unwellaboutfiction

word count: 10k

People assume things. They always have.

It is easy for them to notice the small details. The way his gaze lingers on you a moment longer than it should. The way your hand finds his arm without thinking whenever the two of you are walking side by side. The way neither of you ever seems particularly eager to step away once you end up standing close.

To anyone watching, it looks obvious. Predictable even.

To you, it has always felt simple. You are friends. Nothing more.

By the time the two of you step off the subway, the city has slipped into that quieter version of itself that only appears late at night. New York never truly sleeps, but it does soften. The crowds thin. The noise lowers into a constant distant hum of traffic and conversation drifting from late night diners and corner stores.

You walk beside him toward the compound with no real urgency. Just two figures moving through the glow of the city lights, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm against the sidewalk.

Bucky moves through the streets with a quiet confidence that suggests familiarity deeper than simple habit. His stride is relaxed, steady in a way that comes from knowing exactly how to move through a place without needing to think about it.

A cold breeze shifts through the street and catches his hair, leaving the dark strands slightly tousled where they fall across his forehead. The leather jacket on his shoulders looks as though it has belonged to him forever, worn into that perfect balance between comfort and durability.

As you near the street, he glances down at you with a small smile that feels almost private.

“Thanks for the tour,” he says. “You always know the best spots.”

You glance up at him, warmth blooming in your chest despite the casual tone of the conversation. The night air is cool against your skin, but something about the ease of walking beside him makes the cold feel distant.

“That was nothing,” you reply lightly. “I know a great Indian place too. But you have to book months in advance.”

You sigh dramatically, as though the injustice of the situation personally offends you.

“So maybe next time.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. His hands slide into the pockets of his jacket as he tilts his head, studying you with an expression that carries quiet amusement.

“Months in advance,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Sounds fancy.”

His gaze drifts over your face for a moment longer than necessary.

“You trying to impress me?”

You lift an eyebrow at him in challenge, entirely unimpressed with the implication.

“You’re impressed by basic knowledge of food and geography?” you reply. “You’re too easy, Barnes.”

The laugh that escapes him is sudden and bright, breaking through the quiet street in a way that feels almost startling. For a moment it looks like he surprises himself with it too.

“Easy?” he scoffs, though the sound carries no real offense. “I’ve been around since before half these places had menus.”

You shook your exaggerated offense while he glances sideways at you again, something thoughtful slipping quietly beneath the teasing.

“Still better company than Steve.”

Your laughter spills out before you can stop it. The sound echoes faintly down the street, light and unguarded. For a moment the night feels strangely effortless, like the world has narrowed down to the simple act of walking together through dimly lit streets. The kind of comfort that sneaks in slowly until it settles somewhere deep in the bones.

The first drop of rain is so soft you almost miss it.

A second lands against the pavement near your shoe. Then another.

Both of you look up at the same time.

Bucky exhales through his nose, staring at the sky with the weary patience of someone who feels personally inconvenienced by the weather.

“Of course,” he mutters.

His gaze drifts back down to you.

“You didn’t bring an umbrella, did you?”

You scrunch your face in mild irritation and lift your bag above your head as if the thin material might somehow qualify as protection.

“Of course I didn’t,” you say. “How was I supposed to know it would rain?”

He watches you attempt to shield yourself with the bag, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve got all those psychic tricks,” he says casually. “Weather not included?”

You shoot him a flat look.

“That’s not how my powers work.”

The rain begins to gather strength, the droplets growing heavier as they strike the pavement. Within seconds the water is catching in your hair and soaking slowly into the sleeves of your jacket.

Bucky glances up at the sky again with visible disapproval before shrugging his jacket off in one smooth motion. The leather darkens almost immediately as rain begins to collect across the surface.

“Here,” he says, holding it out toward you. “No point in both of us getting drenched.”

You grumble something under your breath about unnecessary commentary and terrible weather, but you accept the jacket anyway. You lift it awkwardly above your head in a half-hearted attempt at creating some form of shelter.

The rain chooses that exact moment to grow heavier.

Water begins to fall in thick, steady sheets, the sound of it filling the street as it splashes against pavement and metal grates.

You glance quickly down the block, scanning for anything that might resemble cover. A small café appears halfway down the street, its extended canvas awning stretching over a narrow strip of sidewalk.

It does not look particularly reliable. The fabric sags slightly in the middle where water has already begun to collect. But it is shelter and that is enough.

Without thinking about it too much, you reach for his hand and pull.

He stumbles forward with a surprised sound, clearly not expecting the sudden movement, but he does not resist. His fingers tighten instinctively around yours as you drag him across the slick pavement, rain splashing around your shoes with every hurried step.

You reach the café just as the sky seems to open completely and duck beneath the canopy with a small breath of relief, the sudden absence of direct rain feeling almost miraculous.

The shelter is modest at best. The canvas roof hangs low above your heads, supported by thin metal poles that creak softly whenever the wind pushes against the fabric. A few metal chairs sit stacked near the wall, abandoned by the staff hours ago. The faint scent of old coffee lingers in the air, mixed with damp fabric and the earthy smell of rain.

Bucky shakes his head once, scattering droplets from his hair.

“Real five star setup,” he mutters.

You lower his jacket from above your head and hand it back to him, giving him a dry look as you brush wet strands of hair away from your face.

“No complaining,” you say. “I’m not interested in drowning in that.”

He glances out at the rain that now pours steadily beyond the edge of the canvas. The streetlights blur behind the falling water, turning the city into a hazy wash of gold and silver.

“Oh, this is luxury,” he replies lightly. “Exactly how I pictured my evening.”

But something about the moment has shifted.

The awning does not leave much room for distance. The rain presses in from all sides, loud enough to swallow the rest of the city’s noise. The world beyond the thin shelter feels strangely far away now, reduced to blurred lights and rushing water.

When you shift your weight, your shoulder bumps lightly against his arm.

You let out a quiet huff at his sarcasm and lean back against one of the narrow metal poles supporting the awning. Folding your arms across your chest, you look out toward the rain-soaked street beyond the shelter while the steady rhythm of water fills the quiet space between you. 

A few cars pass through the quiet street, their headlights cutting pale tunnels through the rain before disappearing again into the haze. Strangers hurry along the sidewalks beneath dark umbrellas, shoulders hunched and steps quick as they escape the downpour. Their shoes splash through shallow puddles without hesitation. Everyone seems determined to reach somewhere warm and dry.

For anyone watching from a distance, the rain might almost look romantic.

It should be beautiful.

Droplets gather along the glossy leaves of nearby plants, swelling until gravity finally pulls and they slip free, falling to the pavement quietly. The air smells freshly washed, cool and clean in a way that feels almost peaceful. The steady rhythm of rain striking concrete and metal and canvas creates a soft, hypnotic hush that spreads across the street.

It would be calming if you were not stranded beneath a tent that looks one determined gust away from collapsing completely.

Your mouth pulls into a small scowl as you stare out at the rain.

Across from you, Bucky stands with his back against the opposite support pole. Without realizing it, he has mirrored your posture perfectly. Arms folded across his chest. One shoulder resting against the metal frame. His gaze drifts over the same quiet street you have been watching, though there is something far calmer in his expression.

The rain does not seem to irritate him the way it irritates you.

If anything, it settles him.

There is an ease in the way he watches the storm, like a man who has endured far worse weather than this and learned long ago that fighting it is pointless. His eyes move slowly over the shimmering streetlights and slick pavement, absorbing the moment rather than wishing it away.

When he glances over and catches the scowl still sitting stubbornly on your face, something amused flickers in his eyes.

“You’re really cranky when you’re wet, huh?” he asks lightly.

The laugh that bursts out of you is immediate and bright, breaking through the quiet rhythm of rain with surprising force.

“There has got to be a better way to phrase that,” you reply, lifting your head to look at him with unmistakable mischief.

His lips curve slowly.

“Perfectly normal sentence,” he insists, though the faint spark of satisfaction in his eyes betrays him.

You narrow your gaze at him, unimpressed.

“Like you didn’t know how that sounded.”

His grin deepens just enough to confirm your suspicion.

The rain continues to fall beyond the tent, blurring the edges of the world outside. Streetlights glow through the downpour like soft halos, and the empty road gleams beneath the constant wash of water. You shift slightly, leaning your shoulder against the metal pole while watching thin streams of rain spill from the edge of the canvas roof above you.

Every now and then your gaze drifts back toward him.

He does not look inconvenienced in the slightest.

If anything, there is something strangely peaceful in the way he stands there, watching the storm like it is an old companion rather than an obstacle. The tension that usually rests in his shoulders seems looser tonight. Even his breathing is slower. As though the steady rhythm of rain has reached somewhere deeper inside him.

You let out a quiet sigh and push yourself away from the pole, digging into your bag until your fingers find your phone.

“Let me call Nat,” you say. “Maybe she can come get us.”

“Nat?” His mouth twitches.

“She’d make a joke and leave us here on purpose.”

You pause mid-motion, glancing up at him.

He shifts his weight slightly, eyes drifting back out toward the rain before returning to you again with that same calm expression.

“We could always walk.”

Your hand stills completely.

You stare at him.

“Seriously?” A small, incredulous laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “You want to walk in this?”

He shrugs as though the idea requires no further explanation.

Rain has begun to creep under the edge of the tent, darkening the collar of his shirt where stray droplets have landed. The damp fabric clings faintly to the shape of his shoulders without him seeming to notice.

“It’s just rain,” he says simply. “Already wet anyway.”

You lean forward slightly and peer out from beneath the tent. The downpour has not softened in the slightest. If anything, the rain has grown heavier, thick drops slanting across the street with relentless determination.

“There’s no way I’m joining you,” you begin.

You never finish the sentence. His hand closes around yours in one smooth, decisive movement and before you can react, he pulls you forward and straight out from beneath the shelter.

Cold rain hits instantly.

The shock steals the breath from your lungs as icy water soaks through your clothes within seconds, plastering your hair to your face and running down the back of your neck.

“Bucky!”

He is laughing now.

Not the restrained, polite version he offers most people. This one is genuine and bright, carrying easily through the sound of rain as he keeps hold of your hand and pulls you further down the sidewalk.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, tightening his grip slightly when you try to resist. “I’m not doing this alone.”

Rain gathers on your lashes and slides into your mouth when you gasp for breath. You attempt to shield yourself with the edge of his jacket, but it does absolutely nothing against the relentless downpour.

“Come on,” you protest, trying to steer him toward the wide canopy of a nearby tree where the branches at least promise partial cover.

He resists immediately, tugging you back toward the open stretch of sidewalk.

“No hiding,” he counters. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”

A frustrated sound escapes you, though it dissolves quickly into reluctant laughter. The whole situation is ridiculous. Completely unnecessary.

And yet there is something strangely exhilarating about the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours. About the way his laughter cuts through the storm as if the rain itself cannot dampen it.

“I swear I will kill you,” you warn him, though the grin tugging at your mouth ruins the threat entirely.

“You’d miss me,” he replies without hesitation.

He releases your hand only long enough to slide his arm around your shoulders instead, pulling you closer against his side as the two of you continue down the glistening sidewalk. The leather jacket drapes awkwardly over both of you in a half hearted attempt at shelter. It does almost nothing to keep the rain away, but the gesture lingers anyway.

You are pressed against him now. Your shoulder brushes his chest with every step. Your hip knocks lightly against his thigh as the two of you navigate puddles forming along the street.

The rain falls harder.

Streetlights smear into streaks of warm gold against the wet pavement. Water splashes around your shoes with each hurried step. The entire city feels quieter somehow, softened and distant beneath the steady roar of the storm.

And somewhere between your protests and his laughter, the walk stops feeling like such a terrible idea.

----

You find the bus stop before he does.

It appears through the blurred rain like a small miracle of concrete and fogged glass. For a moment it almost does not seem real, just another shape shifting in the storm, but the longer you stare the more certain it becomes. Relief hits first, followed immediately by a burst of energy.

You dart toward it without warning, shoes splash through shallow puddles that scatter water across the pavement, breath coming quick and uneven from the combination of running, laughing, and the cold air filling your lungs. Rain clings to your eyelashes and blurs the world into streaks of gray and yellow light.

By the time you reach the shelter you are breathless.

You duck beneath the metal roof and lean against one of the pillars, pressing your palm against the cool surface while you try to steady your breathing. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Strands of wet hair cling to your cheek and neck, and the fabric of your clothes feels heavier now, soaked through from the rain.

Bucky arrives a second later.

He slows as he approaches, pushing damp hair back from his face with one hand. Water runs freely along the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His jacket clings darkly to his shoulders, rain dripping steadily from the edges.

You glance at him and shake your head, still catching your breath.

“I swear,” you say between breaths, laughter still lingering in your voice, “that has to be the most ridiculous thing you have ever done.”

Despite the accusation, a reluctant smile curves across your mouth.

“If I get sick after this, I am blaming you.”

He pauses just inside the shelter and shakes his head once, sending a small spray of droplets across the concrete floor before stepping fully beneath the cover.

“Ridiculous?” he repeats, sounding faintly offended. His mouth tilts upward.

“I prefer adventurous.”

He leans back against the wall beside you, close enough that the warmth of him cuts through the lingering chill of the rain. The air beneath the shelter feels slightly warmer, trapped beneath the metal roof while the storm continues to pour beyond it.

His gaze drifts over you slowly. Your soaked sleeves. Your dripping hair. The faint rise and fall of your breathing as you recover from the run.

“If we do get sick,” he adds lightly, his voice softer now, “at least it will be together.”

Rain pounds steadily against the thin metal roof above you. The sound is loud and rhythmic, a constant drumming that fills the small shelter and creates a strange cocoon around the two of you. Outside the glass panel, passing headlights smear into glowing streaks of white and red.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

Then he glances at you from the corner of his eye.

“Admit it,” he says. “You were not having that much fun before I pulled you out there.”

You let out a quiet scoff, trying to summon indignation that refuses to stay in place.

“No. Absolutely not.”

He simply watches you. One eyebrow lifting  slowly, patient and amused, as if he already knows exactly how this will go.

Your resolve lasts three seconds.

“Fine,” you sigh, the word leaving you with exaggerated reluctance. “Maybe a little.”

The corner of his mouth lifts almost immediately.

“But this is the last time,” you add quickly, raising a finger in warning. “And only because you dragged me.”

“Dragged,” he repeats, placing a hand lightly over his chest as if wounded. “I was being helpful.”

The rain outside refuses to slow. It drums relentlessly against the pavement, splashes into gutters, and bounces off the dark street in silver bursts. The air smells fresh and metallic, clean in a way that only storms can make it.

Without thinking, he shifts slightly closer.

His arm brushes yours.

The contact is subtle. Barely there. Just the faint press of damp fabric against damp fabric.

Neither of you moves away.

Then his expression changes. There is a small glint in his eyes now, the kind you have learned to recognize far too well.

“You know what would make this better?” he asks.

You narrow your gaze immediately.

“I do not like that tone.”

He turns his head toward the rain again, pretending to consider something serious while the hint of a smile tugs at his mouth.

“A race.”

You stare at him.

“A race?” you repeat slowly.

He nods once, the challenge written clearly across his face.

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. The idea is completely ridiculous. Entirely unnecessary.

Which somehow makes it perfect.

You glance toward the rain soaked street and then back at him.

“First one to the next shelter wins.”

And before he can answer, you bolt.

The rain hits harder the second you leave the bus stop. It is colder out in the open, the drops striking your face and shoulders with renewed intensity. Somewhere behind you he shouts something, but the words dissolve into the roar of the storm.

For a few glorious seconds, you are ahead.

Your shoes slap against the wet pavement. Your heart pounds hard in your chest. Laughter bubbles in your throat as you run blindly through the rain.

Then he is beside you.

His stride is longer, smoother, effortless in a way that is almost insulting. He matches your pace easily, not even looking winded.

“Hey,” you protest between breaths. “That is not fair.”

“Fair?” he replies, his voice carrying clearly over the rain. “I am a super soldier. I can’t do anything about fair.”

He speeds up just enough to irritate you.

The next stretch of cover appears ahead beneath a flickering streetlamp. The light reflects across the wet pavement, turning the ground into rippling gold and gray. It is close enough that you can almost imagine winning.

You push harder. You really do try. But your lungs betray you first.

You slow abruptly, bending forward with your hands on your knees as rain pours down your back and soaks the collar of your shirt.

“Okay,” you gasp. “Stop. You win.”

He slows from a jog to an easy walk, stopping directly in front of you. His breathing is slightly heavier now, but nothing compared to yours.

“Told you,” he says, satisfaction clear in his voice.

Before you can protest, he reaches forward and ruffles your already soaked hair.

“Next time,” he adds casually, “try keeping up with a hundred year old man.”

You lift your head and peer up at him through wet lashes, exhaustion slowly giving way to something far more mischievous.

“Sure,” you say sweetly.

“Grandpa.”

You grab the jacket slung over his shoulder and fling it straight at his face before he can react.

Then you take off running again. Your laughter echoes through the rain as you sprint toward the wide trunk of a nearby tree.

“Loser.”

He sputters behind you, yanking the jacket away from his face just in time to see you darting across the pavement.

“You are going to regret that,” he calls.

You barely manage two steps into the open before he catches you. His arm loops around your waist from behind, pulling you sharply off balance as he drags you back against him.

“Got you,” he murmurs.

His breath brushes warm against your ear despite the chill of the rain.

You shriek, half in surprise and half in laughter, as he spins you around and gently presses you back against the rough bark of the tree. The canopy above blocks part of the storm. Not all of it, but enough that the rain softens into scattered drops slipping through the leaves.

Your breathing is uneven now. His is close enough that you can feel the rhythm of it against your cheek.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

The rain begins to soften, shifting from a wild downpour into something steadier and calmer. The street beyond the trees blurs into distant light and shadow.

The world feels quieter.

Smaller.

As if the storm has carved out a small private space beneath the branches just for the two of you. And suddenly you are very aware of how close he is. Too close for something that is supposed to be only friendship. 

His chest rises and falls unevenly as he steadies himself, but the moment he truly registers how close you are, something in him shifts. The playful energy that had carried the two of you through the rain fades into something quieter, heavier. His grip on your waist loosens slightly. Not enough to let you go. Just enough to give you space if you want it.

An offer rather than a retreat.

His eyes drop to your flushed cheeks first, then to the rain caught along your lashes. Droplets cling there for a moment before sliding down your skin. When his gaze lifts again to meet yours, something guarded flickers behind it.

“The rain’s slowing,” he says quietly.

His voice is rough.

Not from running. But from restraint.

You feel the shift in him as clearly as if it were a physical thing. The careful distance he is trying to rebuild. The discipline he has relied on for decades pressing its way back into place. Your breathing begins to steady, but your heart does not follow.

You notice the space he offers.

You do not take it.

“Yeah,” you murmur softly. “It is.”

Above you, the canopy of leaves filters the last of the storm into scattered drops that fall gently through the branches. The roar that had surrounded you moments ago fades into a softer rhythm. The air smells fresh and cool, washed clean by the rain.

He should step back. He knows that.

This is easy. This is safe. You are friends.

But your body is still pressed to his. Warmth seeps through damp fabric where you touch, and your eyes never look away from his. His gaze lowers again, slower this time. It lingers at your mouth before returning upward, his jaw tightening as though he is holding something back through sheer force of will.

The space between you has almost vanished. A breath. Less than that. His fingers flex slightly against your hip. The motion is small, hesitant. Not demanding. Not pulling.

Just asking.

The world narrows until the rain becomes nothing more than background noise. Even the distant hum of the city fades. Your pulse pounds loudly in your ears, so hard you are certain he must feel it through the hand resting at your waist.

Without thinking, your hands rise and catch lightly in the hem of his damp shirt, gripping the fabric.

He inhales sharply.

The control he carries so carefully begins to thin.

You tilt your chin upward just enough to meet his gaze more fully, your voice barely more than a breath.

“Bucky.”

That is all it takes.

Whatever line he had drawn for himself dissolves.

His mouth finds yours in one decisive movement, fierce and unguarded. His metal arm braces against the tree beside your head, steadying himself as his other hand tightens around your waist and pulls you flush against him.

There is nothing tentative about it.

The kiss carries every unspoken glance, every almost-touch, every moment the two of you pretended not to notice. It is rain soaked and breathless and long overdue.

You gasp softly against him before melting into it, your hands sliding upward to the base of his neck. His hair is damp beneath your fingers, the strands cool from the rain while the skin beneath them is warm.

He responds immediately.

A low sound escapes him, something caught between relief and disbelief. His hand leaves your waist and slides into your hair, angling your head slightly so he can deepen the kiss without overwhelming you.

Above you the rain has nearly stopped. Only scattered droplets fall through the leaves now, landing softly against your shoulders and the back of your neck.

Neither of you notices.

When you finally pull apart, it happens at the same time. Both of you reluctant. Both of you needing air.

Your lungs burn, lips tingle.

His hands never leave you. One stays firm against your hip while the other slides slowly from your hair down to your waist, as if he needs the reassurance that you are still there.

Still real.

Your foreheads rest together while the quiet of the storm settles around you. The only sound left is the uneven rhythm of your breathing.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath.

It is not elegant. It is not practiced.

It is honest.

His chest rises and falls against yours as he studies your face, like he is still trying to understand what just happened, like part of him expects the moment to vanish if he looks away.

You feel it in the way his fingers press into you. Not possessive. Not demanding.

Just unwilling to let go.

“You know,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, rougher than usual, “I don’t know if I wanna stand here all night.”

His thumb brushes slowly along the curve of your hip, absent and distracted, like he is barely aware he is doing it.

“Or,” he adds, his gaze drifting back to your mouth, “if I wanna kiss you again.”

A small smile curves your lips and you can see it clearly now. The want in his eyes. The fragile thread his restraint is hanging from.

Your hand lifts and rests lightly against his chest, fingers curling into the damp fabric there.

An invitation.

He leans in.

And you stop him.

Your finger presses gently against his lips before they reach yours.

He freezes instantly.

The shift in him is immediate. His eyes darken, his breath catching as if the smallest movement might shatter something delicate between you.

For a moment he does not move at all.

He swallows.

“What?” he asks quietly.

You slide your finger away from his mouth slowly, letting it trail along the edge of his lower lip before your knuckles drift across the line of his jaw.

His eyes close for a brief second at the contact.

You watch the reaction carefully. Watch the control tighten and strain.

When you speak, your voice is soft, teasing, threaded with something deeper.

“You look at me like that again,” you murmur, “and we are never making it back.”

A subtle shudder passes through him.

A low curse slips out under his breath.

Your laughter breaks the tension, lighter than the moment deserves. Before he can react, you step out of his hold and put a little distance between your bodies. You move back toward the pavement where the rain has begun to fall harder again.

You lift a hand over your head in a useless attempt to shield yourself, glancing back once with a grin before turning forward.

He stays still for a moment watching you. Like he is deciding something.

Then he runs a hand through his damp hair and starts after you.

The smirk returns slowly, deliberate and dangerous.

“Oh no,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re not getting away that easy.”

You hear him before you see him. The quickening rhythm of his steps. The shift of air behind you.Then his arm slides around your waist again and pulls you back against him in one smooth motion.You shriek before dissolving into laughter, turning within his hold until you are facing him again.

The rain is heavier now. It pours down in steady sheets, soaking both of you completely. Your hands settle instinctively against his chest while his arm remains firm around your waist.

He looks down at you like this might be the best decision he has made all night.

Water runs down the line of his jaw. Your hair clings to your face. Your eyes struggle to stay open against the falling rain.

You cling to him as if he is shelter, though he is just as drenched as you are.

“Do you not want to get home?” you ask, teasing.

He pretends to think about it. Really think about it.

His grip tightens slightly as his gaze drifts over you without subtlety now. The rain soaked hair. The flushed warmth of your cheeks. The way you are looking back at him.

“Mm,” he hums thoughtfully.

Then his eyes lift to meet yours again.

“Why go home,” he says slowly, “when I’ve got this view?”

You are still laughing when it happens.

Before you can throw another remark at him, a car tears down the street, moving too fast for a road slick with rain. The tires cut through a shallow puddle near the curb and send a sudden wave of muddy water rushing outward.

It crashes into him without warning. Cold spray drenches him from boots to hair in one violent splash. His shoulders jerk back instinctively and his metal arm gives a sharp mechanical whir as it reacts faster than the rest of him.

For one stunned heartbeat, he simply stands there.

Dripping.

Blinking slowly as rain and murky water slide down the sharp angles of his face.

His shirt, already damp from the storm, clings even more miserably to his frame. Droplets gather along his jaw and fall steadily to the pavement. The expression that forms on his face is slow and deliberate, disbelief giving way to unmistakable outrage.

“Excuse me?” he calls sharply after the car.

The vehicle is already disappearing down the road, its taillights fading through the rain. He turns back toward you with the look of a man who has just suffered a profound betrayal. As if you somehow had a hand in the entire situation.

“Did you see that?”

You have one hand clamped over your mouth in a completely useless attempt to stop yourself. The sight of him standing there, soaked and splattered and glaring at the empty street like it personally offended him, is simply too much.

“Oh my god,” you manage but the laughter escapes you anyway. It spills out uncontrollably, bright and breathless, echoing beneath the quiet rhythm of the rain.

His scowl deepens immediately and flicks water off his sleeve in your direction with exaggerated offense making a few cold droplets land on your arm.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, his voice dry with disbelief. There is irritation in his tone, but the faintest glimmer of amusement betrays him.

He takes a slow step toward you and you instinctively take one backward.

If he were not completely drenched and faintly ridiculous in the moment, the movement might have been intimidating. Instead it only makes your laughter worse.

“Okay,” you manage through another breathless giggle. “It is a little funny.”

He advances again. You retreat again.

The rain begins to soften around you, easing from a steady downpour into a gentler fall that still patters against the pavement and darkens the street beneath your feet.

“Let’s just find some shelter,” you offer quickly, raising your hands as if reasoning with him might save you from whatever revenge is forming in his head. “You can dry off a little.”

For a moment he pauses, brows draw together slightly as though he is considering the suggestion with genuine seriousness. Then a slow smirk spreads across his face. The expression is sharp. Dangerous. Entirely too pleased with itself.

“No.”

You barely register the word before he lunges forward with sudden speed and scoops you off the ground in one effortless motion. The world tilts violently as your feet leave the pavement. A startled squeal escapes you before you can stop it.

In the next second you find yourself slung over his shoulder. Your stomach drops with the sudden shift in balance, but his metal arm immediately locks around the back of your thighs, steady and unyielding. His other hand settles securely against your back.

There is absolutely no risk of falling.

There is also no chance of escaping.

Your laughter bursts out again, louder this time, as you kick your feet uselessly in the air while he begins striding down the sidewalk with deliberate confidence.

“Nice try,” he says smugly. “No shelter yet.”

“Okay, okay,” you protest between breathless laughs.

Rainwater drips steadily from your hair onto the back of his shirt as you squirm slightly. You push yourself up just enough to look at him upside down, bracing your hands against his shoulders for balance.

“I will not tease you,” you promise dramatically. “Just put me down.”

You swat his back lightly for emphasis. The attempt at defiance lasts all of two seconds before you ruin it by dissolving into another fit of laughter and pressing your face against the side of his neck.

The reaction is immediate.

His hold tightens instinctively when you nuzzle closer. You feel the subtle shift in his breathing where your cheek brushes his skin, warm despite the rain.

He stops walking but does not put you down.

“You promise?” he asks, his voice skeptical but clearly amused. “No more laughing at me?”

You sigh with exaggerated patience.

“Yes,” you drawl innocently. “I promise.”

A quiet laugh escapes you anyway.

He waits another moment just to prove that he can. Then, finally, he relents. His hands guide you down slowly, steadying your waist as your feet meet the pavement again. The motion is careful despite the teasing. Protective in a way that seems entirely instinctive.

The moment you are upright, his arm slips around your waist.

He keeps you there, close against him.

Rainwater has soaked through both of you by now, damp fabric clinging to skin, but neither of you seems particularly concerned about it anymore.

He tilts his head slightly as he studies your face, one eyebrow raised in quiet challenge.

“You are sure?” he asks softly. “No more teasing, doll?”

His arm tightens just enough to remind you that lifting you again would be very easy.

You chuckle softly and look up at him with a small, knowing grin.

“I promise,” you reassure him, your hands resting lightly on his arms. “No more teasing.”

Then you gesture toward the nearby bus stop.

“And we are finally taking the bus.”

Before he can argue, you slip your hand into his and tug him forward.

“Come on.”

He gives you a deeply skeptical look, the kind that says he does not believe your promise for even a second. But the moment your fingers lace with his, something in his expression softens. The resistance fades almost immediately and he lets you pull him along the rain-darkened pavement, his longer stride easily matching yours.

“The bus?” he asks, his voice thick with exaggerated disbelief. “I am soaking wet and you want the bus?”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, laughter still lingering in your voice.

“Well it is better than walking all the way back to the compound,” you reply. “Especially when we are not even halfway there.”

You shake your head lightly and keep moving, your hand still wrapped securely around his.

“Unless you have a better suggestion.”

He huffs under his breath, clearly unimpressed with the plan but unable to argue with your logic.

“Fine,” he mutters, falling into step beside you, his hand remaining firmly in yours.

He glances at you again, wet hair falling loosely across his forehead while rainwater drips from the ends.

“I could think of a much better way to keep warm right now than getting on a goddamn bus.”

You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth lifts into a small smirk.

“Of course you could,” you mutter dryly.

---

You reach the bus stop first and drop onto the narrow bench beneath the small metal shelter, your legs grateful for the brief rest after running through the rain. The storm has eased slightly now, though the air still carries the sharp scent of wet pavement and cold evening wind. Water continues to drip steadily from the edge of the shelter’s roof, tapping softly against the concrete below.

A moment later, Bucky sits down beside you.

Close.

Close enough that the damp fabric of his jacket brushes lightly against your arm, still cool from the rain. The contact sends a faint shiver across your skin that has nothing to do with the weather.

The stop is quiet. A few cars pass along the street in the distance, their tires hissing softly against wet asphalt. Otherwise there is only the low murmur of rain and the distant hum of traffic around the two of you.

He lifts one arm and drapes it loosely over your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm with teasing. “I am just thinking practically, sweetheart.”

His fingers move idly against your upper arm as he speaks, brushing back and forth in an absent motion that somehow feels far too deliberate.

“Warmer options are available.”

A giggle escapes you before you can stop it, and you tilt your head upward to look at him. A playful spark lights in your eyes as you study the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“God,” you say. “You make it sound so easy.”

You lean forward slightly as you speak, closing the space between your faces until only a few inches remain. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath in the cool air beneath the shelter.

“And what exactly do you have in mind?”

His smirk deepens the moment you move closer.

His eyes darken just enough to betray the quiet challenge building beneath the teasing. Rainwater still clings to the edges of his hair, a few damp strands falling across his forehead as he studies you.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he murmurs.

His voice drops lower, meant only for you over the steady rhythm of rain. His fingers trace a slow line along your side where his arm rests around your shoulders, the motion almost absent but impossible to ignore.

“Maybe putting my jacket back on you.”

His gaze dips briefly toward your lips before lifting again.

“Or carrying you all the way home like that.”

He says it as though both options are perfectly reasonable. As though he would do either one without the slightest hesitation.

You laugh softly and lean closer still, lifting your hand until your palm rests lightly against his jaw. His skin is warm beneath your touch despite the cold rain outside.

Your thumb brushes slowly over his lower lip.

“Now that sounds really tempting.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes again, though your hand remains against his face.

“Romantic, even.”

One brow lifts as you study him carefully.

“Did not know you had it in you, Barnes.”

His breath catches the moment your thumb touches his lip.

A quiet, rough chuckle slips from him, low and warm despite the chill lingering in the air.

“Romantic?” he repeats softly, eyebrow lifting slightly as his gaze lingers on your face.

“You have not seen romantic yet.”

His arm tightens subtly around your shoulders. The movement is small but impossible to miss, shifting you just slightly closer against his side. The rain, the street, the quiet bus stop all seem to fade into the background as his attention remains entirely on you.

His gaze then drifts to your mouth again before slowly lifting back to your eyes.

“You have no idea what I would do,” he says quietly, “for a few minutes alone with you right now.”

Your breath catches and a slow smile spreads across your lips.

“I think I might have some idea,” you tease.

You lean forward again until the space between you nearly disappears, close enough that your breath brushes lightly across his lips.

For a moment the world narrows to that tiny distance between you. Then the low rumble of an approaching engine cuts straight through the moment.

The bus.

You pull away suddenly with a bright laugh as you stand from the bench.

“Come on,” you say lightly. “Ride’s here.”

Bucky stays seated for half a second longer, staring at the space you just vacated.

You had been so close.

So close.

He drags a hand through his damp hair before pushing himself to his feet with a long exhale.

“I hate public transportation.”

---

The bus is mostly empty when the two of you climb aboard. Only a few passengers sit scattered toward the front and middle rows, some speaking quietly while others stare through rain fogged windows at the passing streetlights. The faint hum of the engine and the steady patter of rain against the roof fill the otherwise quiet space.

A pleased smile tugs at your lips.

You can practically feel the effect you have had on him tonight. The tension still lingering in the way he looks at you. The quiet intensity in his gaze every time your eyes meet. And despite the cold rain, despite the ridiculous dash through the streets and the crowded bus, that small smile still tugs at the corner of his mouth.

It is adorable.

You spot an empty seat at the very back and slide into it beside the window.

The moment Bucky notices, he shoots you a look. He knows that smile. That smug little expression that means you are enjoying this far too much. He climbs onto the bus slower than necessary, letting out a dramatic huff as though the entire situation personally offends him. But the second he sees the open seat beside you, he heads straight for it.

He drops down next to you without hesitation.

Close.

Close enough that his damp side presses lightly into yours as he stretches one long arm along the back of the seat behind you.

“Comfy?” he mutters under his breath.

His tone is dry, but his eyes linger on you like he is still very aware of everything that happened tonight.

You sigh softly and shift comfortably in the seat before resting your head against his arm.

“Yup.”

A small giggle escapes you as you turn slightly to face him, your smile still lingering and something in his expression softens immediately. He lets out a slow breath, almost as if he is steadying himself. The sight of you curled easily against his side does something strange to his chest, something warm and unfamiliar.

His fingers begin tracing slow circles against your shoulder where his arm rests behind you. The motion is absent and gentle, warm even through the chill of damp clothes.

“Good,” he murmurs quietly.

The bus lurches forward then, beginning its slow route through the rain soaked streets. Each turn and bump makes the frame rattle softly, but he barely notices.

If anything, the movement only presses you a little closer against him and the two of you settle into a comfortable silence. The gentle rocking of the bus and the steady drone of traffic outside create a quiet rhythm around you. His fingers continue tracing those lazy circles along your shoulder without him even realizing he is doing it.

He feels everything.

The warmth of your head resting against his arm.

The occasional brush of your knee against his.

The way your body naturally leans into his space as if it belongs there.

It is intimate.

Almost too intimate for the back seat of a public bus.

But Bucky does not care.

Because it is you.

After a moment Bucky lowered his head slightly, bringing his mouth close enough that only you could hear him over the soft rumble of the bus and the distant whisper of rain against the windows.

“You know,” he murmured.

His voice was low and rough from disuse, the sound of it close enough that a faint warmth slid down your spine despite the cold damp air clinging to both of you. His breath brushed lightly against your ear and for a second the world felt smaller, quieter, as if the rest of the passengers had faded somewhere far away.

“This isn’t exactly how I imagined the rest of the day going.”

Your brow lifted with quiet curiosity and you tilted your head to look up at him. There was still rain caught in the dark strands of his hair and the dim lights of the bus painted soft shadows across his face.

“What do you mean?”

A small chuckle slipped out as you asked, the sound light and easy. Your expression softened in that familiar way that only appeared when you were around him. Comfortable. Relaxed. Too relaxed, maybe.

Because technically you were just friends.

At least that was what the two of you had always believed.

Until earlier tonight.

Until the rain.

Until the ridiculous race down the street.

Until the kiss that had shattered whatever quiet line had once existed between you.

Now every little thing felt different. The way he held you close without thinking. The way you teased him about wanting that other kiss. Even the quiet space between words seemed charged with something new.

It felt strangely familiar. Like things had always been this way and neither of you had noticed it until tonight.

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle when you looked at him like that, your eyes bright and curious as if you were waiting for him to explain something important. There was something about the effortless ease between you that made his chest feel warm. The way you leaned against him without hesitation, as if the space beside him had always belonged to you.

“I didn’t exactly think we’d end up riding a bus soaked through and flirting,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth lifting.

You hummed softly in agreement, glancing down at the damp sleeve of your jacket before looking back up at him again.

“Yeah. Well I didn’t think we’d get caught in the rain either. Or that you’d pull me into a race in the middle of the street.”

You paused then, your gaze drifting slowly across his face. Over the familiar lines, the faint crease between his brows, the quiet intensity that always seemed to linger in his eyes.

“Or that we’d kiss.”

The words left you softer than you intended.

Your expression shifted as you said it, the teasing fading just enough for something gentler to appear. Your eyes lingered on him a second longer than necessary.

Bucky’s breath caught before he could stop it.

You looked unfairly pretty like that.

Rain had softened the strands of your hair and there was still a faint flush lingering across your cheeks from earlier. His mind betrayed him instantly, dragging him right back to that moment. The way your lips had felt against his. The warmth of your body pressed against his chest. The way his hands had tightened around you without a second thought.

And how badly he had wanted to kiss you again.

He cleared his throat quietly, attempting to look far more unaffected than he actually felt.

“Yeah, well,” he said, forcing his voice back into something casual.

“You started it.”

Your reaction was immediate. A laugh bubbled up and your brows lifted in challenge as you turned toward him.

“Hey. It was your idea to race me in the first place.”

His smirk returned almost instantly.

Bucky leaned a little closer, raising an eyebrow in exaggerated accusation as if he had just caught you in the worst lie imaginable.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” he said. “You’re the one who got competitive and started sprinting away from me.”

You huffed under your breath, though the corner of your mouth twitched traitorously. Unfortunately he was not wrong. So instead of arguing you nudged his shoulder with yours before turning toward the window, pretending to focus on the rain-streaked glass.

Your attention shifted outward but the shy little smile tugging at your lips gave you away completely.

Bucky noticed it at once.

His eyes followed the faint curve of that hidden grin as blurred city lights slipped past outside the window, reflecting faintly across your face. You looked like you were trying very hard to pretend you were not pleased with how the evening had unfolded.

His own smirk softened into something quieter.

Leaning back into the worn bus seat, he draped his arm across your shoulders again in that same easy motion. It felt natural now, like something he had been doing for years instead of minutes.

“You know,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter this time.

“I don’t regret racing you.”

He paused briefly before adding, softer still,

“Especially if this is where it leads us.”

Your head lifted quickly at that.

A flicker of surprise crossed your face as you turned fully toward him again.

“You mean that?”

Your heart had begun beating noticeably faster now and you searched his expression carefully, trying to find even the smallest hint that he might be teasing.

But he wasn’t.

The playful smirk had faded into something gentler. Something honest.

His gaze stayed steady on yours when he spoke again, his voice was lower, warmer.

“Of course I do.”

There was no hesitation.

“You’re worth a little rain, doll.”

For a moment the world seemed to slow.

The bus rolled quietly through dark city streets while rain tapped softly against the windows and distant headlights blurred across the glass. Your shoulder remained tucked beneath his arm and the quiet certainty in his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest.

And a soft smile found its way onto your face before you could stop it.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

You remained by the window while Bucky sat at the aisle beside you, his arm still resting across your shoulders as if it had always belonged there. Outside, the rain had begun to slow into a softer drizzle. The window glass had fogged faintly with mist, streaked by the slow paths of fading droplets.

Neither of you spoke.

The air between you still carried the quiet weight of everything that had happened that night. The kiss. The laughter. The way something unspoken had shifted between you both.

And yet the silence did not feel awkward.

If anything, it felt strangely familiar.

Almost as if this closeness had been waiting quietly beneath the surface of your friendship all along. As if something deeper had simply been biding its time for the right moment to reveal itself.

As if the two of you had never truly been just friends.

Bucky sat beside you with that same relaxed closeness, his arm draped loosely across your shoulders. His thumb moved slowly in absent circles against your sleeve without him even realizing he was doing it.

The bus rocked gently along its route, the steady hum of the engine filling the quiet space.

He stared ahead at nothing in particular, though his attention kept drifting back to you. The warmth of your body leaning into his side. The quiet comfort of your presence beside him. The simple ease that seemed to settle over everything whenever you were this close.

It was dangerously easy to get used to.

By the time the bus slowed near the stop a few blocks from the Compound, the rain had almost disappeared. What remained was the quiet aftermath of it. The pavement shimmered beneath the streetlights, still slick and reflective, thin puddles gathering along the curb.

You stepped down from the bus together. Cool night air brushed against your damp skin, carrying the faint scent of wet concrete and leaves.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then Bucky’s arm settled naturally around your shoulders again, like it had belonged there all evening. The gesture was easy, unthinking. As if somewhere along the walk, he had forgotten how to stand beside you without that small point of contact.

You began the short walk back toward the Compound.

The city had already slipped into its late evening quiet. Traffic had thinned to the occasional passing car, headlights sweeping briefly across the street before fading again. Mostly there was only the soft rhythm of your footsteps against damp pavement.

For a while neither of you spoke.

Bucky glanced over at you now and then, careful enough that it almost looked casual. The dim streetlights caught the side of your face as you walked beside him. The calm set of your expression. The way the last traces of rain still clung to the loose strands of your hair.

His thumb moved absentmindedly against your shoulder, tracing slow circles through the fabric there.

He had not even noticed he was doing it.

There were things he could say. A lot of things, actually. Words that had been sitting quietly in the back of his mind for longer than he cared to admit. Feelings that had waited patiently while he convinced himself they could stay unspoken.

But the quiet felt good.

Right now he was content just walking beside you.

Content to have you close enough that your arm brushed lightly against his side with every few steps.

He then cleared his throat suddenly, the sound small in the stillness of the street.

“You know,” he began.

His voice came out rougher than he intended.

You turned your head slightly toward him, curiosity softening your expression.

“That was nice.”

The words were simple. Almost careless in the way he said them. But there was far more hidden behind them than he let on. He was talking about the bus ride. The rain. The ridiculous sprint down the street. The way you had laughed while water dripped from your hair. The kiss beneath the tree that still lingered somewhere warm in the back of his mind.

And this quiet walk beside you now.

Your eyes met his for a brief moment, and he knew immediately that you understood.

The faint smile that appeared on your face made something tighten quietly in his chest.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice soft in the calm night air. “It really was.”

Bucky breathed in slowly, then let the air leave him through his nose.

“Real nice,” he added.

This time there was something heavier behind the words. Something that lingered between you both, unspoken but unmistakable.

He shifted a little closer without realizing it, his arm tightening just slightly around your shoulders.

His gaze lingered on yours.

“In fact,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “I wouldn’t mind if something like this was… permanent.”

The word seemed to settle into the space between you.

Permanent.

Not just rainstorms and stolen moments. Not just teasing glances and quiet walks home. Something steadier than that. Something that lasted beyond nights like this.

His fingers pressed a little more firmly into your shoulder without him quite realizing it. A subtle grip. Almost instinctive. As if some part of him already knew he did not want to let you go.

“With you.”

Your steps slowed.

Then you stopped completely.

The subtle shift did not escape him. Bucky halted almost immediately, turning toward you as the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp cast a faint wash of gold across the pavement and the damp strands of your hair.

Your expression was gentle, though a trace of surprise lingered in your eyes as you studied him.

“Are you sure it’s not the rain talking?” you asked lightly.

A small laugh slipped out with the words, teasing in tone, though your heart was beating just as quickly as his.

Bucky’s expression sobered almost at once.

“Rain?”

He stepped closer without hesitation. His hand lifted instinctively, warm and steady as it came to rest along your jaw. His rough fingertips brushed over the cool, rain-damp skin of your cheek as he tilted your face toward him.

“Doll,” he murmured, his voice low and textured with something deeper than teasing, “I’ve been in love with you since way before we got soaked today.”

The words settled into the quiet between you.

They were simple. Honest.

But they carried the weight of years behind them.

Bucky had carried those feelings carefully, quietly, like something fragile he had been afraid to expose to the light. For a long time it had been easier to keep them tucked away, hidden behind jokes and sideways glances and moments that almost meant something.

Now that they had finally slipped free, spoken out loud beneath the quiet hum of the city and the fading scent of rain, he felt something loosen in his chest.

Relief.

He stepped closer again, his height casting a gentle shadow over you as his gaze searched your face.

“It’s always been you,” he said softly.

The words sounded almost like a confession.

Your breath caught in your throat.

For a moment you simply looked at him.

At the damp strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. At the leather jacket hanging loosely from his hand. At the quiet seriousness in his eyes that left no room for doubt.

The teasing expression you had been wearing slowly softened.

“You picked a strange time to tell me you’re in love with me.”

A faint smile curved your lips again, warmer this time.

“Good thing I feel the same way.”

Bucky stilled completely.

For one strange, disorienting second he wondered if he had imagined the words.

But then he saw the certainty in your expression. The warmth lingering in your smile.

And that was all he needed.

He pulled you toward him without another thought.

His metal arm wrapped securely around your waist, drawing you against him as his lips found yours with sudden urgency.

The kiss came fast and fierce.

Bucky kissed you like a man who had been holding himself back for far too long. Like someone who had spent years pretending he could live without something he had wanted all along.

His hold on you tightened instinctively. His other hand curled into the fabric of your shirt as if he needed the reassurance that you were really there.

When he finally pulled back for air, both of you were breathing harder.

Your forehead rested lightly against his. Your cheeks were warm beneath the cool night air, and your hands had somehow found their way to the back of his neck.

A quiet laugh escaped you, breathless and soft.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Bucky lowered his head again, this time pressing his face gently into the curve of your neck. His breath warmed your skin as he exhaled slowly, his nose brushing just beneath your jaw.

“God,” he murmured quietly, his voice rough with something that sounded very close to relief, “been wanting to do that for a long time.”

You inhaled sharply as his lips grazed your skin, a small shiver slipping down your spine before you could stop it.

“Jesus, Bucky…”

Your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

It felt natural being held like this. Easy in a way that made everything else fade quietly into the background.

Just then a low crack of thunder rolled through the sky.

You startled slightly at the sound and pulled back just enough to look up at him, though his arms were still wrapped securely around you.

“Okay,” you said quickly, glancing toward the darkening clouds above. A laugh slipped out despite yourself. “I am not getting drenched again.”

You slipped your fingers through his and immediately started pulling him toward the compound gates before the sky could prove you wrong.

Bucky let himself be dragged along, a quiet laugh rumbling under his breath as your joined hands swung between you.

“You really hate getting wet, huh?” he teased.

You glanced back at him over your shoulder, a grin already spreading across your face.

“Okay, for the second time tonight,” you began, “there has to be a better way to say that.”

Before you could finish the sentence, Bucky suddenly bent and lifted you clean off the ground.

A startled gasp escaped you as he scooped you into his arms with effortless ease, your feet leaving the pavement before your brain could quite catch up to what had just happened.

“Bucky!”

But he was already moving.

His laughter broke free a second later, deep and unrestrained as he took off down the rain-darkened street. The first fresh drops began to fall again, cool against your cheeks and catching in your lashes.

“Better?” he teased near your ear, his voice warm with amusement.

You clutched instinctively at his shoulders as he ran, the steady rhythm of his steps jostling you just enough to make another helpless laugh spill from your lips.

“Put me down,” you protested breathlessly, though the grin tugging at your mouth betrayed the words entirely.

Bucky only tightened his hold around you, one arm secure beneath your knees while the other kept you firmly against his chest.

“Not a chance, doll.”

Instead of slowing, he shifted his grip slightly and pulled you a little closer against his chest as he kept running, boots splashing lightly against the rain-dark pavement.

The rain grew steadier around you, soft silver droplets falling through the warm glow of the streetlights as the compound gates appeared in the distance.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s breathing beneath you. The solid warmth of him. The easy strength in the arms holding you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Your laughter softened into quiet giggles as you held onto him.

And somewhere between the falling rain and the sound of his footsteps echoing through the empty street, you realized something.

Being carried through the storm in his arms like this, with his laughter rumbling against your ear and his grip warm and certain around you, felt strangely perfect.

So you did not ask him to stop again.