying. “OK, that’s a lot to process.”

“I’m sorry for wastin’ your time.” Travis said. “I can let myself out.” He made to get up but you held a hand out, stopping him.

“Travis, hang on a second.” You told him. “Look, the truth is I’m kind of eager to rent out that room as soon as possible, not a lot of great memories attached to it.” There was something underlying there but Travis could unpack all of that later. “To be honest, I’ve had a lot of crazy applicants reach out to me and you’re easily the best one.”

He blinked a few times, trying to catch up. “What are you saying?”

“I’m assuming you’re not some kind of dangerous felon.” You joked. “The room’s yours if you want it.”

“Oh, seriously?” He was practically buzzing as he stood up, face beaming. “That’s…wow, that’s amazing, thank you.”

“I will need you to fill out some paperwork first, but why don’t I show you the room, just in case you change your mind.”

“That’s not gonna happen.” He assured you as you got up. “Is it weird if I hug you, this is just the best news I’ve had all week.”

“A hug might break the ice, who knows.” You said, just as he surged forward and swept you up, spinning you around the room. You laughed as he put you down gently, scratching the back of his head.

“Sorry, got a little over-excited.”

“Don’t be sorry, ice well and truly broken.” You told him. “Alright, roomie. Let’s show you this room.

***

The next morning Travis crept into the apartment after having finished a night shift at work, only to find you already awake and bustling about in the kitchen. The smell of coffee and pancakes drifted through, making his stomach growl. There was only so much surviving he could do on a bag of chips during his shift. As he came into the kitchen, you smiled at him and handed him a mug.

“Here you go. I made you some coffee, thought you could probably use one.”

“Thank you.” Travis took it from you, reeling a little at the simple gesture. No one ever really did acts of service for him, but to you it seemed like second nature.

“You’ll have to tell me how you like it made best for future.” You informed him. “I know how important morning coffee is. How was your shift at work?”

“It was long and boring.” Travis responded, taking a sip of coffee and sitting at the kitchen table. “Not too much excitement happening at a self-storage unit, you’d be surprised to hear.”

“You gotta start finding things to do to liven it up.” You told him as you rifled through the cupboards, trying to find the maple syrup for the pancakes. “You know, podcasts, make a playlist. Something like that.”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Never really been much for making things. By the way, I found a box under the bed last night labelled Emily. Should I do something about that?”

“Oh, yeah. That was my old roommate. You can just leave that there.” You didn’t elaborate any further and Travis figured it was best not to push it. Instead he watched as you continued your struggle to reach the top shelf. He stood up and made his way over to you, stopping when he was just behind you. You didn’t hear him at first until you took a step back and collided into him. He instinctively reached out and steadied you with both of his hands.

“Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya. Can I help you, looks like you’re struggling a little.”

“Yeah, I just…” You stood up on your tiptoes, trying to reach the back of the cabinet. “I can’t reach the syrup.”

Travis could swear that his heart grew three sizes watching you, but he decided to put you out of your misery as he reached up with ease and grabbed the syrup, handing it down to you. Your feet sunk back to the floor, sighing as you took if from him.

“I totally could have gotten it if you’d given me another second.”

“Oh, sure you could.” He teased you a little.

“Are you doubting me?” You asked him.

“I wouldn’t ever dream of it.” Travis held his hands up in surrender. You gave him a fake glare before relenting. “Does this mean I’ve lost out on pancakes?”

You grinned. “I would never do that to you. Unless you’re still too tired from work, don’t feel like you have to eat with me if you don’t want to.”

“Are you kidding? After all that time eating the prison food, I need my fill of pancakes.” He spun around the kitchen. “Where are the plates, let me help by laying the table.”

For a moment, you felt light as air as you took him in, watching as he set the table for breakfast. Recent events had led to doubts bouncing in your brain, that your acts of service were overbearing and you were too much. However, Travis seemed genuinely touched that you’d made him coffee and was excited to eat breakfast with you. You had to remind yourself that it was only day one and the honeymoon period would likely wear off soon. Still, as he sat at the table, rambling about one of the customers he’d met last night, you couldn’t help but feel optimistic.

That you’d struck gold in the roommate department.

***

You were absolutely right. It had been a few weeks now since Travis had moved in and so far everything was going fantastically. Despite the fact that you worked opposing shifts most of the time, you were still able to sit down at least once a day and catch up on each other’s lives, whether it was in the mornings before you darted off to work, or when you were making dinner and boxing some up for Travis to eat on his shifts. The two of you just seemed to fit like two jigsaw pieces. And it wasn’t just the daily catchups. It was the little things as well.

Travis would write silly notes on the mirror after he got out the shower for you to read when you went in after him, knowing it would make you smile and set you up for the day. You would leave your favourite books on the coffee table for him to find after he told you reading was one of his favourite hobbies. The pair of you learnt the others favourite snacks and alternated between doing snack runs. Travis began to seep into every crack and crevice of your life, something that you found you actually quite liked it. You weren't just existing in the same apartment, you were living together.

It didn’t take long for you to realise that you were falling for him.

Which was bad on so many levels. Travis was the best roommate, you couldn’t mess that up by involving mixed up feelings. The two of you had become such good friends and it was best it stayed that way.

Although he did make it exceptionally hard at times.

“Hey, you want a movie night tonight?” He asked as he strolled into the living room, eating a bowl of cereal. Apparently that was his go-to meal no matter how much you tried to get him to eat a real dinner. It was one of the rare evenings that you both had off and had to do something to make the most of it.

“Yeah, sure.” You nodded. “That sounds like fun.”

“Great,” he responded cheerfully. "What are you thinkin'? Action movie?"

"I could go for horror." You said. "Unless you're going to spend the whole time hiding behind a cushion again?"

"I don't do that." His face wrinkled in the most endearing way. "Last time I was just keeping the cushion close in case you needed it."

"Mmm, sure." You nodded, completely unconvinced.

"I totally wasn't scared." He insisted. “Want me to make the popcorn?”

“Oh, fuck.” You cursed loudly.

“I mean, I don’t have to if it’s that bad.” He joked, to which you rolled your eyes with a grin.

“No it’s not that, idiot. I forgot to run to the store yesterday, we don’t have any.”

Travis held a hand to his chest. “What? No popcorn? Who even are you anymore?”

“Shut up.” You chucked a cushion at him, which only made him laugh more. “I guess I can run out quickly now and grab some.”

“Hey, why don’t I come with you?” He offered. “Late night grocery runs are always more fun with company.”

“Is that scientifically proven?” You asked.

“Uh, yeah. Can’t believe you didn’t know that.” He shook his head at you. “I’m actually pretty sure there is some genuine science-y shit that could back that up if you really looked into it. Nothing beats company, trust me. Especially yours.” He finished with a devilish grin.

“Alright, Teacake. You got me.” You stood up. “Let me just grab my jacket and we can get out of here.”

Twenty minutes later the two of you were wandering around the grocery store, searching for movie night supplies. Travis had insisted upon pushing the cart, which had worked for you as it meant you were able to fill it up.

“Alright.” You said as you reached the popcorn aisle. “Sweet or salted?”

“Sweet, obviously.” Travis responded, leaning against the cart.

“Obviously?”

“Come on.” He argued. “You’re telling me that you’d rather have salted over sweet, there’s no way.”

“I can’t believe this is even up for debate.” You shot back. “Salted is the classic choice for movie night, why are we even discussing this?”

“Wow.” Travis shook his head at you. “Can’t believe you could be so wrong about something so crucial. You know how awesome I think you are, but this might just be a dealbreaker for me.”

“Oh.” Now it was your turn to hold a hand to your chest, pretending to be offended. “Are you saying our roommate bond is at risk over popcorn.”

“I’m sensin’ some sarcasm coming from you right now and I need to tell you, it is not a good colour on you.” Travis told you. You rolled your eyes.

“Alright, compromise.” You grabbed both packets. “We’ll get them both, that way we’re both happy.”

“I like your thinkin’.” He pointed at you. “You really are the best.”

“Shut up.” You told him.

“I’m serious.” He said.

“Teacake?” A voice interrupted your conversation and you both spun around, seeing a young guy walking towards you, smile on his face that was directed at Travis. He seemed to reciprocate as he straightened up and held a hand out, shaking with this other guy.

“Hey, Pete.” He said brightly. “Man, how long’s it been?”

“Couple of months, right?” Pete mused. “When did you get out?”

“Bout’ a month ago.” Travis answered. “Been strange.”

“Right? No one prepares you for that, huh? What it’s like after you get released. Did you get a good set-up?”

Travis nodded. “Yeah, man. Got some work at the self-storage company, managed to get back on my feet.” It was then he glanced over at you and immediately beamed. “Sorry, this is my roommate.”

“Hey, nice to meet you.” Pete shook your hand. “How’d you guys meet, then?”

“Oh, total coincidence actually.” You replied. “I needed a roommate, Travis needed a place to live. It was sort of like fate.”

“Yeah, it kinda was.” Travis smiled at you.

Pete glanced between the two of you with a grin. “Wow, man. Looks like you really landed on your feet here. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, man. Hey, it was great seeing you.”

“You too. If you’re ever free we should definitely catch up sometime.” Pete told him.

“Yeah, maybe.” Travis nodded.

“Well, I’ll see you around.” Pete waved to you both before wandering away, leaving you to continue your shopping.

“He seems nice.” You said to Travis.

“Oh yeah, Pete was great. He was one of my only friends when I was in the slammer. Got out just a few months before I did.”

“You gonna go out with him? Might be nice to catch up with him?”

“Ah, no.” He waved the idea off. “I don’t think I should.”

“How come?” You asked, hoping you weren’t being too pushy by asking.

“I just…I don’t want to fall back into that mess again. Pete’s great but he knows a lot of shady guys and it’s a slippery slope, you know.” He shrugged. “Don’t want to mess up what I got now. I got my job, I got a roof over my head. I got you.” He added, tilting his head towards you and giving you that smile that made your stomach flip. “I got all I need.”

You nodded on understanding. “I hope you don’t mind me asking about it.” You said.

“Are you kidding? Feels like you know me better now, it’s kinda nice.” He said. “Now, back to the popcorn?”

“Back to the popcorn.”

***

A few days later you were in the apartment alone, waiting for Travis to get back from work when there was a knock on the door. Checking your phone, you frowned as you realised it couldn’t be him, it was still too early. Making your way to the front door, you opened it to find the last person you wanted to see. Or rather, people.

“Emily. Josh. What a nice surprise.” You plastered on a fake smile.

Your former roommate rolled her eyes as her boyfriend leaned against the door-frame, looking bored by you already. “We really don’t have time for small talk. I just came by to grab the rest of my stuff. Do you have it?”

“You know where it is. Be my guest.” You stepped aside. “I’m not getting it for you.”

“Wow? You’re not bending over backwards and invading my privacy? You’re really mixing things up, huh?”

“I thought you didn’t have time for small talk?”

Emily sighed and waltzed into the apartment, making her way into her old room to grab the box of belongings she’d left behind. You turned back to Josh, who was looking you up and down with judgement. “So, are you finally going to find the nerve to say it to my face?”

“Say what?”

“You know what? The crazy lies you were spreading about me, trying to turn Emily against me.” He leaned in slightly. “It was never going to work, you know?”

You refused to be intimidated by him. “I didn’t tell any lies. You know exactly what you did and so do I. Maybe Emily doesn’t see it, but I do.”

He smirked at you. “Don’t waste your time. She already chose me, let’s not embarrass ourselves further, yeah?”

“Go to hell, Josh.”

“Don’t talk to my boyfriend like that.” Emily warned you as stepped back out with the box. “I see you already replaced me?”

“Oh, yeah.” You nodded. “In fact I did. And let me tell you, he’s a hell of a lot  more pleasant than you are.”

“Oh, ‘he’?” Emily raised an eyebrow. “So, what’s his name?”

It was at that exact moment that Travis decided to make an appearance, stepping into the door frame and taking Josh and Emily in. As he glanced at you and saw the disdainful look you were giving them both, his hackles immediately went up. Whoever these strangers were, he was pretty sure he had grounds to hate them.

“Is this him?” Emily asked. “Hey, pretty boy. What’s your name?”

“Uh, hey? I’m Travis.” He didn’t offer a hand to shake, feeling the sudden urge not to be friendly which wasn’t like him at all. “Who are you?”

“I’m Emily.” She told him and when she was met with a blank stare, she scoffed. “Oh, so she hasn’t told you about me. Nice.”

Travis’ face suddenly registered recognition. “Oh, Emily? You’re the one who had my room before me, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Her voice was dripping with malice. “Was honestly such a shame when I had to move out.” She flashed a sarcastic grin your way, making you squirm a little. What was it about her that made you feel so bad? You hated it.

Travis folded his arms and came to stand beside you, a silent signal of loyalty. “I’m not sure what you mean, moving in here was the best decision I ever made.”

Emily giggled. “Give it some time.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” He shot back.

Emily glared at him, just as Josh’s gaze flickered down to the tattoo on Travis’ arm and devious grin crept across his face. “Nice ink, man. Where’d you get it?”

You suddenly felt defensive. It was bad enough that they’d barged in here on your morning off, but now they were interrogating Travis and that didn’t sit right with you. “Alright, I think it’s time for you both to leave.” You began to usher them both out the door. “Always a pleasure, though.”

“Right, of course. Throwing us out so you can make coffee for your new roommate, right?” Emily turned around and leaned in, voice low so only you could hear her. “You know, it’s only a matter of time before he decides you’re too much.”

“It was great seeing you, Emily.” With that you shut the door on her face, blocking out her harsh words. Though they were already swirling around in your head. Too much. Too much. Too much.

“Well they seemed like a god-damn delight.” Travis weighed in sarcastically from behind you. “What the hell did I just walk into?”

“It’s nothing.” You brushed him off. “I didn’t even know they were coming round, otherwise I would have just left the box outside the door. I don’t love talking to her.” You turned your back to him, making sure he couldn’t see the pained expression on your face. There was the familiar sinking feeling in your stomach and you couldn’t seem to shake it.

“Are you OK?” Travis asked, immediately noticing that you were a little off. “Did she say somethin’ to you?”

“Honestly, don’t worry about it.” You told him, not wanting to burden him with your innermost worries. He surely didn’t care that much anyway. “You must be tired from work, you probably want to go to take a nap, right?”

Travis shook his head. “Actually, what I really wanna do is go shower and grab some coffee. You want to join me?”

You sighed. “Travis, come on. You don’t need to try and cheer me up right now.”

The look of sadness on your face told him otherwise. It wasn’t often thus far that he’d seen you upset but on the rare occasion that he did, Travis wanted to do everything he could to take that feeling away. He’d learnt pretty quickly that going for coffee and a walk was the perfect remedy and despite your protests, he knew how much you needed this. Plus, it meant he got to hang out with you and that was always a bonus to him.

“Too late. I’m already dreamin’ about espresso. We have to go.”

Slowly but surely, a smile crept across your face. “Fine. But only if we can get cookies too.”

“Oh, like you even have to ask.” He said. “Give me ten minutes to wash the storage place off me.”

You grinned after him as he dashed towards the bathroom, wondering what you did to deserve him. Even though he was being so sweet, it still wasn’t quite enough to shake off what Emily had said to you. Sometimes you felt like you were too much, and your biggest fear was that Travis would start to think so as well. The doubt had planted itself in your brain and it was hard to get rid of it.

He wouldn’t think so, right?

***

The thing about Travis was that he was the human equivalent of a golden retriever. The next couple of days, you’d been wrestling with your own self-doubt and he instantly picked up on it, only wanting to try and cheer you up. No matter how much you insisted you were fine, he still went out of his way for you. He brought flowers home, offered to cook you dinner and even surprised you by cleaning the apartment. After a few days, you felt that doubt start to lift like magic. Travis had done that for you and you loved him for it.

It was doing nothing for the feelings you were catching.

That evening, you were searching your freshly cleaned apartment for your house keys, having been called into work for a late shift. Most of the time your keys were thrown on the side in the kitchen but he’d obviously tidied them away somewhere without thinking. You made your way to his bedroom, knocking gently.

“Hey, Travis?” You called through the door.

“Hey, come in.” You heard him shout from the other side. Immediately opening the door, you casually wandered in. “Do you know where-?” You stopped suddenly as you took him in. He was standing in front of the mirror with just a towel around him, having just come out of the shower. His blonde hair was hanging loosely around his face, still a little damp and you could totally appreciate his form. You’d always known he was in good shape but damn, now you could really see it.

You didn’t realise you were staring until he tilted his head, a smirk on his face. “You alright?”

“What?” Your brain was completely crashing out and you needed to recover quickly. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” What had you come in for again?

“You sure, you’re blushin’ a little.” His voice was cocky. “See somethin’ you like?”

There was absolutely no way you could let him know this was having such an effect on you. Even if your mind was currently drifting elsewhere, wondering what he was hiding under the towel, what might happen if he came a little closer. Your heart was starting to beat faster. Shaking your head quickly, you cleared your throat. “Have you seen my keys?”

“Oh, yeah, They’re in the bowl by the door.”

“Right, thank you.” You tore your gaze away from him. He frowned suddenly.

“You goin’ out?”

“Oh, yeah.” You nodded. “I got called into a late shift at work. I’ll be home later, I’ll try not to wake you up when I come back in.

Travis’ heart sank a little, one of the rare nights he didn’t have to work and you weren’t going to be in? “That kinda sucks, we can’t hang out tonight.”

You smiled. “You can still have a good night off. Don’t miss me too much.”

“I always miss you when you’re gone.” He muttered softly and you tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped when he said it. Did he have any idea the effect he had on you? Was it ever possible to think he might feel the same. It felt scary to cling onto any hope.

“Anyway, I have to shoot off. Have a good night.” You him as you walked out of his bedroom. “Don’t wait up for me.”

As you went off to work, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get the image of Travis out of your head, particularly the one where he was half-dressed with a sad puppy-dog look on his face because you were leaving him.

“Screw you, Travis.” You said to yourself as you walked out the door. Why did he have to be so perfect?

***

The shift at work seemed to drag on for an eternity until eventually you were climbing the stairs back up to the apartment and sneaking back in through the door. The place was quiet and you assumed Travis had turned in for the night, so you tiptoed into the living room to take off your shoes.

And almost jumped out of your skin when you saw him lying on the floor, head resting against the couch with his headphones in, eyes shut as he gently nodded his head along to whatever he was listening to. As soon as the initial shock had worn off, you couldn’t help but grin at how adorable he looked right now, slightly sleepy and a little disheveled. You slowly made your way over to him and crouched down, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Travis.” You spoke softly.

His eyes drifted open and when he saw you next to him, his entire face lit up. “Hey, you’re home.”

“Yeah, I told you not to wait up for me, what are you doing in here?” You weren’t mad, if anything you were really happy to see him.

“Well I had to make sure you got home safe.” He told you, sitting up. “Besides, I was listening to this new playlist I made for work. Remember you told me to do that? I actually read that it was a good way to boost motivation when you’re working so I figured it was worth a shot.” He shrugged.

“Alright, I like it. What are you listening to?” You reached out and took one of the headphones out his ear, placing it in your own. “NSync?” You smirked.

“What, they’re classic?” Travis defended himself.

“I had no idea you were so cheesy.” You picked his phone up, scrolling through the rest of the playlist. You stopped on one particular song. “Hanson?”

“Yeah, I love this song.”

“Of course you do.” You chuckled, pressing play. “I actually don’t hate it either, weirdly enough.”

You settled down next to him, resting your head on the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling as the music washed over you. You felt Travis relax next to you, shifting slightly so his arm was pressed up against yours, fingers brushing gently, Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you realised how close the two of you were all of a sudden. After a while, the initial shock wore off and you unclenched, tiredness suddenly hitting you after your long shift. Your eyes started to droop a little and without even really thinking, you moved in and let your head rest on Travis’ shoulder, a contended sigh escaping you.

You felt Travis laugh softly. “Someone’s sleepy.” His own voice had dropped now from fatigue, a little husky. You groaned in indignation.

“I am not.” You lightly hit his arm which only made him laugh more. He reached out and stroked a hand through your hair and your breath hitched in your throat. Eyes fluttering open, you looked up and saw him gazing down at you with pure adoration. You smiled back at him, eyes subconsciously dropping down to his lips.

And then it happened.

Travis’ hand came to rest on your jaw and before you knew it, he was leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. Your brain completely scrambled as his thumb stroked your jaw softly and you felt his tongue swipe across your bottom lip. Without hesitation, you granted him access and he groaned into your mouth, sitting up and pulling you gently into his lap. The kiss quickly turned into something more as you instantly rocked your hips into him, a moan escaping the both of you as he gripped your hips, encouraging you to move against him again.

“Fuck.” You heard him mutter against your lips, and you felt like you were on fire as his hardness pressed against you.

“Travis.” You breathed softly, reaching down to pull up the shirt he was wearing.

He pulled away from you suddenly, eyes searching yours and suddenly that familiar sinking feeling snuck up on you again. The moment was quickly shattered as you worst fears overtook you again. Maybe he didn’t really want you after all

“Shit, I’m sorry.” You stuttered. “If you don’t want to-“

“No, it’s not that.” Travis assured you, but you didn’t wait to hear more. You were going to give him an easy out.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to explain. We live together, maybe this was a mistake.”

His face fell at your words. “Is that how you feel?”

Of course it wasn’t. But it was easier to pull back now rather than get your heart completely broken. “Let’s just forget it, yeah?” You jumped up and hurried towards your bedroom, leaving Travis sitting there completely alone. He felt your absence immediately.

Looking at his phone, he quickly opened up the other playlist he’d been working on, the one full of songs that reminded him of you. He’d been planning to show it to you tonight, hoping it might make you smile.

It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off. 

So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning. 

You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.

So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around. 

You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.” 

Oh, you were wrong.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅

It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing. 

He opened your door. 

The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all. 

“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.

He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.” 

He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.” 

And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.” 

He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.

It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded. 

You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things. 

It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up. 

“What is it?” You spoke up. 

He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.” 

It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond. 

Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’” 

Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page. 

You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat. 

“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him. 

He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”

You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.” You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen. 

When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?” 

What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.” 

“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes. 

You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?” 

He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece. 

“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.” 

The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time. 

You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.  

When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side. 

When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet… 

You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages. 

“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.” 

“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000). 

And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.

You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible. 

Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf. 

You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can. 

You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–

“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. 

You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”

The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?” 

“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink. 

“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.” 

Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.

He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.

You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”

“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”

“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor. 

He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”

You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”

The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.” 

You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.” 

“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.” 

“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest. 

You were certainly sharing air now. 

The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–

You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…

You shook your head, not the time. 

The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅

Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made. 

So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly. 

Now, you weren’t so sure. 

You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick. 

 “Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”

You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“

“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes. 

“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–” 

He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”

“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–” 

He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?” 

“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.” 

He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…” 

“Still, I–” 

“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in. 

“What?” 

“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”

You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.” 

He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”

It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours. 

It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.” 

You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing. 

Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all? 

All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating. 

He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.” 

You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves? 

The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it. 

“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?” 

Right. 

You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend,  moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…” 

He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.” 

You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.” 

“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”

You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”

He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”

“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?” 

His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–” 

Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. 

“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely. 

“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”

“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.” 

You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots. 

“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.” 

But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him. 

It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.

“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees. 

You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were. 

You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away. 

You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore. 

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅

Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne. 

It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it. 

You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you. 

But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out. 

Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room. 

You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”

His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here. 

And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down. 

Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat. 

“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair. 

You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.” 

Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end. 

You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too. 

You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table. 

It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile. 

Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?” 

You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon. 

He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?” 

“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them. 

Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.

In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you. 

That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves. 

You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.” 

It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal. 

But he was leaving. 

The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?

Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.” 

You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out. 

He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?” 

You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–” 

“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”

That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder. 

“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.” 

You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!” 

He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–” 

“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own. 

His brows furrowed, “Of what?” 

“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.” 

“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you. 

“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him. 

He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?” 

You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention. 

It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.” 

“Me?” 

“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?” 

Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say. 

Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated. 

But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.

When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”

It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel. 

The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage. 

And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind. 

He walked to the bookshelf. 

Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages. 

Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink: 

When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment. 

Oh. 

You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–” 

“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”

You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”

“You got scared.” He understood. 

You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?” 

The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.” 

You couldn’t breathe, “I—“

“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited. 

Only until you said: “I love you too.” 

Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right. 

You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?” 

His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”

“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper. 

The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love. 

He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?” 

You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–

Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.” 

“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.

He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”

You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.

He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.

"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.

Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.

He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.

You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.

Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.

"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."

"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.

"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.

You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."

He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."

The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.

You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"

You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.

He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."

"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"

"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"

You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.

"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.

"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.

He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.

His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.

He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"

You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.

He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.

He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"

You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.

But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."

It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.

"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"

"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."

The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.

"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"

You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"

"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."

You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.

You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.

"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.

He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.

You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"

He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."

You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."

He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.

"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.

"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."

You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅

note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)

“You’re… giving this to me,” you ask, dragging the question out.

The Mandalorian stands at your doorstep. Unreadable beneath hard shiny metal and illuminated only by the entry light of your home above your door. The chilly night air bites your cheeks but he stands unfazed.

“As a thank you,” he explains. “You were a big help to my kid and this was the only thing I had that seemed like something you’d enjoy.”

All you did was give his little green kid some medicine. It’s not like it was even your first interaction with the infamous hunter. He’s stopped by your apothecary a couple times. Passing by so swiftly you hardly even knew he was there if it wasn’t for the lingering stares from other customers. If you recall correctly, he only ever picks up supplies to replenish a med pack or bacta spray for wounds.

Until you suddenly found him at your doorstep the other night with his adorable little green baby in his arms. The poor little guy was running a fever, coughing up a storm, and had even refused food for over a day. Any parent would be frantic. And so you didn’t even think twice to let them inside.

Luckily your small shop is attached below your home, so you were quick to find the right tinctures for his illness. The Mandalorian paced circles in your kitchen as you administered the medicine and blotted his kid’s little forehead with a cool damp cloth. It took some time and a lot of reassurance to a very nervous father, but after a few hours the fever broke.

You sent them home with some herbal tinctures and even some homemade hard medicinal candies for stubborn coughs and that was it. Hardly any words were exchanged between you that night that didn’t pertain to the child. Only a heartfelt thank you, goodnight, and a promise to pay you back somehow. You assured him that it really wasn’t necessary, that you were glad to help.

You’ve admittedly always been curious about the man. With his stoic demeanor and a reputation that preceded him like lightening preceded thunder. He’s somewhat of a local legend, menace, and hero all wrapped up in one. And now he’s at your door. With booze. Definitely a man of his word, this guy.

“You’re giving this,” you repeat with astonishment. “This whole bottle, to me?”

“Yes,” he answers again. “Is it a special one or something?”

“This is Andoan wine,” you emphasize, holding out the clear glass bottle. “You can only find these on Coruscant now. Very delicious, very rare, very expensive.”

“Is it,” he asks nonchalantly. “I’ve never tried it before. But I hope you enjoy it.”

“You really don’t have to,” you tell him.

“I insist. I didn’t know the first thing to do so I appreciate your help.”

You chuckle. With your limited interactions, you’re starting to see that he’s short and to the point with his words. Almost like he’s not entirely used to speaking with people.

“I…” You nearly argue it again but decide against it. He really didn’t have to give you such a lavish gift for something any good person would do in a situation like that. It was only natural. But at this point, refusing him might come off as rude so…

“Thank you very much.”

The Mandalorian acknowledges your gratitude with a tilt of his helmet, then turns on his heels to leave without another word. And for some reason, you linger at the door. You watch him go down one step, then another, then-

“H-hey, Mando?”

Your sudden call stops him in his tracks on the stair case and he turns to look back over his shoulder. The dim light gleaming over his steel.

“Yes?”

“I…. w-well…”

You’re stammering. Just come out and say it.

“If you’ve never tried it… would you like to share it with me?”

He stands there silently looking at you and the awkwardness crawls your skin.

“I’m not busy at the moment and it’s not really in my culture to drink alone.”

Culture your ass. You just want to drink with him. It’s unclear why in particular but… you’re curious about him. Other than the company of his kid, he seems alone. You wonder if he prefers it that way or if it’s for another reason entirely. Either way, the offer was worth a shot.

There’s more silence and the only noise in the air comes from the gentle chirp of some lava crickets and the breeze brushing the trees in the street. And it’s in that moment that regret starts to burn in your stomach

He’s gonna say no. A pause like that doesn’t necessarily mean yes. But it would be rude not to offer, right? A bottle this nice doesn’t come by these parts and it’d be a shame to drink it alone. It’s reasonable to offer the gesture. After all, he went out of his way to come here from across town. It’s the least you can do to show your appreciation in return.

“Alright.”

The word that falls out of him so effortlessly hits you like a punch to the chest. Are you nervous? Absolutely. But how many people can say they shared a drink with the Mandalorian?

A few minutes later, you find yourself standing on your tip toes, grabbing a couple earthenware ceramic cups in your kitchenette cabinet while Mando stands in your living room. His helmet follows the various potted plants, momentos and knick knacks from your travels littered around your home. Even tracing his gloved fingers over some of them.

“You have a nice home,” he says. “I didn’t notice before. Very lived in.”

“Lots of junk,” you joke. “You can say it Mando, I won’t mind.”

“My place is still new. Doesn’t feel like a home just yet.”

“That’ll change over time,” you assure him. “After a while, your home becomes a collection of memories.”

His attention gets drawn to a particular item on your wall. It’s an old worn down canvas satchel bag that hangs on the wall. At one point it was a life line. Now it serves as a reminder that no matter how hard life gets, showing a little kindness can go a long way for someone.

“What’s this memory?”

“That? That memory is what got me here.” You smile to yourself as you wipe down the cups with a clean kitchen rag.

“A few years ago, I was on Pantora with just some spare change and the clothes on my back. I was desperate to leave so I ended up hitching a ride on a freight ship. I worked on the ship in exchange for a ride to Corellia. Their language was difficult to learn and I had a rough time getting things done because for some reason everything was written in the native language and not aurebesh. On a stop to Tattooine, I accidentally labeled a pallet of coaxium as a pallet of scrap metal. That “scrap” was sold to some Jawas and by the time everyone realized my mistake we were already halfway to the next planet.”

“Was that before you came the Nevarro?”

“That was the reason I came to Nevarro,” you clarify. “It was their next stop so they dropped me here.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch,” you laugh. “Anyway, I guess one of the workers felt sorry for me and left me that satchel with a couple credits and some ration bars inside. Buuut my mistake turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Nevarro turned itself around. I have my own little business. I’m even able to save a little bit of money now. For the time being, things are comfortable. I’ve hopped around the system a lot as you can see. But… this is a place I can always come back to.”

“Something reliable,” he adds.

“Exactly,” you say softly, smiling at the sentiment.

You look up at him. And you didn’t notice as you were cleaning those cups that he’s now completely facing towards you. His visor is trained on you. And it’s then that you realize how small your home really is. Because Mando is broad.

His crossed arms accentuate his wide shoulders. His chest plate follows the lines of his trim torso. Even those plates of beskar armor can barely hide the bulk of his biceps. Your eyes briefly, briefly take a tour at his waist line before you realize how incredibly rude you’re being.

He’s a guest. And a customer. Don’t. Check. Him. Out.

Heat starts to rise in your cheeks. Focusing back on the cups, you round the kitchen counter and walk over to him.

“I’m sorry. All this talking suddenly got deeper and I feel like I haven’t really introduced myself. We’ve only ever passed by each other before,” you chuckle, shaking away the nerves.

In hindsight you should’ve just introduced yourself the other night, but truthfully you were in care-taker-mode and it didn’t occur to you at the time. Plus you didn’t think you’d have an encounter with the man again other than seeing him briefly in your shop every so often. But he seems like a nice enough person with the limited knowledge you do have with him. And after tonight you’re bound to cross paths again. So you happily extend your hand out and give him his cup along with your full name.

There’s a couple beats of silence and you’re starting to see that’s his default. But it doesn’t stop you from second guessing your words as if you’re crossing an unknown boundary. There’s a slight tilt downward with his helmet and he responds with a regretful “I’m sorry, but-“

“You don’t have to tell me your name,” you immediately add. “I know there’s… principles you must have. I just wanted you to know me. That’s all.”

Another beat passes before he finally reaches out to take the cup in his hand. He repeats your name and the way it comes out of his voice holds a whole new flavor. Soft and curious even through the warble of his vocoder. It’s almost like he’s seeing how it tastes.

You like it. You like it a lot.

“It’s nice to meet you.” The voice wears the vocoder like a veil but you still catch a hint of a smile by his relaxed tone. No real logical way to know for certain, just a gut feeling.

“Likewise,” you smile back.

“So,” he exhales. “You want to know how two Mandalorians drink?”

“Sure. Sounds educational,” you joke.

With a tilt of his helmet, Mando steps further into the living room area and you follow behind, cup and bottle in hand. Walking over to the couch, his gloved hand reaches for the small round pillow resting there. His smokey grey cape flows over his shoulder and for a moment you’re mesmerized by the movement. As he turns on his heel, his fingers release the pillow. Letting it fall to the thin rug with a muted poof.

“Right here.” Mando gestures to the floor and you waltz over to take a seat on the cushion, crossing your legs. It doesn’t escape your notice how he doesn’t grab the only pillow for himself. Opting for your comfort over his own.

He takes a minute to look around the room. Probably checking for anything reflective. Then with a swish of his cape to the side, Mando settles in the floor behind you. When his back presses against yours, you expect a wall of cold hard metal beneath the cape. But instead there’s warmth. Strong and firm, but still warm and giving.

“It’s customary to sit on the floor when drinking with a war band. Usually outside around a fire. When it’s just two, it’s back to back.”

“Aaah,” you drawl. “Very practical. I like it.”

The top of the bottle comes off with a pop and the rich scent caresses your nose like a hug. After pouring about two fingers worth into Mando’s cup you pour one for yourself and settle in.

“Are we drinking to anything tonight ,” you ask him.

“Not sure. How about…,” he pauses for a moment before deciding. “To that Pantoran who gave you the satchel.”

That makes you laugh out loud. But you can’t help but feel a little pleased at that. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be on Nevarro, wouldn’t have a home. And you definitely wouldn’t be drinking with Mando tonight. For that you’re especially grateful.

“You know what, yeah,” you chuckle. “To the Pantoran.”

Mando extends his arm back to reach your cups and you meet him halfway. Letting them touch with a soft clack.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

There’s an unclicking sound and you sense that he’s probably tilting his helmet back to drink. You ignore the small tinge of disappointment that he didn’t take it completely off. But it’s understandable. He doesn’t know you well. Even drinking like this with an outsider is probably a big deal for people of his creed. His back presses a little further against yours as he takes his first sip and you take yours.

The wine is rich and dry, and a bit smokey. But the underlying taste of tangy fruit blends well with the flavor. Going by the color, it has to have been bottled for a decades. The alcohol runs warmly down your throat and settles like smoldering ember in your stomach. It’s like no other alcohol you’ve ever tried before. Not even close.

“Hoooh,” he hisses after that sharp bite of alcohol.

“Yeah,” you agree knowingly. Already sensing that this bottle is getting finished tonight.

The conversations flow pretty easily after the first drink. He tells you about how his boy came into his life and how he suddenly found himself being his father. You tell him that you can only dream of having a parent like him because you never got to know yours. You half expected he would cut the interaction short and only accept one drink. But when you offer a refill, he gladly accepted which warmed you from the inside.

Admittedly you ask a few curious questions about his creed and he indulges you a bit. And he asks about how you got into medicine making. But for the most part you both stick to easier topics like current events on Nevarro, work, and food. Eventually two drinks turn into three and somehow you’ve both dipped into topics like past relationships. Which is dangerous territory after drink number three.

“It was baaad, Mando. I’m telling you. I mean, really! Who gives two shits who makes more money than who? Or am I in the wrong here?”

“Nah, definitely not,” he replies. His speech now more relaxed but a little raspy from the alcohol. “Honestly, he sounds like a little bitch if that was his main concern.”

“Yeah! Like, what is it with these men and needing to feel superior in such bullshit, inconsequential ways?”

“You seem strong willed. Weak men are intimidated by that.”

“Yeah well, then every man I’ve met in this galaxy was weak,” you groan. “I mean, c’mon. Am I that intimidating? Is it the yapping? It’s probably the yapping.”

“I think someone who’d be deterred by something that trivial doesn’t sound worth a damn anyway.”

With that, you let out a deep sigh and slump against the man behind your back.

“Eh, you’re probably right,” you exhale. You toss back the last little sip in your ceramic cup, savoring the flavor.

“You know what, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just be that shop girl around the corner who throws herself into her work, makes her little remedies, and stays happily independent. I think I can live with that.”

A pause streches between you.

“You don’t sound too convincing, Shop Girl,” he teases.

“Shit,” you tsk.

You both wheeze with laughter, your bodies rumbling against one another and it’s so… relaxing. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t say much. Or that what little he does say is said with a sincerity you’re not used to. Or you’re drunk. It could very well be that.

But in a galaxy full of deceit and unknown dangers, it’s refreshing to talk with someone as honest as him. He’s authentic, unapologetically so.

“Hey so… can I ask you something?”

“You’ve been asking things this whole time,” he teases.

“I know, but… it’s technically a helmet question. And you can tell me to fuck off if it’s too much.”

Mando hums and the rumble reverberates through your body, nesting warmly in your chest. He’s settled comfortably against you and it makes you feel close enough to ask what you want to ask. After thinking it over he gives you permission.

“Can’t wait to hear this,” he sighs with a little amusement.

You smile. To your surprise, he actually has a good sense of humor. A dry, blunt one . But humor nonetheless. You run a finger over the rim of your cup, finding a little more courage.

“Mando… Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

It’s a simple enough question, right? It’s within the ballpark of the topics you’ve been discussing. And you’re both adults. It’s not like it’s inappropriate…Right?

Oh god, you really are drunk…

Regret rises with each passing second and you wonder why you even brought it up. It’s probably some kind of insult to his creed to ask something like that. 

“Too much,” you broach gently.

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not exactly the first person to ask that. Doubt you’ll be the last.”

He pauses for a moment to find the right words. Then with a heavy exhale he gives you an answer to your insanely intrusive question.

“I was pretty young when I took the creed,” he states. “Ten, twelve maybe? Too young to be interested in those kinds of things. Never looked back since. To be completely honest, it’s not even something I really think about in adulthood. Never understood the hype.”

“Sooo, I’ll take that as a no.”

“No,” he breathes. “Never kissed anyone.”

Never kissed anyone? Never felt a person’s soft lips against his own or graze his skin? Does that mean he hasn’t gotten to experience more than kissing? Licking? Biting? Or…

Do not finish that thought…

“Huh… Well, that’s a shame,” you say without thinking, quickly adding “-but at the same time, I completely understand it too! I mean, it shows a lot of self discipline, you know? To resist that kind of… temptation. Most people don’t have any reason to be disciplined enough to stay chaste. I can admire tha-"

“I said I’ve never kissed anyone, I didn’t say I never fucked.”

Thank… the Maker… you’re not face to face. Because the way your eyes bulged just now would’ve been downright embarrassing had it been caught. He didn’t just say sex or even screwing. The Mandalorian fucks. The alcohol in your blood seems to conjure a brief glimpse of what that might look like before you find enough coherence to shew it away.

“…oh,” you breathe out, effectively stopping your rambling. “I-I guess I just assumed…”

A deep exhale blows out of his nose. He hums, seemingly entertained by the foot you’ve put in your mouth. But also making the air light between you.

“Well, you assumed wrong.”

The humor in his voice settles your nerves a bit. Thankfully there isn’t an awkward air at the sudden change to such a topic despite hardly knowing each other. And oddly enough, it feels easy to talk about it for that very reason.

“You’re rather chatty when you drink, Mandalorian. I feel like I’m learning all sorts of things about you tonight.”

“You’re right,” he breathes. “I spoke without thinking, I apologize.”

“No, It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It’s a relief to know there’s a man under all that armor and not solid metal.”

He hums again and the noise stirs something in your chest.

“Well, even so… It’s late… Probably best if I stop drinking.”

You look into your empty cup. Then glance over to the bottle with barely a drop left inside. Something inside you wilts. There’s nothing to keep him here any longer…

“Yeah… Me too.”

You’re not sure if you wait for him to move first or if he’s waiting for you. But both of you remain still for nearly a whole minute. Silent and hesitant to end the night. As comfortable as it is, you feel Mando’s back lean away from yours and you miss the warmth. You turn on the floor to find him standing up as he adjusts his helmet clasp and places his empty cup on the table.

“You were right. It tasted better shared,” he admits. A satisfied smile curls your lips.

“If you learned anything about me tonight, Mando, it’s that I am always right when it comes to liquor.”

“I appreciate the hospitality.”

“I appreciate the company.”

You place a hand on the table as an anchor in an attempt to stand up and follow him to the door. But as you try to stand straight, the room spins and your knees buckle.

Nope. Not doing that.

You sit your ass right back down on that cushion before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. Quick to respond, Mando catches your free arm. Making sure you land back down safely.

“You ok,” he asks, concerned but with a hint of humor.

“Pfft. Yeah, I’m good. I think I’ll just stay down here for a minute,” you chuckle, running a hand through your hair and closing your eyes for a moment.

For sure you’ll have a hangover tomorrow. Shit. You work tomorrow. There’s a couple things you’re running low on, too. You’ll have to request an order through the trading guild. That’ll cost credits. Maybe if you get that Chiss man again you can manage a trade and he can throw in those dried flower buds for that tea that keeps getting sold out.

You know you’re already a bit dizzy. But behind closed eyes you feel like your head is swaying. Or rather… that it’s being moved. Something warm and firm holds your jaw up and when your eyes flutter open again you’re met face to face with dark silver.

The Mandalorian stands barely a foot in front of you. Visor fixed down on your face. Maybe the wine has made your brain slow but it’s only when you follow the path from his shoulder and down his outstretched arm that you realize what’s holding your jaw… is his hand.

With a subtle pass of his thumb along your cheek you can feel warmth starting to pool in your face. Awareness pricks the hairs on the back of your neck when you realize your position. Sitting on your knees, face barely level to his waist as a wall of steel and muscle towers over you.

“Your cheeks get flushed when you drink,” he mutters.

When I drink. Suuuure.

“Now you know,” you mumble without thinking. It grants you a satisfied hum from his helmet and you feel it travel through your ears and under your skin.

“Now I know…,” he repeats.

There’s no movement, no words. But there’s something thick in the air. It’s heavy and enticing. It’d be so easy to get wrapped up in it with any sudden movement. You look up at him through half lidded eyes and you get a gut feeling that they’re meeting his. You’re not sure what his are giving away. But yours have to be hinting something you’ve been trying to hide all night.

With a sharp intake of air, Mando steps back and releases your face. Your head drops a little at the loss of support and it follows his direction as he walks towards the front door with quick, heavy steps. With a press of a button on the wall panel, the door panels slide open and just before he steps outside… he stops. Not looking back, just standing there at the edge of your home with his stand still resting on the doorway.

“Don’t invite me in again.”

And then he’s gone. The door panels shut swiftly, leaving you alone and more confused than when he showed up at your door.

…what?

•

Din wishes he could say that the first thing he thinks about when he got home that night was his sleeping kid safe in the crib. Or at the very least about how incredible that wine tasted. But after he undressed and collapsed down onto his bed half drunk, the only thought he couldn’t stop thinking about as he stared at the ceiling was…

Damn… it’s been a while.

For the past few years, Din’s life has flipped around a number of times. Between barely scraping by as a bounty hunter, saving an orphan kid from an imperial psychopath, losing said kid, then having him return and be by his side to reclaim the Mandalorian home-world, there’s not much time to indulge those kinds of needs. But just because Din found himself being a busy father later in life doesn’t make certain things dead.

No. Everything felt very much alive and kicking by the end of that bottle.

Behind closed eyes, his room feels like it swirls. After that wine, his body feels loose and relaxed. Something he rarely gets to experience these days. Images dance across his closed lids. Delicate, slender hands around a handmade cup. A pink flush on smooth skin. Plump tinted lips between his fingers, softly parted and begging to be touched. The intrusive impulse to dip a finger between those lips was so strong he could feel his hand move into the action before he could even think to do so.

All thanks to that one question. That simple, innocent question activated a deep part of his brain that lay dormant. And then he decided to shatter the care free atmosphere by with a crass remark about sex.

Never in his life has he regretted saying something so fast. You barely even know each other. Admittedly, Din isn’t exactly a refined person, far from it actually. But after his third glass, any semblance of manners flew right out the window. His mouth did the walking with little thinking involved.

Yet, you didn’t get uncomfortable. You handled the slip up with humor instead of getting offended or something just as bad. Using humor to make the air light again. It surprised him how easily you did it. How easy the conversation was all night, really. It’s not everyday he’s able to let his guard down with another person.

Once he was aware of that, he became aware of everything. How late the hour was, how drunk you both were, and how your bed was right behind where you both sat. Only separated by a simple room divider. Even when he tipped up his helmet, there was a heady herbal scent from you that kept swimming in his nose and it was just as intoxicating as the wine. He couldn’t trust himself to stay any longer. And now, in the safety of his own home, he finds himself preoccupied with a mountain of questions.

What kind of person are you? What’s your daily life like? What other places have you seen? What troubles you? You seem to be rooted here in Nevarro for the time being. But from what you’ve mentioned about your past, you have a kind of nomadic life. What happens if he… if the kid gets attached and you decide to move on to another planet? But then again, it’s not like he’s not one to talk though is he?

Loyalty. Solidarity. These are things that have been etched to his core since childhood. But giving those things to something that could be fleeting? That’s a risk he’s avoided for most of his life. Those kinds of wounds never heal.

But as much as he tries to distance himself, it’s not always in his control.

Three weeks go by and they couldn’t end soon enough. When he offered to work with Teva (or Blue as he usually calls him) on a case-by-case basis, he figured they’d be more involved than the bounty hunting trade. He’s spent up to a month off planet at times in order to capture a quarry so it’s not exactly new to him.

But that was when he had the Razor Crest. With a cot to rest in, a weapons locker, and supplies readily at hand. In that regard, the N-1 leaves much to be desired. Plus Din’s back isn’t what it used to be and long rides in that ship are killer. And to add insult to injury, this last case with Zeb was especially complicated to resolve. It left him and the kid completely drained.

After finally landing back in Nevarro with fresh credits, there is absolutely nothing Din wants more than to just go home, bathe, and sleep for at least a day. But he’s got a very hungry green mouth to feed and there’s no way Din is fixing up any dinner tonight.

Street food it is.

“Alright, we’re making this quick. In and out. I’ll get you as much food as you want and you can pick out one sweet. Not five. One. Got that?” Grogu tilts his head at Din curiously from where he follows behind on the cobblestone street and he’ll just take that as a yes.

Dozens of food stalls are gathered at the main square in town as he approaches. Adorned with all sorts of neon signs, string lights and colorful banners. It’s a busy atmosphere filled with people laughing, vendors calling out for customers to stop by, and sounds of clanking and sizzling as they cook.

Din gravitates towards the skewers stand. He knows Grogu is going to down ten of them by himself so he opts for something easy, filling, and cheap. He catches sight of those spicy chunks of fatty meat searing over lava coals and his mouth waters.

“Okay, which onesss-“

Din reaches down to pick up his son only to find the street bricks.

“-Sssshhhhit,” he hisses under his breath, glancing around. This fucking kid. He knows better than to run off.

The crowd is thick and it’s getting dark. He scans through the sea of people and vendors but doesn’t find that familiar pale green.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

With a tap of his helmet side panel he switches to the tracking beacon screen. After enough scares like these he’s learned to have a tracker sewn into his clothes at this point.

Blinking red arrows come into his view and he follows the path. Not caring whose shoulders he budges or what food he knocks out of someone’s grip to get through. The red arrows turn yellow. He’s getting close but there’s still no visual of the kid and he’s starting to panic. He pushes through, scanning side to side and calling out his name in an orchestra of noises without reply.

Yellow turns to green and he’s still out of sight. He’s tiny and easy to miss. Grogu could be anywhere, he could be in any one of these stalls. What if he’s taken? What if someone else is tracking him? He could be picked up by a total stranger and taken away again.

Just as that thought crosses his mind, there’s a small separation in the crowd. Big floppy ears come into view and he’s definitely been picked up. But it’s no stranger that holds him.

“And here comes dad~” A voice soft as silk rings inside his helmet.

Relief floods his body as well as caution when he taps his screen clear. Only him. Situations like this only happen to him. It could’ve been Karga. It could’ve been anybody. But it had to be you that found him.

It was barely two minutes. But within those two minutes Din’s head flooded with every worst case scenario possible. And here he is. Happily babbling in your arms like he didn’t just give his dad a fucking heart attack.

“I know, I know,” you assure him like you can already tell where his head’s at, trying to speak over all the noise. “Don’t be too hard on the little guy. I already gave him a bit of a lecture for running around at night.”

Din wants to. It’s honestly his first reaction. But a cooler head prevails and he decides against it after a second thought. He reminds himself (once again) that Grogu is still young and that getting angry would only make things worse. What matters is that he’s safe and that he managed to find you.

“At least he won’t have to hear it twice,” he exhales, pushing out the stress sitting in his lungs. “Sorry about him.”

“No, no sorry needed. He’s smarter than he lets on. At least he ran to someone he knew. I’m glad I was around.”

Din opens his mouth to speak but ends up falling short with his words. Now that some of the stress has left his body, his eyes take you in at a second glance. Unclouded by the adrenaline.

Your hair is tied up with a pin with a few loose pieces falling at the nape of your neck and around your face. With the heat persisting into the night, you decided to wear a thin strap tank top that hangs low on your chest. It exposes miles of smooth skin, from your shoulders all the way down the arms wrapped around his kid. A dusty blue apron wraps around your waist over some baggy cargo pants so you must’ve came here right after work. There’s a glow from all the neon lights that adorns you and he has to will his mouth to move before he gets caught staring.

“Here.” He extends his hands to you. “I can take him back. Thank you for catching him. C’mon, bud. Let her get back to shopping.”

“It’s no problem,” you assure him with a smile. Your hands hooks under Grogus tiny arms and start to pull him off your torso. “Back to dad you go.”

But the moment he’s barely lifted, he cries out in protest with a shrill whine. Refusing to leave your side. You pull him back in instantly and run a soothing hand on his back.

“Oh! Okay, okay. You can stay with me for a minute,” you giggle in a sugary voice to Grogu. Bouncing him on your hip.

You both exchange a look of surprise (as much as his visor can give off anyway). What kind of person are you that Grogu prefers your embrace over his own father? He doesn’t know whether to be jealous or impressed.

But it’s getting late, they need to eat and get home and you probably need to get back to your own errands. Din’s hands extends again to take Grogu but you shake your head with a little smile. Letting him know it’s not an inconvenience to you.

“Here, wanna help me pick out some sweets?”

Grogu coos at your request, toying with the glittering silver chain pendant on your neck. You rest his kid on your hip effortlessly and the motion of it pinches something deep in Din’s chest. Turning to the assorted trays of sugared fruits on skewers, you list the various kinds for Grogu to pick out. Talking back with him like you can actually understand his little babbles. You answer him with “ooh, that’s a good choice” and “these are my favorites”. 

Din just stands aside, watching the way you both interact and it’s admittedly a bit pleasing to see how natural you are with him. Most people think he’s a pet at first glance. Karga treats him like a newborn. Talking gibberish and doting on him despite him handling a 50 year old. You, on the other hand, just treat him like a regular kid. And it’s refreshing to see.

His son’s head spins back at his father with the biggest set of sparkling inky eyes and Din can see the pleading question in them. He tilts his helmet at him and reminds him “one”. Those large ears deflate a little and you giggle at the interaction. Din offers to pay for your skewer along with Grogu’s as another thank you for looking after his son (again). The vendor gathers the treats in paper wrappers to take to go.

You turn to ask Din something, but it’s covered by the noise of yelling and cooking. He tilts his head a bit lower to try and catch what you’re saying. Then, without hesitation, your hand finds purchase on the pauldron on his shoulder. Prompting him to lean in closer to you so you can speak within earshot.

“It’s been a minute since I saw you last,” you remark with a raised voice. “Everything good?”

Shit.

For a second he freezes. Partly at the lack of distance between you, but mostly because the last time he saw you he stormed out of your place like it was on fire without so much as a goodnight. You’re probably wondering what the hell that was about and he honestly can’t answer that himself. Although your expression seems more cheerful than troubled. He crouches closer to your ears and replies with caution, hoping to avoid the direction of that conversation.

“Yeah, we’ve been um… traveling a lot lately. I get contracted by the new republic pretty often these days. Leaving him behind with someone whenever I’m off planet for too long doesn’t seem fair to him so he’s always by my side no matter what.”

“Ah, that makes sense. You usually stop by for medkit supplies so when I didn’t see you last week I figured you were away.”

Din mentally smacks his forehead. Right. Of course you meant the shop. Because what else would you be implying to a fucking customer? You’re just making small talk. Something he has never really gotten the hang of. Seems pretty damn easy when he’s drinking though…

“We actually just got back. Too tired to fix something up so I figured I’d grab us something quick and easy before heading home.”

“Ugh. I feel that. When I get home I’m crashing on the first soft surface I see,” you groan, still bouncing Grogu on the curve of your hip. Those hips…

No. Stop it.

“Busy day,” he asks and your eyes roll upwards.

“Busy week,” you exclaim. “I swear I think about quitting at least once a day. But I like it too much. Plus it’s the only thing I’m any good at. Otherwise I’d probably be some kind of criminal.” You pause then laugh at the thought before adding, “then you’d probably have to hunt me down, huh?”

That… is a scenario that he already knows is going to stick in his brain for a while. It’s such an enticing thought that he doesn’t bother to tell you he’s not in that business anymore. A tiny part of him would much rather have you think he’d chase you. Obviously you’re not serious, but he can’t help but lean into the joke.

“I don’t know,” he says unconvinced. “Might be pretty easy to find you. All I have to do is look wherever there’s street food.”

A laugh bubbles out of you and there’s a strange feeling that radiates in his chest at being able to make you laugh. Pride maybe? No, more like… satisfaction.

“Don’t underestimate me, Mando. I know my way around the outer rim. I’d make you work for it,” you say. Taunting him with a knowing smirk.

A smile tugs higher on his hidden face. The thought of you making him work for anything will no doubt be food for thought later. And instinct tells him that might’ve been your intention. But two can play at this game.

You’re already nearly face to face but he inches even closer, almost close enough for metal to meet skin. Ensuring you catch every word right into your ear.

“I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.”

Your eyes grow a little wider at the sound of your nickname and he takes pleasure at just how effective it is. It’s another reminder of that night. A name that was spoken within an intimate atmosphere that only the two of you occupied. And by your expression, that same thought crosses your mind too.

You bite your bottom lip in a smile. The same lips that were between his hands. The only lips he can’t seem to forget. The shape, the color, and how fucking edible they look. He’s even noticed how they pout a little when you’re concentrated on a task. More questions surface.

What do they feel like? What do they taste like? What makes a kiss so good that everyone can recall their first?

The bubble created is suddenly burst by the outside world. The stall vendor gleefully hands over the candied fruit over the counter in their wrappers and you take them with your free hand. Handing the mixed one to Grogu because he couldn’t decide on just one flavor. Reality returns to Din’s head and his thoughts immediately sober up.

What the hell is he doing?

He tears his eyes away. Even if you can’t tell, looking at you like that for too long feels wrong. You’re a good person, you’re trying to live a normal life, and what you’ve told him you’re not looking to get involved in any drama. He has to keep reminding himself of those things.

That same instinct to leave hits him again. Because that urge to do something he can’t take back flares up again and it’s best to not give that feeling any more energy. For both your sakes. He gestures his hand in a hand-him-over motion, signaling to you and Grogu that it’s time to go.

“Alright, time to go kid. Say goodnight.”

Grogu whines with a mouthful of sweets and a face covered in sugar and it makes him chuckle to himself. Din would normally find the defiance a little cute, if it wasn’t for the stunt he pulled earlier. You carefully hand him over with both arms leaning in close and again he feels another pinch in his chest at how carefully you exchange him.

Your bare arms graze against his clothed ones and he pulls away the second he has hold of his kid. He ignores the small current of electricity from the contact and maneuvers Grogu into the crossbody bag to his hip. Which, of course, makes him protest.

“Nope. You had your chance. Now you get the bag.”

“Aw c’mon,” you scold “He was just playing around. Now he’s in bag jail?”

First the kid and now you? He can tell his son no, but it might be a little harder to tell you that.

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about running off in a crowd,” he groans.

Once the kid is settled in the bag, you follow him down. Crouching down, you sit face to face with Grogu as he stuffs his face with the candied fruit. Resting your free hand on his fuzzy head as the other holds your own skewered treat.

“Kay, little rebel. Go stuff your face with some good food. And take it easy on your poor dad, alright? He’s not built for that kinda stress.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” he asks, kind of amused by your ribbing. He can count on one hand the people who are undaunted enough to make playful jabs at him.

Your lips twist and your eyes take a tour up to your brows as you think of your reply.

“Hmm… just the way you get a little impatient sometimes. You were like that when you brought him over and paced my living room for an hour,” you chuckle. “You seem like the kind of man who gets antsy when something’s not in your control.”

A smile threatens to crawl his face. Pretty presumptuous. But he can’t deny how true that statement rings. Especially nowadays when it’s not just himself he has to worry about.

“Maybe so,” he replies with a hint of humor in his voice. “Patience isn’t really my strong suit. Although this one seems to enjoy testing it.”

“Patience is bitter,” you muse as you rub the top of Grogu’s head with your thumb. He coos with delight and the softest gaze glows on your face. Then from your crouched position, your eyes glance back up at Din and add, “…But the fruit is sweet.”

His jaw flexes beneath his helmet, and heat now courses through his veins.

That can’t be a good sign. He already enjoys your banter too much as it is. But that look just now was dangerous. It dredges up thoughts he shouldn’t have about you. Thoughts like kissing someone he barely knows. Feeling skin on skin. Showing you what a man like him can do to you compared to the boys of your past.

He saw it all over your pretty face when he held it in his hand. That flush on your cheeks, your dilated pupils. Hell, he even saw your heat signature rising in his helmet screen for fuck sake. There’s an attraction and that’s fine (and not completely unreciprocated) but it can’t be anything more than that.

You and him live completely different lives. There’s no need to uproot your peace and get involved in his complicated affairs. Even if something happened, it wouldn’t be long before the allure of the suit and mystery people usually perceive of Mandalorians would turn into repulsion.

That’s how it’s gone before. That’s the way it is.

•

You’re a bad person. A horrible human being and a shameless lowlife. Downright beyond saving.

I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.

The damn sentence won’t stop replaying in your head. It’s not just a nickname. It’s a nickname he gave you. One that’s covered in underlying context and memories that only the two of you share. One that peppers your skin with goosebumps when it comes out of that raspy modulated voice. It’s even worse when your brain starts intrusively placing it in all sorts of sentences.

That’s it, Shop Girl…

You’re doing so well, Shop Girl…

Bend over for me, Shop Girl…

That last one has crawled into your dreams more often than you’d care to admit lately.

You need to get a grip. It’s just an attraction. You’ve been alone for too long and you’re getting all wound up over a smidge of attention. He’s just a regular decent person with a kid to take care of who also just happens to have an amazingly muscular body and a voice of sin. Simple as that.

Right. Simple.

After that night at the food stalls, the Mandalorian and Grogu have been visiting your humble Clinic Shop on a more frequently. Usually you'll see them a couple times a week if they're not on one of their long haul trips. Missions? Jobs?

It's not like Mando has any reason to let you know ahead of time. But when a week or so passes with no sign of silver or green, you can't help but feel a little down. You've come to look forward to seeing your regulars. But they grown to being your favorite customers.

And if you're being honest, theres a growing part of you that feels tied to the man in silver beskar. When he's here, the part blossoms. And when he's gone, it feels... wilted. It's unexpected and confusing to say the least. The closest feeling you could label it is homesickness. And truthfully, you're not really sure if you want to feel such a heavy thing towards anybody right now.

There's a lull in the store this hot muggy afternoon. You've already finished your prescription orders, restocked your shelves, even watered all the potted plants outside the entrance. Since you finally have some down time, you figured you might as well get to making some of your popular tea mixes.

On the back counter, you have a variety of dried herbs, flower buds, tea leaves, and a few large mixing bowls. The scent in the shop is incredible right now. Swirling around on the wind propelled by the metal fans around the shop. Spiced and aromatic with a hint of fruitiness. You let the smell fill your lungs and relax your body as you place measured scoops of the mix into small paper bags. A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck. Even with pinning your hair up and the strapless wrap you chose to wear today, the heat of the day still clings to your damp skin.

A cool glass of that Andoan wine would be so good right about now...

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe there really is some kind of invisible tie. But something makes your head tilt to the side and glance at the open entrance. And it's then that a glint of sliver light reflects on the stucco walls. A flutter of anticipation strikes through your chest and your eyes are locked at the entrance. Then, that familiar Silver T-visor and a pair of floppy green ears peek around the corner.

The smile that spreads across your cheeks is so big it almost hurts.

"Hey," you exclaim from the back of the store. You leave your station and excitedly make your way across the store to the pair as they step inside.

“It’s been a whi-“

“Ah ah, sorry," you cut Mando off mid greeting, halting him with your pointer finger. "Grogu gets first dibs.”

Mando shakes his head but you can tell he's humored. Turning his hip to the side and giving you access to the canvas crossbody where Grogu resides.

“Even though I'm a regular customer," Mando retorts.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that sounded a teensy bit like jealousy. You smirk, giving eyes only to the little green baby.

“Not when you’re as cute as him.” You say, placing Grogu on your hip and giving him little scritches on his wrinkled head.

“Isn’t that right, Kid. Mando wishes he could be half as cute as you.” The child coos at you and Mando shakes his head. But you can tell by his body language that he's at least a little amused.

You walk back to the back counter with the kid in your arms and Mando in tow behind you. And the feeling you have in this moment is oddly... domestic? You're not entirely sure if that's the right word. In your life you've never experienced domesticity. But you figure it's similar to that homesick feeling you get.

You place Grogu on top of your station and pull out an herbal lollipop from your apron for him. You like to keep a few handy for kids and they also help with coughs. The kids inky eyes gleam as he babbles and plunges the sugary candy in his mouth. 

"Any chance that delivery for those new Pharmakits arrived yet," Mando asks, leaning a hand on the counter next to you.

"They did," you nod. "Any chance you're planning on taking on an army on your next trip?"

He shrugs, tilting his helmet to the side in that way he does when he's being aloof.

"Doesn't hurt to keep one on hand. You never know."

You hum in acknowledgment but inside a pit forms in your stomach. The danger he faces whenever he goes on these "jobs" isn't lost on you. Lately, it's been on the back of your mind more often than not. On his last visit, when he asked about ordering stronger meds and triage supplies, it hit you just how much his long absences affect you. And just the thought of never seeing him or his little boy again stirs up something vile inside.

“You seem to be busy today,” he remarks, pointing out all the open jars and mixing bowls with various dried leaves and herbs.

His remark takes you out of your thoughts. You must've been silent a second too long for him to change the subject like that. With a deep inhale and slight embarrassment you shrug off the negative thoughts and ground yourself back to reality.

“Yes and no. I’ve been restocking while it’s dead to keep busy.”

He leans in a bit to get a closer look at the contents of the bowl. Close enough for you to catch the scent of smoke and musk on his clothes.

“You’re mixing… tea?”

You hum a yes and nod.

“Tea can be used for lots of medicinal purposes. Many people prefer natural remedies to pharmaceutical ones. I try to have a mix of both.”

“So this is medicine?” You sway your head to the side, trying to think of the best way to explain the purpose of the tea.

“Kiiind of. You could say it’s preventative.”

“What does it prevent?”

“Pregnancy.”

A clearing of his throat follows your answer. You turn toward him with a smirk and a raised brow but his visor has now turned away your face.

Most fearsome bounty hunter in the outer rim, everybody.

“You asked, man,” you chuckle with a shrug.

“Guess that’s on me,” he says.

“This is actually one of my best sellers,” you tell him. You grab the wooden scoop and raise up the floral mix, letting the various petals and herbs rain back down into the bowl. The motion makes the sweet scent drive up in the air. “I have customers tell me they don’t leave the house before their daily brew.”

“I’m glad business is going well for you,” he deflects, making you fold your smile in your teeth. And suddenly your brain sees a prime opportunity.

“You know, Mando…,” you drawl as you mix the petals. “If you’re ever in a pinch and you need some, I could give you a sample.” The way his helmet jerks to face you almost breaks your nonchalant smile.

“That’s um… very generous but it’d be wasted on me.” His body straightens stiffly and you can tell the topic makes him a bit uneasy. But you press on anyway.

“You sure? You can never be too safe. I’m sure any visitors would appreciate it.” He sighs deeply and turns away, shaking his head in annoyance.

God, this is too much fun. Teasing him is so easy. If it wasn’t for the helmet you bet he’s sweating right now. He might look cool and collected. But after drinking with him, you know there’s in fact a man under all that metal.

“I’m sure,” Mando confirms. “I'm not seeing anyone at the moment.”

And there’s the answer you’re looking for.

Was it a bit sneaky? Yeah. Yeah, it was sneaky. But it rules out the theory that reason he told you not to invite home again was because he’s currently taken. It’s still an enigma as to why. But honestly there’s still the gut feeling that you did something to make him uncomfortable that night.

Maybe you crossed a line with one of your questions. You tend to ask a lot of questions. Your filter also isn’t everybody’s flavor. Even so, you had a great time talking, even joking around with him. You’ve come to cherish that night in your memory. And the thought that you obliviously might’ve said something to offend Mando in any way makes your chest ache.

But if that was the case then why has he been stopping by your store more frequently since then? He always says he’s restocking his med kit but you get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Almost as if he’s checking up on you. Making sure you’re doing ok. And above all, that’s what scares you.

It’s scares you how good that thought makes you feel.

“Picking up an order!” An unfriendly voice bellows from the entrance where a Trandoshan man in fine robes stands waiting. “Name’s Samir T’ar.”

It takes a second to snap back into action. But you slap on your best customer service smile and leave your task for later. Rounding the corner past Mando and the kid and walking to the Medicine Cabinet. Wiping the non-existent dust on your hands on your waist apron.

“Hi, yes! I’ll grab that for you right now.”

The Trandoshan stands waiting at the counter as you sort through the assorted orders in the glass case. Looking for the right name tag and plucking the tied linen bag. You dont turn your eyes toward him, but Mando’s pressance is all your body is aware of. You can tell he’s miandering through the shop, looking at various items on the shelves. Which, to you, is a bit funny since hes been here plenty of times by now.

Is he playing the curious customer right now because there’s someone here?

You rest the tied bag next to the register as you run the total. All while the Trandoshan taps his clawed fingers impatiently on the check out counter.

“‘Kay with the compounded medicine and the herbal soak salts, that puts you at… fifteen credits today.”

“It was twelve the last time.”

“Yyyeesss, some of the ingredients for the meds were hard to come by this time around. Outer rim shipping routes, and all that,” you smile, trying to humorously reason with the man.

“And that’s supposed to be my fault? Just make it the same price as before and I’ll be on my way already.”

Ugh, great. One of those.

“I understand where you’re coming from, really. But fifteen is pretty fair considering the initial cost of acquiring ingredients of this high quality. Can’t beat the price compared to those New Republic clinics-"

“Nonononono," he waves with both hands in disapproval. “I’m not paying a single credit more for something I can make myself.”

That’s kind of the point of it buying here, right? To save yourself the trouble of making it?

“Sorry. Price is firm," you say confidently but kindly. "Buuut, how about if I throw in a couple sample heating pain patches. Free of charge,” you chirp, unfazed by his condescension.

Work with me, guy. There’s a man packing heat in the back…

“How about I give you ten for the order and leave? I don’t need you to peddle your-“

It’s a hand that shuts him up. Not yours, as much as it twitches to swipe that bag and toss in it the trash. No. This hand is big. Leather clad. And planted firmly on the counter between you and the customer.

“You can pay the fifteen or you can leave. But what you won’t do,” Mando leans in towards the Trandoshan for effect. “-is talk to her like that again. Make your choice.”

With his chest pressed to the back of your shoulder, you struggle to not squirm. You can feel his heat on your body. His frame eclipses yours from behind. The smell of gun smoke and musk caresses your nose and you die a little inside. But it’s his words that make you want to melt into a puddle.

He didn’t just ask, he demanded for you to be treated with respect. Not that you can’t hold your own when it comes to defending yourself against snarky customers. But the way Mando didn’t even hesitate to intervene on your behalf. It stirs up all sorts of thoughts.

Oh maker, you really are a shitty person. The man stands up for you and all you can think about is how hot he sounded.

The Trandoshan swallows hard. Mando might as well a knife to the guy’s throat with the look of silent terror on his reptilian face. Without even breaking eye contact with Mando, he stuffs his clawed hand in his pockets, and pulls about 20 credit chips without counting. Letting them clatter on the counter as he tosses them.

“H-here,” he stutters. “Fifteen is fair.” With that he snatches his order from the countertop and makes a hasty exit.

“Have a nice day~,” you sing-song as he scurries out onto the street.

You shift your eyes up to Mando, his palm still pressed flat against the counter with his other hand thumbing his belt. His visor follows the customer as he leaves and you can tell that his body language doesn’t relax until the he’s completely out of sight.

“Fucker…,” he mutters under his breath. When he finally turns his visor to you, he finds a knowing little smirk on your face.

“What?”

“You know, if you really wanted to scare him, you could’ve just pulled out your blaster.”

His visor turns away and he takes a step back as if he’s been caught doing something out of character. And if it wasn’t for his confident stance, you’d almost say he got a little flustered just now.

“I didn’t like the way he spoke you,” he grumbles. Which only makes you giggle.

“You’re right,” you agree with a serious tone. Slamming your palms on the counter. “That’s the last straw! I’ll have to close and resort to a life of crime after all!”

Although you can’t read his face, his body language says it all. He tilts his head to the side in a way that can only mean “are you fucking kidding me” and it only makes you smile harder.

“C’mooon, it’s funny,” you say. But he’s still not charmed.

“Does he always treat you like that,” he asks like he needs to know for certain.

You fold your lips between your teeth to hide your smile. He’s concerned for you and you can’t help but bathe in it. At least for a little bit.

“And if I said yes?”

“I’m being serious.”

“It’s fine, Mando. It’s really not a big deal for me. Look, if I let every snippy customer get to me, I wouldn’t have a business. I’m a big girl. I can fight for my honor all on my own, don’t you worry.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yeah? What is your point then?”

He steps in closer. Forcing you crane your neck to face him. Your backside unconsciously presses against the back of the counter and you’re pinned. He’s impossibly close. Close enough to see your eyes reflected on the inky black screen. Knowing he’s captured your full attention, he hits you with a bombshell that devastates you.

“I wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you when I can do something about it,” he says crystal clear, lowering  his voice. “If someone gives you trouble, they’ll deal with me before they mess with you... Understand?”

That shuts you right up. Your playful expression falls, now replaced with silent astonishment. He keeps saying things that reach deep inside you, making your chest tight. Words like that make it hard to breathe.

You feel utterly captured and it’s no wonder he was the best hunter in the outer rim. Because even though he’ll defend your honor and call you sweet nicknames… all he has to do is stand his ground in front of you to make you feel like prey. And fuck, do you wanna be caught…

“Ok,” you breathe when you find the courage. “I understand now.”

“Good…”

Silence streches between you and it feels as though you’re both waiting for something to happen. Something that feels like it’s been teetering on the edge since the night you drank together. It’s connected and deep in a way you’ve never experienced before. You can tell it’s something he’s afraid to say out loud.

What you’re both afraid to say out loud.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t add anything to his statement. He’s got you locked in his gaze with no escape. And for a moment you wonder if he’ll take hold of your jaw again. Goosebumps rise to your skin because it wants so badly to close the gap.

Suddenly, a call rings from the vambrace on Mando’s forearm, abruptly breaking the tension. At first he hesitates to address it, still locked onto you. But after the second ring he lets out an aggravated sigh and steps away to check the incoming call.

You walk back to your work table and mixing bowl of tea to give yourself something to do while your breathing returns to normal. Scooping a measured cup from a large jar of dried leaves before adding it in.

Grogu sits with his little feet dangling over the table, now finished with the lollipop and looking at the candy-less stick with droopy ears. And before Mando turns to look, you sneak his son another herbal lollipop from your apron.

"Don't tell your dad," you whisper, pressing your index finger over your lips. Which earns you a happy little "Batu" in understanding.

Mando is pacing around now. Conversing with a gruff sounding Lasat. You don’t eavesdrop per se, but words like “new lead”, “investigation”, and “high-risk” get your ears to perk up.

“Shit,” he sighs deeply once the call is done. Planting his hands on his hips.

“Work call?”

“They like to keep me busy, that’s for sure. Best not keep them waiting.”

“R-right! The pharmakits."

You walk towards side of your shop in the back closet where your new inventory sits in their delivery crates. Grabbing one case but then after a second thought grabbing another before turning back and handing them to Mando. When you return Grogu is already back in his father's tote still nursing his treat.

“Couple things," you disclaim, handing the cases to him. "Keep these in a dark cool place if you can. Heat can spoil some of the medicine. And if you ever find yourself needing the epibacta, I’d advise you to take in a safe place. This dose will knock you out cold for a while. Emergencies only.”

He takes the cases by the handles and gives you a nod of understanding.

“I appreciate it. I’ll try to avoid needing it.”

“Just… be safe.”

“I will…”

Another beat of silence. At this point it's starting to feel like you're waiting on the other person to break the ice. But after a moment, he clears his throat.

“Well... Until next time, Shop Girl.”

“Until next time,” you repeat.

He really should stop calling you that. But you just can’t bring yourself to stop him. What do even tell him if he asks why?

You turn to the holopad on the front counter and check the inventory list to give your hands something to do. Chewing your bottom lip as walks towards the exit. One step, then another…

“And thank you,” you quickly add before he steps out. His foot stalls just before reaching the street and you tap on the screen pretending not to notice. Your eyes glance up to him, catching his helmet peer at you over his shoulder “…for stepping in.”

“Anytime,” he says softly. He step out into the street and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You lean on the counter with your chin propped in your palm, now free to watch them go without notice.

Grogu turns back to look at you one last time, his tiny arm fighting against the fabric of his bag before popping out and waving at you. The adorable gesture makes you giggle. The little guy must know exactly how stinking cute he is. You wiggle your fingers back at him from behind the counter. Mando takes notice of his kid, turns his head back, and finds your gaze.

For a moment, everything’s frozen. People cross and mix in the street between you. Life seemingly goes on like any other day for everyone in town. But in your eyes, there’s only him. Only bright silver fills your vision. After a moment, Mando raises a hand for a final farewell, and in the next, he’s gone. Blended into the crowd.

An ache spreads in your chest, and that confirms it. You can’t deny that what you’ve been pushing down for months isn’t just an attraction. Strangers can be attracted to each other but he feels like anything but.

You like him. You like how you feel when he’s around and how safe his presence feels. You like that little skipped beat you get when something you said earns even the smallest chuckle from him. You like that he trusts you around his kid.

And you love that he keeps coming back.

You’ve tried to rationalize as just a simple customer acquaintance. But you can’t keep kidding yourself. Its always felt more than that. And you want to know more about him.

At the end of the day, you roll down the metal doors of your humble apothecary and walk the same 15 steps up to your home as you do everyday. You bathe, put on your most comfy shirt and sleep shorts, make yourself a simple meal, and wind down for the night. It’s been your routine everyday since you made this place your home.

Only tonight, despite all your trinkets, all your memories, and all your comforts, tonight your home feels a bit empty. Like something important has been removed and you can’t place what it was. With your dinner bowl in hand, you almost take your seat on the couch before thinking twice on it and choosing the floor of your living room instead tonight.

You actually find it to be pretty comfortable. More grounding. You only wish you had something warm to lean back on.

•

Din thought Guild Master Greef Karga had an inflated ego. But High Magistrate Greef Karga makes that Karga look like a Jedi monk.

He finds himself sitting on a leather chase with his legs propped on the window ledge in Karga’s high tower office. He watches him spread and maneuver a 3D hologram model of Nevarro and the town. His voice filled with ambition as he explains all his new projects for the upcoming year.

“We’ll put the lodges here, here, and here. They’ll have access to the hot springs in the crawling canyons and docks will be built around the water edges. I’ve spoken with that lovely Twi’lek bathhouse owner and she’s spending her best architects to Nevarro as a personal favor to me. It’s going to be the jewel of the rim I tell you!”

Much of the dialog goes over Dins head. Mostly because he’s dead tired and currently operating on less than four hours of sleep. They only landed a couple hours ago from another grueling mission. He partly listens to Karga’s plans, partly watches Grogu quietly sit on the hologram table as he stuffs his mouth with blue cookies his “uncle” has given him. But mostly, Din gazes out one of the many windows in his 360 degree office. Watching the sun set over the canyons and turn the sky a dusty pink.

The shiny bronze protocol droid shuffles around the office with a silver tray with two crystal glasses of spotchka. He offers a glowing glass to Karga who gladly takes it. Then the droid starts to approach Din with the platter, offering him a glass as well.

“Uh no no, he doesn’t drink,” Karga quickly corrects, taking a momentary pause from his plans. The shiny droid fumbles a bit, flustered, then offers an apology before scuttling away with the tray.

Mando doesn’t even bother to correct them. Too much energy. It’s true, he’s never accepted alcohol in front of Karga. Especially in those early guild days when trust was low. But even to this day, Din doesn’t drink around people.

Well… most people, that is.

An image of last time Din saw you pops into his head. That thick, slightly mussed hair tied up with a hair stick. Dewy skin. All smiles and laughter. You wore a deep blue torso wrap that time, His eyes kept following the lines of your collar bones and all that exposed skin seemed to glow in the reflected sunlight in the shop.

And those lips. Those goddamn pink tinted lips that he can’t get out of his head. If that’s not the definition of beauty he doesn’t know what is.

Your teasing is something he’s growing used to. But that day you pushed too far. You weren’t taking him seriously and you shouldn’t be the only one who gets to tease, right? When he cornered you against the counter, he made it known just how serious he was about defending you. That flush came back to your cheeks and your breathing had picked up. You had no idea, but your eyes had found his and it made heat pool in his lower abdomen as he got lost in the color of them.

In that moment, Din wrestled back the impulse to lift you up on that countertop, spread those perfect legs and-

“-Right, Mando?” Karga’s voice interrupts just as that train of thought was getting good. Din turns his visor over to him.

“Hmm?”

“You just agreed to let the kid spend the night here.”

“Right. Yeah,” Din scoffs. “Was that before or after I sold my ship to the Jawas,” he replies in a gruff tone. Karga doesn’t find the sarcasm amusing.

“Alright, alright.”

“Maybe I’ll sell them my armor while I’m at it.”

“I get it,” he exclaims. “You weren’t even listening! I was talking about the space port proposal and I can’t even tell where you clocked out. That's not like you, Mando.”

“I’m tired. I just got back from a long trip.” Kargas eyes glance between Din and the window he's been looking out from.

“I wouldn’t say tired. More like… Distracted.”

He says the word with an insinuation Din would rather do without.

“It’s nothing,” he deflects.

“Hey, you know me, Mando. I’m not one to judge,” Karga says, throwing his hands in the air. “If there’s anything on your mind I’m all ears. Money, politics, work, women-“

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m fine," Din deadpans.

Kargas covers Grogus ears, who is too preoccupied by his munching to mind.

“Sounds like you need to get laid.”

Maker...

“You’re sordid,” he grumbles, shaking his head and turning back to the window. Karga just laughs. Amusement written all over his wrinkled face.

The arguments were one of the main things that changed between them over the last few years. Now they bicker like two old friends instead of two business associates. But one thing that has never changed is the way Karga tries to pressure him into revealing things out of him. Imperfectly human things.

He’d offer Din all sorts of things like spice or Twi’lek bathhouses just to see if he was capable of being tempted. And right now… there’s only one other person Din can think of capable of doing that.

“You know what I think? I think you’re starting to outgrow this lone wolf lifestyle of yours,” he speculates. “You’re a father now. Don’t you think the little one needs a mother?”

Dins helmet swivels back to Karga.

“Don’t you think you should stick to governing your town?”

“I was just getting to that," Karga exclaims excitedly. "You know we really should consider moving a few of the-“

“Here we go…,” Din sighs to himself.

What should’ve been a quick visit has turned into a one sided yap session. It’s been a couple weeks since he left and he’s eager to re-supply for his next run with Zeb. He’ll need to head to the square at some point as well. His home is in desperate need of a re-stock. And of course, a visit to the clinic probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if he’s already in the area.

Even from up here, your store can be seen at the far corner of the plaza. And every couple minutes, he can see you. Popping in and out of the small store and rearranging some of the potted plants outside. People greet you from the street and you turn to wave back.

It’s getting harder and harder to find excuses to go there that sound necessary. Last time he was there he picked up two new pharmakits, even though another two regular medkits sit unopened in his home. He’s been buying that energy tea you make, despite him being a kaf drinker his whole life. He keeps going back for shit he really doesn’t need. But if he was pressed to give a better reason, it’s mostly because he feels a need to check on you.

True, Nevarro has become significantly safer, but that doesn’t make it safe. Especially for a woman living completely on her own. You’re a kind hearted, giving person in a galaxy that does nothing but take. And someone like that should be protected. He’s looked the other way too many times in the past and he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. And plus the kid enjoys the visits.

Sure, the kid. Keep telling yourself that, Din…

A chiss man with a floating pallet of goods approaches your shop entrance and your attention turns from watering the plants to greet the vendor with a bright smile. You speak animately. And it would normally be endearing, if it wasn't directed towards another man. In the privacy of his helmet, Din grimmaces.

He shouldn’t be surprised. You’re well traveled, knowledgeable. It’s no wonder you’re able to buy products from so many places. But this particular vendor is getting a bit too close for Din’s comfort.

As usual, you talk with much enthusiasm. Sparking a conversation with the man. It’s clear you’re familiar with each other by the body language you both give off. And he’s not sure if it’s because you regularly get inventory from the man, or something beyond that.

You turn around on the balls of your feet to dip back inside the shop and as you do you’re completely oblivious to the way the Chiss’s head tilts to the side so his crimson eyes can roam your backside. And the only reason Din caught it was because the binocs in his visor seem to have unconsciously been turned on by his finger on his vambrace.

You return to with a small wooded box and open the lid to show him mineral salts, the kind he’s seen you make herbal soaks with. The vendor offers a large lidded glass jar of some kind of dried purple flower buds from his cart. With the added exchange of some credit chips, there’s more talking and smiling. Something he said makes you laugh as you sign his holopad and Din has to flex his fingers to stop them from clenching into a fist.

Enough. Stop watching.

The mental check forces Dins attention to shift back to whatever Karga keeps droning on about. You can associate with whoever you damn well please. It’s none of his concern who you do business with or what your personal life is like. Din nearly turns his visor away. But out of the furthest corner of his eye, he catches something he can’t tear away from.

The distance between the Chiss and you has suddenly shrunk. The moment unfolds in slow motion as his eyes chew on every second. The Chiss steps closer to lean down then…

Din’s arms uncross when the Chiss leans in close to your face. And before he knows it, the fucker plants a quick peck on your cheek. And you return it! The whole exchange lasts less than a second before you wave each other goodbye and he goes his separate way. You return inside with the product like nothing and Din sits there, completely rattled.

What… the fuck?

Was it a casual kiss? Did you even know that he was checking you out? If you did, was that a friendly goodbye gesture or was it flirtatious? That son of a bitch gets to walk around with bliss on his cheek all day now. Oddly enough, that’s what puts Din over the edge. A complete fucking stranger knows how your lips feel and he doesn’t.

Never in his life has he harbored thoughts like these. It’s downright pathetic. He feels corrupted.

“Fuck it,” he growls to himself beneath his breath.

“-Anyway, back to my point. I was considering having a port built for- hey!”

Before Karga has a chance to monologue further, Din has picked up his son from the edge of the desk—grubby hands still clinging to the bag of cookies—and has placed him right into Karga arms.

“I need you to watch over him for the night. I’ll come back for him in the morning.”

“Okay then? Fine by-.” Din doesn’t bother to listen because there’s no ending to that sentence that matters to him in this moment. He makes his exit, the slide doors opening as he nears them.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going all puffed up like that?”

“I need to settle something,” he tosses back before letting the doors shut behind him.

The sun is getting low and a few other vendors are starting to take down their signs and close their doors. You’re probably getting ready to close up for the day yourself. Hopefully he’s able to catch you before then.

Each step on the cobblestone is heavy with purpose. And it's not unoticed the way several people on the street see an armor clad Mandalorian and scurry out of his way with a petrified look on their faces. But right now he doesn't particularly care. Right now everything in his head is clouded with the exception of one objective.

From a couple stores away, you catch him approaching from your peripheray. And he's not sure how to describe it, but it's like something in your body language softens when you see him. Your shoulders become less tense, your eyes gleam, and you cast him that bright toothy smile that could stop any man's heart.

“Ah! Hey! It’s been a while, Mando! How’s-“

“I need to have a word with you.”

Both your expression and your hand freeze momentarily in place, minus a suspicious quirk in your brow.

“Okaaay, you have my attention,” you chuckle, but there’s a nervous tone riding on it. “What can I do for you today?

“I need to speak with you," you tells you bluntly. "Privately.”

Confusion paints across your face and your smile falls a bit. Understanding how serious his request is.

“Like, right now,” you ask hesitantly.

“Preferably, yes,” he answers.

“Ok, yeah sure. Um… I’m just about to close up and we can head upstairs in a minute.” You start to turn away but then quickly turn back to him and immediately add “or we can go somewhere you’re more comfort-“

”It’s fine,” Din quickly interjects, stopping that train of thought. “This won’t take long anyway.”

You blink at him a couple times and give him a quiet “ok then” before turning around and preparing your shop to close.

Seems that Din’s command from his last visit was taken seriously. Regret over those words washes over him. If he’s being honest, being inside your home again sets off several red lights in his head. But he’s already on the verge of blurting out something teetering on the edge of his brain. Better to wait until he’s behind closed doors and away from any prying eyes. Or flirtatious vendors. This shouldn’t be complicated. He’ll make it quick.

He decides to wait around the corner of the shop where the stone steps meet your front door. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed and his finger nervously tapping his arm brace. After a few minutes you round the corner with your bag over your shoulder and lead the way into your home. Instinctively, he looks around for any eyes before entering and closing the door behind him.

“So where’s your boy,” you ask, tossing your bag on the couch and walking towards the kitchen. “I have to say I’m kind of surprised not to see him on your hip. You seem inseparable.”

Your voice is chipper but he can tell by your stiff body and lack of eye contact that you’re not entirely comfortable. For a moment Din reconsiders this encounter. But no. The sooner he this bug out of his system the better.

“He’s… spending the night with a friend,” he answers. Grabbing one of those ceramic cups from the cabinet, you fill it with water from the sink and he’s starting to think that you’re only doing that to keep your hands busy.

“Aaww, a sleepover? Is it his first-”

“If you don’t mind,” he cuts off. “I’d like to get to my point.”

“Oh… Y-yes, I'm sorry. I’m rambling,” you say sheepishly. “I’m just…,” you take a deep breath, rest the cup of water on the counter, and lean back against it. Eyes fixed to the floor.

“…it’s just what you said the last time you were here. And the way you approached me earlier, you seemed kinda… I don’t know, upset? I know you don’t wanna be here so I’m wondering what I did to upset you that you’d come here.”

Damn it… He’s such an asshole.

He should’ve never said that. You've been thinking this entire time that you’re at fault for his shitty social skills. Truthfully, with the way that wine had his head so deliciously foggy, he had to leave before his body did something it was aching to do, begging him to do. But how does he even begin to explain that?

“You didn’t do anything,” he answers immediately. But thinks on it once more. “Well… technically you did. But I’m not upset with you.”

“You’re not,” you ask him sheepishly.

“I’m not,” he assures.

A beat passes in silence as you chew over his words.

“Okaaay,” you say with a smirk, “now you really got my attention.”

That mischievous tone travels through Din’s helmet, in his ears, and settles warmly in the pit of his stomach. Something about the combination of your sweet voice and relaxed shift in your body language makes this whole interaction even more nerve wracking.

“Sooo, you wanted to talk to me about something I did?”

“Right.”

“Okay, sooo...” He feels you urging him to continue but now Din finds himself more cautious of his words now. If you’ve been silently worried about offending him the last thing he needs is for this to come off wrong way.

“It’s… a bit hard to explain,” he exhales. If he could pinch his brow right now he would. “To put it plainly, the night we drank together, you said something that’s been… stuck in my head.”

“Was it the thing about the name?”

“N-no.”

“Was it the Pantora story?

“No.”

“Was it the comment about knowing my liquor? Because I like a drink from time to time but I don’t have like a problem or anything-“

“No- Can I finish,” he asks impatiently.

“Okay, okay. Sorry. Go ahead.”

“When we were drinking, and talking… we said a lot of things and got into some deep conversations. And at one point, you asked me if I ever kissed anyone before. I said no back then because… I've never given it any thought in the past. But now it’s got me… curious.”

Your quirk your brow at him.

“Curious how?”

“I want to know what it’s like,” he answers plainly.

“… Sorry, what?”

“I need this… curiosity out of my head. It’s driving me crazy and I need it out of my system. So I figured… since you’re the one who mentioned it in the first place, you can help me kill it.”

“You’re… Okay so, hold on…,” you say with a shaky breath. “Are you… asking me to kiss you?”

“That’s… an oversimplification. But yeah.”

“You’re asking me to be your first kiss? Am I understanding you right?”

Maker, you ask a lot of questions. Are you always like this? You did the same exact thing when he gave you the wine. On any other day it would’ve been endearing but he didn’t anticipate the conversation lasting longer than a minute. Now his request sounds more and more lecherous with each passing second.

“I won’t bother you again after this. You have my word. It’s completely casual. Just killing a curiosity.”

“There’s a preeetty common phrase about curiosity and loth cats that goes differently.” A giggle tumbles out of your mouth on the tail end of that sentence and humility crawls under his skin.

“Sorry to waste your time.” He starts to turn towards the nearest exit when you step in to stop him. Placing a hand briefly on his arm in the space between his armor and the contact sends a current of electricity up his spine.

“No wait, don’t be like that,” you toy with him.

“I’m not laughing,” he spits. But you still have the nerve to giggle.

“It’s okay, Mando,” you laugh assuredly.

“No, it’s not. It’s ridiculous. I hate it. I hate that you put this in my head.”

You fold your lips between your teeth to try to hide your amusement. But you still can’t help but crack a smile a little at his frustration. He basically just confessed to having this obsession for months and he can tell by your smug expression that you’re enjoying how incredibly uncomfortable he is about this.

“You’re right. I’m… sorry,” you say under your breath. Trying to fix your face.

There’s a beat of silence. Stepping in closer, he tilts his head down to you. Locking you in his gaze. He takes pleasure in being nearly a full head taller and the way your breathing picks up before he says in a low gruff voice…

“No, you’re not.”

You smile behind your hand as your eyes dance across his visor, unknowingly locking eyes with the man beneath. You know you’re not sorry, just like he knows he’s not particularly sorry either. It’s not just this moment. It goes back to every interaction you’ve had together. The banter, the nicknames, the visits. He’s as much to blame as you are. And then… you slowly you shake your head, agreeing with him and confirming his suspicion.

Fuck, you’re cute. He hates that he loves how cute you are. He hates himself for not being stronger.

“Ok,” you nearly whisper. Looking up at him with the sweetest eyes. “I’ll help you.”

•

“Is all this really necessary?”

Din currently sits on the floor of your living room. The same spot as last time in fact. Your were the one that insisted on it and honestly he couldn't bring himself to tell you no. Since he sat down in the soft carpet, you've been flitting around your home turning off lamps, closing blinds, and covering any reflective items. Which, admittedly, he's greatful for. But the more time he spends here, alone with you, the more he's not going to want to leave.

“It’s not everyday you get your first kiss, Mando. I wanna make sure it’s a good one. I wish I could re-do mine.”

Gloves fingers flex and stretch restlessly on his knees as you approach the last lamp sitting on a side table in the living room and pause.

“Are you sure about this?”

Fuck no he’s not. But the sooner he does this, the sooner he can find some normalcy in his head again.

“Flip the switch," he says in a low modulated voice.

You fold in a growing smile before taking a deep breath and flicking the switch. Bathing the entire home in inky darkness. The silhouette of you through turns to hues of thermal green and red, carefully maneuvering through your living room by memory before finding your seat in the floor in front of him. And with slight hesitation, Din reaches up to remove the last barrier he has.

“Can you see anything?”

“Not a bit,” you answer.

With that confirmation, he unclasps the chin strap and slowly lifts the helmet up and off. He blinks several times to adjust his vision before finding the outline of the table and placing his helmet there. On the return, his head bumps into your outstretched hand. Not knowing that you had moved.

“Agh.”

“Sorry sorry,” you pull away. “Give me a moment, I’ll find you.”

Your hands search in the dark for him. He can’t see much but he can tell your hands land on nothing by the way the air between you moves and he doesn’t feel any contact on his person. So he reaches out, bumping into your arms and taking hold of them. Following the line of your forearm until he reaches your hands.

“Here,"  he murmurs. Gloved hands wrap around your wrists and gently lift them up. He guides your hands forward until…