Musings and Mutterings

A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy! series masterlist

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.

Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.

And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.

You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.

Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.

“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”

Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.

Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.

He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.

You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”

Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”

Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.

You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.

“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”

No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.

Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.

Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?

Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.

The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”

You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.

Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.

There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.

Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.

“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”

You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.

“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.

The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.

Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.

“Watch your head.”

You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.

As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.

“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”

You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.

“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”

Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.

In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.

“You look lovely tonight.”

That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.

The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.

His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.

“There’s my pretty girl.”

Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.

“I missed you so much, baby.”

You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.

His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”

You nod eagerly.

“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.

Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.

“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”

You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.

Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.

“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.

“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”

When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.

“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.

You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.

“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.

From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.

And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.

“You wearing the brown boots today?”

You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.

“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE A CUTE PICTURE TOGETHER The local café is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.

You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.

In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.

It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.

The contrast is cute rather than discordant.

You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.

You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.

“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.

You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.

“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”

It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.

So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.

The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure. 

“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”

His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.

“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”

His brows draw together. “Went off how?”

Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.

“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”

You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.

“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.

You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”

“The art teacher.” 

You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.

“I remember.”

“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.

“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”

You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”

Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”

“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.

“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.

For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.

Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.

“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.

“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”

That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.

“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.

You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.

“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”

You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.

“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”

Bucky’s expression softens instantly.

“What is it, sweetheart?” 

You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”

He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.

“C’mere.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward his lap.

“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.

The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.

Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.

“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.

“I’m not.” You insist weakly.

Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.

“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”

Your face burns.

“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.

“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”

The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.

The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.

A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.

“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.

You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.

“They came out pretty nice, huh?” 

You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.

“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”

Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.

“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.

You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.

You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.

The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.

“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.

A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.

“Send me those pictures later.”

You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”

That earns you a look.

“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”

You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.

Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.

Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WEAR HIS CLOTHES FOR THE FIRST TIME Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.

The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.

The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.

There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.

With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.

You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.

For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.

“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”

Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.

You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.

On his flannel wrapped around your body.

His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”

The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.

Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.

“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.

Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”

“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.

“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”

“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”

“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.

Your eyes widen. “What—no!”

A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.

“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”

You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.

“You’re exaggerating.”

A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”

Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was simply checking how it fit.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.

“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.

“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.

“Ain’t.”

“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.

“Not anymore.”

The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.

“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”

Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.

“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.

He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”

“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.

“Mhm.”

“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.

“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.

“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.

That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”

You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”

His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.

“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”

You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”

“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”

“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.

“Mm-hmm.”

You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”

“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.

“Means I make the laws around here.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.

“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.

“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.

You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”

At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.

Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.

His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.

Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.

“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”

Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.

“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.

The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.

“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls. 

“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.

“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.

“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze. 

Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly. 

First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.

“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.

“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses. 

You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.

“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”

“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine. 

When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.

Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.

“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.

When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.

“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”

You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.

Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.

“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?

Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”

“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”

You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”

“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy. 

“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.

It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.

“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.

“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.

Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.

It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.

His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair. 

“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”

Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”

He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.

“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”

“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”

Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.

“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?” 

Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.

“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”

Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.

Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.

“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.

You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.

Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.

And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.

And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.

It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.

Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.

Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?

So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.

But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.

Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.

You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.

“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.

You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”

Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.

“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”

“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.

A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.

“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”

“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.

“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.

That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.

“Baby—”

“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”

Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.

“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”

“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”

His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.

“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.

His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”

“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”

There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.

“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.

“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”

“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”

He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”

“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”

“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.

“That’s anxiety.”

“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”

“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”

You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.

“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.

“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”

“To who? A bowling ball?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.

A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.

“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.

You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.

“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.

His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”

And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.

Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.

Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.

And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.

You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.

His large, warm palm tilted upward.

Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?

Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.

Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.

Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.

Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.

Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.

You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.

His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.

“What?”

Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.

“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”

The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.

A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.

You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.

From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.

“Steve!” He whispers sharply.

The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.

“What.”

“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”

Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.

One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.

And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.

“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”

His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.

“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”

Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.

By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.

Eat something besides crackers today.

This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.

At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.

“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”

“I know you can.”

The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.

“Then why are you doing all this?”

That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.

“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”

“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”

Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”

“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”

Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.

“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.

You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.

“This is tea.”

Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.

“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”

Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”

The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.

“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”

And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.

Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.

There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.

By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.

You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.

Already driving 12:22am

Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.

“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.

And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.

“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.

His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.

“You ate dinner?”

The hesitation on your face answers for you.

His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.

“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”

There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”

Your shoulders visibly lower a little.

“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”

And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.

You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.

“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.

Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”

“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”

“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.

Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw. 

“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.

“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”

“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”

You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.

Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.

“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”

“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”

His grin only grows as he reaches you.

“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”

Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.

“Bucky!”

“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.

“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.

“I know you could.”

His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.

This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.

“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.

“I know you can, baby.”

“Then put me down.”

“No.”

The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.

He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.

You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.

“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”

Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.

The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.

“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”

You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.

“C’mere, baby.”

And just like always, you go.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.

Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.

His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.

“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.

“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.

“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”

His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”

You step closer without thinking.

“You wanna help?”

You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”

The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.

“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”

And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.

“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.

You nod silently.

“Then stay.”

Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.

After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.

“Hold this for me.”

“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”

“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”

At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.

One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.

“I’m fucking useless.”

Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.

“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”

You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.

“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”

You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.

Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.

The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.

Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.

His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.

Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.

“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”

Bucky snorts softly without looking up.

“I’m working , sweetheart.”

“Mhm.”

He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”

You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”

A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.

“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”

“Barely.”

“You’ll make it.”

The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.

Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.

You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.

“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”

This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.

“Oh, so that’s what this is?”

You try to appear unbothered. “What?”

“You being a needy girl.”

Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.

“I am not needy.” You insist.

His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”

“No.”

“Mhm.”

You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend. 

“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.

The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.

“Oh, you’re trouble today.”

You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.

“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”

You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.

“You’re playing with fire, doll.”

You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”

Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”

His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.

“I need you, Jamie.”

And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.

“Jamie—”

“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.

Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.

“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.

“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing. 

“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed. 

See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.

And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.

By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further. 

Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.

You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.

The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.

Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.

“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”

“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.

You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”

“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.

“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”

There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.

“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”

You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.

“Oh, baby.”

And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.

Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.

“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”

Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.

You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”

He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.

“Mhm.”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”

The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.

“You need ice.”

“Mhm.”

“And water.”

“Probably.”

“And you should sit down for a minute.”

At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.

“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.

You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”

That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.

Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.

“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.

“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.

“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.

Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.

“…Little bit.” He decides finally.

Your eyes widen. “You do?”

“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.

You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”

“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”

“You don’t have a concussion.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.

He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.

“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”

Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.

“Too cold?” You ask softly.

“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”

You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”

“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.

“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”

That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.

“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.

This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.

“Keep spoiling me like this.”

The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.

“There,” you murmur. “Better?”

Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.

“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND YOUR MORNINGS TOGETHER The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.

You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.

So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.

Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.

“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”

His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.

“I’m awake.”

Bucky hums softly, deeply unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Yep. I was listening.”

“To what?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.

Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.

“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.

You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.

And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience. 

Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.

“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.

The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.

Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?

Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.

Your eyes fly open.

Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.

Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.

Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”

“For falling asleep here.”

“You were tired.” He frowns.

“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.

“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”

You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”

Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.

“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”

Your lips part slightly. “Well—”

“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”

It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.

“I liked waking up next to you.”

The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.

“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.

“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.

“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”

“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.

“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.

“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”

The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.

“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.

“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”

Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.

And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”

The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.

“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it. 

Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.

He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.

Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.

“Morning, baby.”

His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.

Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.

“What happened?”

You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”

Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.

“Show me.”

You turn in surprise. “What?”

“Show me what you gotta do.”

“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.

“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”

So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.

“This all for one class?”

“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.

Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.

At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.

“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”

You blink once. “Yes?”

He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”

“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.

Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.

“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”

You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.

“Is that a frog?”

You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”

“He encourages them.”

Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.

“Good for him.”

After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.

By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.

“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.

Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”

He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.

A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.

“Oh no.”

The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.

“No, no, no, no—”

Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”

He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.

“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”

But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—

Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”

Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.

“Sweetheart.”

You barely hear him.

“Where are my tights? Fuck—”

The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.

“Sit down for me.”

The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.

“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.

“You got thirty seconds.”

“Bucky—”

“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”

And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.

Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.

“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

“What about bottoms?”

“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”

A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”

“They’re different.”

“Mhm. I’m learning.”

He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.

“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”

Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”

“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”

And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.

By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.

“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.

“Bucky—”

He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.

“C’mere.”

You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.

“You need protein.”

You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”

You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”

That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”

He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.

He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.

“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.

Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”

“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”

The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.

“A little.” You nod reluctantly.

“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.

“You got everything?”

You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”

“That usually means no.”

You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”

He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.

“You forgot to fill this.”

“Oh.” You frown.

“And your portable charger.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.

“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”

Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.

“Why won’t this stupid thing—”

Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.

“There.”

Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.

You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.

You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.

“Text me when you get there.”

“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.

“You did good.”

You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”

“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”

He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.

He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.

“Now go teach your little gremlins.”

“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.

His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”

“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.

“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”

You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.

That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.

You don’t even think before stepping in.

“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”

One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”

He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.

“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”

You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”

That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”

He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.

And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.

Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.

The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.

“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”

The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.

“Try again.”

Silence.

Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”

The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.

His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.

“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”

You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”

Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s fifteen.”

“He’s still a student.”

His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”

With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon. 

“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.

“Didn’t look like you did.”

The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.

Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?

You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.

“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove. 

“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”

“I did help.” You frown at his back.

“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”

“I’m a teacher.”

“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”

That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.

“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.

Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.

You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.

“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.

“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.

He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.

“C’mere a second, baby.”

You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.

Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.

But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.

“We’re not doing silence, okay?”

Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”

“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs. 

“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”

The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.

“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”

“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.

“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”

Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer. 

“Then help me understand.”

Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.

And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.

“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”

You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”

“But I still made you feel that way.”

That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.

Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.

“C’mere, babygirl.”

You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.

“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”

“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.

“You still flinched.”

The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.

“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”

Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh. 

“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter. 

“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart. 

“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you. 

Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.

“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little. 

“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”

Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.

“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”

You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.

The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.

“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”

Your arms tighten around him at that.

“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”

A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.

Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”

You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”

“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.

“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”

You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.

“That sounds very therapist of you.”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”

A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.

“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”

You nod slowly. “I can do that.”

“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.

“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.

His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his. 

“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.

He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.

“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”

Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.

Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.

“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.

“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.

“You alright?”

The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.

“Were you scared of me?”

You almost flinch back. “What?”

“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”

You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”

“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”

You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.

“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”

You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.

“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”

“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.

“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”

You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”

His expression softens at the full name.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you. 

“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.” 

“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.

“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.

Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.

That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.

“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”

Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.

Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.

He pretends to find it deeply offensive.

“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.

“She sees you every day.”

“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”

Tonight is no different.

“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.

“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”

From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.

“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.

“You say that like you’re any better.”

The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.

“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.

“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”

“Mmh, that’s not true.”

“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”

You frown. “She was sick.”

“She had dust on her nose.”

You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.

Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”

“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”

“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.

“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”

You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.

“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.

“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.

Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”

His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.

“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”

Your breath catches quietly.

“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.

“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”

You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.

Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.

“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”

Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”

Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.

“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.

“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.

“Any future is right if you’re in it.”

Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.

“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”

You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.

“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.

And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.

Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.

“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”

— ⟢ END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

A/N: I posted this last october if I'm not wrong, and honestly this is still one of my favorite one-shots lol. the reader's behavior and personality was heavily inspired by karen from mean girls and rose from the golden girls (a line in particular comes from one of the episodes 🥸). hope you'll enjoy it!

“I can already smell the weed from here. It’s only eleven, for fuck’s sake.” Sarah grimaces as she gets out of the driver’s seat of her Nissan Versa. 

“It’s a college party, were you expecting tea and cookies?” Nicole sighs, bent over as she reties the straps of her shoes for the umpteenth time. 

The huge mansion sits among the bare trees like a sore thumb. Strings of fake cobwebs dangle from the balconies in tangled clumps, lazily swaying in the cold October breeze. The projectors wash the building in a ghostly glow and pumpkins with bizarre carved faces line the porch, their flickering candles warping the jagged smiles into something unsettling.

The front steps are already crowded with masked people smoking, drinking and laughing too loudly. Sarah snorts out loud as one of the few latecomers nearly trips over a fake gravestone planted in the lawn beside a massive steaming cauldron that reeks faintly of dry ice.

“At least this year Ethan and his minions put some effort into decorating. Do you remember last Halloween?” Nicole turns towards the house with Sarah beside her, but then glances back to find you still standing by the car window, adjusting the corset of your costume.

“Jesus,” Sarah huffs exasperated, planting a hand on her hip. “Stop fussing, you look good!” 

“Just a sec…” You mumble absently, turning sideways to check your back.

This year, the three of you agreed to not pick a group costume. Last Halloween had been a disaster from start to finish, mainly because Nicole wanted to go as Cher, Tai and Dionne from Clueless, while you suggested Sam, Clover and Alex from Totally Spies. Sarah was too busy with her now ex-boyfriend to care either way, and a few days before the party she ditched both of you to dress up as Princess Peach and Super Mario with him. 

Naturally, you and Nicole still managed to clash over something as simple as matching outfits: she pushed for Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, but you barely knew who they were, so you argued for Daphne and Velma instead. Long story short, neither of you had time to buy decent costumes and ended up throwing together the easiest thing possible: a devil and an angel.

Just like at least thirty other girls at the party. 

That same night, Sarah caught her dear Super Mario kissing Princess Daisy—her cousin—in one of the upstairs bathrooms of this exact mansion, and from that moment on, she swore off group costumes forever.

One year later, in front of the Nissan, a Kim Possible looks pretty much done with life, while a Cher from Clueless sits on the curb smoking her first cigarette of the night. And you, a bunny in a very revealing outfit, tap your lips to even out the glittery gloss.

You thought the ears were a little too big when you bought them, but now, paired with the sheer corset and the short skirt, they look perfect.

“Okay,” you tug the skirt down out of instinct, though the snug fabric barely moves against your thighs. “I’m ready!”

“Fucking finally.” Nicole mumbles, lifting herself from the sidewalk with a groan.

“Hey—” 

Sarah’s warning comes too late. Your body is already colliding with something solid, hard as steel. A startled yelp escapes you as a large hand instantly clamps around your bare arm to keep you from stumbling backward. You realize your eyes have squeezed shut reflexively only when they flutter open at once, landing directly on a broad chest covered by what looks like a black tactical vest. Your gaze slowly drifts up, along a strong neck, until it catches on a pair of blue eyes staring down at you. The lower half of the stranger’s face is hidden behind a black mask, yet you are instantly fascinated.

“Oh, hi!” You beam, tilting your head slightly, fully aware of how much guys usually love it when you do that.

The bulky stranger simply looks at you, expression barely changing. There’s a faint furrow between his brows that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s assessing you or debating scolding you for nearly knocking yourself flat against him.

A beat of silence passes between you, in which you let your curious eyes roam shamelessly on his face, before dropping to his impossibly large shoulders. Heat tingles low in your stomach, before a hint of embarrassment curls through you at how obvious you must look beneath his unwavering stare.

Someone clears their throat behind you, but you can’t look away. You don’t want to.

“Honey, let the gentleman go, c’mon.” Sarah grabs your wrist while wrapping her other arm around your waist to gently steer you away.

The long fingers around your forearm jump back as if your skin burned him.

“Nice costume, man. Looks expensive.” Nicole nods at the strange guy, still standing rigidly in the same spot. Only his eyes move, tracking you carefully as your friends lead you toward the entrance at an unhurried pace.

Something about him feels off and Sarah has no interest in provoking some potentially dangerous individual. After all, nights like these are full of creeps looking to take advantage of crowded parties and drunk girls.

Still, you glance back twice.

Each time, you catch him still looking at you.

Before fully crossing the threshold and navigating the sea of intoxicated students, your head turns one last time. The stranger is now facing the house with his shoulders squared beneath his dark clothes, and a stupid little thrill runs through your veins at the thought that maybe he might be here for the party as well.

Years without being touched by anything except harsh hands and cold medical equipment, and what unravels the Winter Soldier is a sweet-looking girl wearing bunny ears and clothes so tight he could almost trace the shape of her nipples. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt such a delicate thing brush against him.

Because you are soft. Too soft. Too pretty. He could snap your bones with one twist of his wrist, yet you looked at him like you wanted to be swallowed whole.

His heartbeat has not slowed down since the moment his hand closed around your arm. And as much as he wanted to glare at your friend the moment she took you away from him, he had taken the chance to study your body properly: from the luscious curve of your hips straining against that pathetic excuse for a skirt, to the way your tits threatened to spill from the indecent corset that looked almost painted onto your torso. The fishnet stockings bit into your flesh with every step you took, the tiny bows stitched along the hems probably meant to make the costume cute, but to the Soldier, they only made it filthier.

But the thing that truly made him swallow thickly was the puffy, white cotton tail sewn to the back of your skirt, right at the top of your ass.

Fake.

Such a shame.

He could picture it so clearly: grabbing it between his fingers and tugging until you made that sweet little sound again for him.

It makes his jaw clench beneath the mask.

With a sharp shake of his head, the Soldier forces the intrusive thoughts away.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Nobody was.

The orders had been clear: break in, eliminate everyone inside, then wait at the nearest safe house for extraction. 

No witnesses.

The target is a former HYDRA scientist who’d escaped over a decade ago. He’d covered his tracks well, moving states almost yearly, changing names often enough to become little more than smoke in old files. The Soldier vaguely wonders if the man had worked on the Winter Soldier project at some point, even if there would be no way to know. The face in the mission folder had looked painfully ordinary. Like all the others.

The wife and son were to be eliminated too, if present.

HYDRA had enforced the no witness rule brutally during his earlier missions. Back when he still hesitated. Back when stray civilians had managed to survive because he’d been too uncertain.

He can almost feel the scars across his back throb faintly at the memory—a lesson carved into flesh.

However, this situation is entirely new for the Asset.

For starters, the black SUV belonging to the scientist is missing from its usual spot in the driveway. And considering the mansion now resembles a nightclub overflowing with sweaty college students in cheap costumes, the target is clearly elsewhere.

He can’t proceed with the mission.

HYDRA hasn’t contacted him with further instructions either, which means he’s expected to wait at the designated safe house until retrieval. That could mean tomorrow. Or next week.

The Soldier looks back at the house spilling laughter and obnoxious music into the cold night air, then glances down at his gloved hand, slowly flexing his fingers.

Your warmth still seems trapped against his palm.

With a quiet exhale, barely audible beneath the pounding bass, he starts walking toward the door.

Inside, it’s pure chaos.

The bass from the speakers had already been rattling the lawn outside, but in here it practically punches through your rib cage. You roll your eyes at the umpteenth awful EDM remix of some new pop song you don’t even know the lyrics to. Personally, you’d rather dance to early 2000s hits—preferably ones not butchered by a DJ with a SoundCloud account and too much confidence.

People spill through every hallway of the mansion. The improvised dance floor is packed shoulder to shoulder with students clumsily grinding against each other beneath flashing purple lights, while smaller groups cling to the walls, shouting over the music with red cups clenched in their hands.

The smell hits the second you step inside: a mix of cheap perfume, spilled beer soaked into hardwood floors, and sweat that makes your nose wrinkle—all layered beneath the sickeningly sweet scent of vape smoke. Laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, blending with shrill screams every time the DJ blasts the fog machine over the crowd.

A staggering vampire bumps hard into your shoulder, nearly sending you wobbling off your pumps, but Sarah promptly catches your elbow before you can stumble. She immediately sends his back a glare, before shooting a look of utter disgust toward a group of visibly wasted frat boys gathered around the kitchen island.

“I hate college.” She gags dramatically, scowling as they loudly dare each other to shotgun whatever neon-colored concoction the host is pouring into their plastic cups.  

You grin at her because, honestly, Sarah would rather be home wrapped in a blanket watching some obscure slasher movie marathon. But after the stunt she pulled last Halloween, you and Nicole practically dragged her here by force. Ever since her cheating ex, she’d shut men out entirely, and a small part of you hopes tonight might finally loosen her up enough to flirt with some attractive masked stranger for a few hours.

Your attention drifts toward the windows lining the far wall. Beyond the glass, the quiet street stretches through the chilly night, washed in pale streetlights.

The strange man is nowhere to be seen.

Almost immediately, your eyes flick toward the front door, scanning person after person as they wander in and out. Vampires. Cheerleaders. Devils. Witches. Cowboys.

No sign of the hot, tall man in black tactical gear.

Disappointment settles strangely heavy in your chest. With a small, dejected sigh, you turn back toward your friends, who are currently debating whether it’s worth risking the kitchen—where there’s at least a seventy percent chance of walking in on some couple making out—for drinks, or staying in the living room to dance instead.

Adjusting your bunny ears with a small smile, you vote for alcohol.

“Hey, Nic!”

All three of you turn at the sound of a familiar voice.

Jacob, captain of the basketball team, jogs toward your group, stopping directly in front of Nicole with an easy grin plastered across his face.

“Hey, girls. Nice costumes.” He grins, wiggling his fingers at you and Sarah in greeting. She gives him a flat nod in return.

“Hi, Jacob! You too!” You smile politely, before leaning closer to your friend. “Is that a... basketball uniform?” You mumble into her ear.

“Of course.” She raises both eyebrows, pressing her lips together as she fights a chuckle at the sight of your college team’s uniform.

Jacob isn’t a bad guy. Just a little painfully self-absorbed. And maybe slightly too obsessed with basketball—to the point where being team captain has somehow become his entire personality. Nicole went on one date with him last semester and came back with a migraine after listening to him talk about playoff rankings for nearly two hours straight.

She’d tried letting him down gently afterward, but he insisted on staying friends. Now he trails after her like an overgrown golden retriever.

“Which player did he dress up as?” You ask quietly.

Sarah’s face goes completely blank. She stares at you for a full second, mouth opening and closing once before she gives up entirely and decides eavesdropping on their conversation is more worthwhile.

“I need a teammate for beer pong,” he mentions offhandedly, pointing toward the long folding table at the far end of the living room, where rows of red cups are already set up beneath flashing lights.

Nicole grimaces slightly. “I don’t know. Maybe later? I’m with my friends right now.”

“Don’t worry about us, Nic.” You interrupt immediately, grabbing Sarah’s arm before she can object. “We’re getting drinks, then we’ll come find you, right?”

Sarah smirks at Jacob’s instantly hopeful expression and nods once.

“See?” He spreads his arms dramatically. “C’mon, we’re gonna crush them. Don’t you remember? You’ve got a winning streak to defend.”

Nicole laughs—a sharp, bright sound that somehow cuts through the pounding music.

“Okay, fine.” She sighs, sending you a half-smile.

As she steps beside him, someone near the table suddenly shouts her name. Then another voice joins in. Within seconds, half the group is chanting Nicole! loud enough to rival a halftime show.

Throwing her arms into the air, she pumps her fists along with the cheers like she’s entering a stadium instead of a living room.

Sarah shakes her head before nudging you toward the kitchen. “C’mon, Lola Bunny. Let’s get a drink.”

If his handlers found out about this, he isn’t sure he would get away with something as mild as hair pulling and a few lashes on his back.

“Cool outfit, dude!”

A guy dressed up as a banana—only his face visible through the costume—shouts after him. The Soldier glances at him briefly, expression unreadable, before continuing to run a silent scan of the room, re-evaluating the night’s target. His enhanced senses catch everything at once, unfortunately: from the humid press of bodies, to the sour-sweet spill of rum beside the DJ booth. Sweat and perfume and alcohol mingle into something thick and suffocating.

“Shit, man. That’s a nice costume you got there.” Someone slurs behind him. “Looks like real metal—” Before the hand can even reach his wrist, instincts detonate and his fingers clutch the guy’s forearm.

Hard.

“Ow ow ow—sorry sorry! Y—You’re crushing my bones, dude!”

The man wearing a cheap Jack Sparrow costume goes pale beneath the eyeliner, features twisting in pain as the Asset looms over him, a silent threat carved into posture alone.

At some point, he registers a small cluster of students turning towards them, whispering with curiosity blooming into something sharper.

Exhaling, the Soldier ultimately decides to release his grip. The pirate stumbles back into his friend, who immediately starts scolding him about consent and personal space.

Satisfied with the clear warning, the Soldier turns around, moving again through the crowd.

He raises an eyebrow, scanning the sea of people with his keen eyes. Finally, he catches a familiar pair of bunny ears excitedly turning left and right.

He walks to a dark corner of the living room with deliberate ease, folding his arms across his chest and leisurely resting back against the wall.

And he waits.

Nicole’s yellow and navy-blue plaid jacket is neatly draped across Sarah’s arm as she rolls up the sleeves of her shirt, a cocky grin spreading across her face. 

“Watch and learn, losers.” She snaps, reaching for a ping-pong ball.

From the sidelines, Sarah offers a shout of encouragement, her voice already a little hoarse from all the previous screaming as Nicole sank those balls one right after the other in the rival team’s cups with brutal consistency. You lean into her slightly, eyes tracking the table from one end to the other as a red cup still full of peach vodka sits loosely in your hand, mostly forgotten as you watch the game unfold.

Nicole lines up her shot with practiced ease, wrist flicking at just the right angle. The ball arcs, drops, and sinks cleanly into the last cup with a satisfying splash.

The crowd erupts, chants of her name break out from multiple directions as you and Sarah cheer, briefly pulling Nicole into a tight, celebratory hug. Jacob throws himself at her, and she shrieks as his muscled arms lift her body from the ground, parading your friend around like he would do with the player scoring at the last minute of an important game. Nicole blows a kiss at the losing team, and once her feet touch the floor again, she bows before the intoxicated crowd surrounding the table. 

You dart forward to hug her again, while Sarah claps behind you, still laughing. 

“God, you were amazing. That was a really Tour de France!” You beam excitedly, but Nicole just stares at you deadpan for a second, before bursting out laughing, too tipsy to deal with your clueless ass.

“Thank you, bunny.”

“Also, Jacob is still very much smitten with you.” Your eyebrows wriggle up and down and Nicole is already sighing half-amused, lips parting to say something, but Sarah’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Her expression tightens, focus snapping in place as she leans closer to you and Nicole, lowering her voice.

“Tactical guy is here.”

“Who?”

“The weird guy you bumped into outside. Black gear and blue eyes. Tactical guy.” She explains as if her choice of the nickname should be obvious.

He’s easy to spot because he doesn’t belong here—not in movement, not in stillness, not in anything about the way he stands. He towers above the crowd in matte black, posture too controlled and a judging frown permanently etched on his features.

The people around him are too inebriated to notice him, yet he doesn’t even spare a mere glance to anyone who isn’t you, not even the girl in a lingerie-level costume strutting up and down the room, hoping to catch the attention of his icy eyes. 

She doesn’t know he’s busy admiring a much better view that is making his pants tighter and tighter the more he studies it.

“Holy shit,” Nicole gasps. “He’s staring at you.”

Your stomach does a weird flip at her confirmation. At least you aren’t imagining it. 

“Yeah, and it’s creepy as hell. He hasn’t blinked once in the past five minutes.” Sarah frowns, goosebumps running up and down her arms. Nicole just smirks, eyes flicking between him and your parted lips. 

“Go talk to him!”

“What? No way!” Sarah retorts, her head snapping towards the other. “He looks like he eats people like her for breakfast.”

“Duh, that’s exactly her type!” Nicole chuckles, nudging you forward as she gently takes the cup of vodka from your hand. “C’mon, put on that pretty smile of yours and he’ll be asking you to go upstairs before the next song starts.”

Across the room, his steady gaze still hasn’t moved.

Sarah grabs your right arm again. “Seriously, something’s off about him.”

“Boring!” Nicole says in a singsong voice, rolling her eyes to the sky. “We’re literally right here if anything happens.” She touches your left elbow, subtly pushing you forward.

If this were a cartoon, they’d be the angel and devil arguing over your shoulders.

You grin as usual, even if your heart is pounding so fast you are sure it’s going to come out of your chest any moment now.

With a small nod, you leave your two bickering friends behind and slowly make your way through the bodies swaying to the beat of Candy Shop. Your heels click against the sticky floor, until they stop short in front of the brooding man. 

“Hey.” You smile, shouting over the music. “You look kinda lonely. It’s okay if you don’t know anyone, first parties are totally the worst. At my first college party, I ended up throwing up on my crush’s shoes after kissing him.” He doesn’t answer, but a deep line forms between his eyebrows.

“You’re very quiet, but that’s fine. My friend Sarah says I talk enough for two people. Or a whole group, depends on how much caffeine I’ve had.” You shrug.

Still nothing. 

“So, um… what’s your name?” You tilt your head, this time expecting at least a reluctant answer, but the guy just keeps staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“You’re the silent type, hm?” You muse, your amused chuckle soft. “That’s okay. You’re like those spy movie protagonists who never smile until the very end, and then make everyone swoon the second they do.”

He blinks once. Slowly. Maybe a little confused?

“Anyway,” your manicured fingers adjust your bunny headband as you introduce yourself. “I don’t know if you remember but I actually ran into you earlier outside. Sorry again about that. I’m a little clumsy.” You clear your throat, taking a step forward.

“You really are a good listener, by the way!” You sigh dreamily. “Most guys just check their phones halfway through our conversation.”

“So,” You lean closer, slightly standing on the tip of your toes. “Do you want to dance? You look like you need to loosen up a little.” Your eyes immediately fall down to his torso, following the sculpted muscles hidden under those heavy clothes. It’s honestly a miracle slick doesn’t start running down your thighs the moment you realize he could literally pin you to the ground and have his wicked way with you right here in the middle of the party.

Well, you spoke too fast. 

The flimsy pair of panties you chose tonight to avoid the outline to be seen through the fit skirt, is getting damper. The thought of this beefy man fucking you until you pass out tickles the back of your brain for a second too long, and suddenly your thighs are clenching against each other in a way you are certain went unnoticed.

It didn’t. But you couldn’t know that the man in front of you is an enhanced individual who could probably track you from a single sniff of your pussy.

The pungent scent of something inherently you teases his nostrils even through the thick black mask. Yet he hesitates, as though he’s trying to determine whether ignoring you would make this conversation end faster. The problem is, he isn’t entirely sure he wants it to end. On one hand, he doubts he can keep himself together much longer if you continue speaking to him in that sweet voice, especially while standing this close to his starved body.

On the other… he doesn’t want to leave you.

But then you slip your hand into his left one, and his body stiffens.

“Wow, your hands are freezing!” You mention casually, squeezing his palm once. It’s indeed cold and weirdly smooth. Before his brain can fully process the alarming ease with which you’ve intertwined your fingers with the most dangerous weapon he possesses, you are unknowingly leading the fucking Winter Soldier straight onto a dance floor packed with sweaty college students—him silent and tense behind you, you practically glowing with excitement.

Yet, he doesn’t dare to stop you. 

Why would he do that? A gorgeous girl with soft hands and even softer eyes has been watching him like he embodies all her prohibited wet fantasies. He would be a cruel bastard to deny this pretty thing anything.

The dance floor is a chaos of flashing lights and flailing arms that makes the Soldier’s breath hitch, but you don’t give up, and lead him right into the middle of it. 

“Okay!” You yell over the music—far too close—and raise a finger. “Rule number one: just move! Don’t think too much about it or you’ll get self-conscious. I’m talking from experience.” Then raise a second one. “Rule number two: have fun!”

He just stands there—stiff as a marble statue—blue eyes darting back and forth, as if he can’t decide whether to scan the crowd like he’s on guard duty or watch the angel swaying her sinful hips right in front of him.

“See? It’s easy! Just let the music guide you.”

You smile anyway at his lack of response, peering up at him through your eyelashes. “You know, you look so cool. You’ve got this very brooding bodyguard vibe going on, like I’m some rich, dangerous man’s daughter and you’re protecting me from his enemies trying to harm me.”

Another confused blink. 

“Maybe I read too many fanfics.” You ponder under your breath, before you reprise your little tantalizing moves, giggling as your fingers barely wrap around both of his wrists to coax him to move with you.

Somewhere at the edge of the improvised dance floor, Nicole is whooping, bouncing on her feet like an overexcited puppy as she takes a sip of your drink. Beside her, Sarah observes the scene appalled.

“Shit.” She mutters, tiredly dragging a hand down her face.

“I like your company. You don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Also, you’re kind of scary—but like, in a cute way.” You chuckle, twirling once and nearly bumping into him again.

That’s when it happens.

A slow, careful shift of his shoulders, but it still is something. His movements are stiff, precise, like his body is negotiating with itself about whether it’s allowed to respond at all. But it’s enough to make you smile satisfied.

The heavy bass pulses hard through your bones, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget he isn’t even really dancing, yet his presence feels like gravity: solid, unshakable, dragging attention toward him without trying.

You turn once again, this time giving him your back. His hand accidentally brushes your hip, causing you to shiver at the faintest twitch of his fingers. They jump back at his side, flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to touch you.

You tilt your head up at him, eyelashes lowered just enough to make it feel deliberate. “Are you having fun, big guy?”

You don’t expect an answer, obviously, but the way his gaze sharpens, intensely following the movement of your lips, is enough for you. It’s not unsettling. On the contrary, it feels… focused. And you already love being the centre of his undivided attention. 

The music slows into a deeper beat, couples around you melting closer together, so you get bolder. Initially it’s your back simply brushing against his chest. And then, you unexpectedly find yourself gasping as his right arm circles your waist, keeping you firmly to his front. His jaw locks as you rub yourself against his solid body, your ass inevitably grinding against his bulge. For a second, you really think he might actually say something. Instead, his chest moves behind you with a slow exhale.

“You are so beautiful.” He murmurs against your neck, almost too quiet to hear. As a matter of fact, you don’t catch that, the words being swallowed by the loud song and the thick mask.

“Not so bad, right?” You bite your bottom lip, turning your face back enough to glance at him.

But your lips accidentally brush his mask and the last thread keeping his brain anchored to sanity rips in half.

“Oh!” A loud squeal erupts from your lips as the man spins you around and takes you into his arms. Suddenly, the world is hanging upside down.

Well, no. You are.

He throws your squirming body on his shoulder with an ease that should scare you, yet your stomach twists in excitement as you are kept completely still into his strong arms. You can feel several eyes burn through you as he struts towards the front door, an abrupt gust of cold wind sending a shiver down your spine as you realize he’s taking you somewhere outside.

“Oh my Gosh!” You giggle, feeling the urge to kick your legs like a teenage girl gushing about her crush. 

He’s taking you to the woods. This is really happening!

Inside, Nicole freezes mid-sip. “What the—is he taking her away?”

“I told you! Fuck, Nicole! I told you!” Sarah shrieks, running to the door with her friend in tow. They both stop on the porch, eyes frantically searching into the darkness, until they see you waving at them from his shoulder, grinning ear to ear. 

“Don’t wait up!” Nicole bursts out laughing, astonished.

“Holy shit, look at her, she’s loving it!”

Sarah groans in response, pressing a hand to her forehead, her chest heaving with quick, short breaths. “She’s giggling. She’s actually giggling. Why is she giggling?”

Nicole simply shrugs. “If a quiet, huge masked man with those gorgeous eyes picked me up like that to fuck me in the woods, I’d giggle too.”

They observe in silence as you get smaller and smaller, until you completely disappear amongst the dense trees. Nicole sighs, placing her hands on her hips.

“Well, you heard her, don’t need to wait up.” She claps once, skipping down the front steps.

“Where the fuck are you going? Of course we’re gonna wait for her to come back.” Nicole stops at the bottom of the stoop, throwing Sarah a deadpan look.

“You really think she’s coming back here? They will probably go at it like bunnies—pun not intended—all night, and then he’s going to take her home tomorrow morning.” She climbs two steps, grasping her friend’s wrist. “Like any adult having fun on Halloween.” She tugs at it, until Sarah reluctantly complies, hesitatingly following her to the Nissan.

“I don’t know, Nic. There’s something wrong about him—” 

“So what if the guy is quiet? Maybe he just wants to stay in character.” She huffs, raising both her eyebrows expectantly. 

“Mmh... that makes sense.” Sarah mutters, frowning at the trees. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Home. And we are watching the new The Conjuring. You look miserable here.”

“Well thanks, you asshole.”

“You still haven’t told me your name.” You breathe out, yet to be released. After a few seconds of silence, you huff out a laugh. “You really don’t talk much, do you? By the way, that exit was so dramatic. I loved it!” He grunts in reply, shaking his head. It’s a deep sound that makes your legs shake a little, and you hope you’ll hear it again when he pounds you against a tree.

The walk feels endless as you dangle upside down, forced to watch the ground without anyone to talk to. Finally, he stops in a rather secluded place, and from the looks of it, you must be quite far from Ethan’s house.

Good. You don’t need some wandering drunk couple ruining your night.

As soon as your heels touch the crouching leaves scattered on the damp land, you shriek in surprise, finding yourself pinned to a tree as the man’s hands eagerly explore the sides of your body.

“O—oh! That—that feels nice.” You gasp when his palms squeeze your tits, his thumbs roughly stroking your nipples. The Asset’s eyes don’t know where to focus, torn between your hazy eyes staring up at him pleadingly and the outline of your turgid nubs pressing insistently against the fabric of your top.

“I need to kiss you.” He mumbles, the tip of your nose brushing against his mask. The hoarseness in his voice makes you flinch. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in a while... A long while.

“I don’t understand you.” You complain, clinging onto his vest to keep him close. He sighs, abruptly leaving your chest to cradle your face with a certain rudeness that twists your insides with arousal.

“Kiss. But you close… eyes…” He utters tentatively, staring right into your sparkling eyes. “Don’t look.” 

The implications of seeing his face are several and dire. First and foremost, he doesn’t even remember the last time he saw his reflection, and his heart wouldn’t bear a potential rejection. What HYDRA forces him to do is repulsive, but of course you don’t know who he is—and you don’t need to. His face could reflect that repulsiveness though, and be in the worst conditions known to mankind. At that point, why would someone as lovely as you allow him to taint your body with his touch? 

Plus, recognizing him would mean putting a target as large as a skyscraper on your back. If anyone were to ever find out about this, you would be in serious danger with both legal and illegal organizations. 

The less you know, the better.

Your eager nod momentarily sets his worries, your hands immediately shooting up to cover your face. The Soldier’s mouth twists into what should be a small smile, but probably looks more like a grimace after years of his features knowing only pain and anger. His trembling fingers reach for the side of the mask, stopping there briefly to take you in. He waits, just enough to make sure you are actually following his order. Then, the device is tossed to the side with an uncaring flick of his hand, falling on the ground with a dull thud.

His fingers shake as they wrap around each of your wrists, waiting. 

“Kiss, but… don’t look.” He repeats, his voice coming out in a rough, agitated whisper.

“My eyes are closed.” You swear, giving him a resolute nod. The Soldier lowers your hands with great care, until he can see your pinched expression as you keep your eyes squeezed shut. 

And then, your lips finally meet. From the way he was treating you a second ago, you would think he was going to kiss you just as softly, like a doll made of glass.

Wrong.

The kiss is feral. His teeth clash against yours, biting and tasting you as if he has been waiting for you his whole life, his tongue frantically searching yours as his hands keep your jaw firmly open, allowing him to do whatever he wants with you. 

And you can’t help a needy whimper from clawing out of your throat.

The Soldier pulls you closer to his chest, his metal arm now wrapping around your waist as the other hand traces a slow path down your body, from the side of your breast to your exposed thigh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. 

He knows he just crossed an inviolable line he won’t easily come back from. He was ruined the moment he decided to look for you inside that chaotic mansion instead of following HYDRA’s orders. Yet, that stinging guilt rapidly crumbles the more he kisses this sweet creature.

He has yearned for something warm for so long. Something soft, and pretty, and nice. Something that is completely and utterly his. And now, it is time to finally collect what he is owed.

The sloppy kiss is met with eagerness from your part, your hands urgently tugging at his vest to keep him pressed against your squirming form. You need more. You need to feel him too. 

He reaches for the corset first, pulling both cups down until your breasts spill free from their confines. Once his lips leave yours to focus on your neck, you let out a gasp at how dizzy you feel—your head has been spinning all along because of the intensity radiating off him.

Your moans are still pretty restrained, and the Asset doesn’t like that at all. He wants to hear you whimper for him, beg him to paint your insides white, scream his name over and over again in that sweet voice of yours.

His name. 

He doesn’t own a name.

Maybe you could give him one. You sound like a creative girl, with all your silly little anecdotes.

When his mouth finally reaches the swell of your chest, the sight of your soft, bare tits makes him grunt appreciatively. His lips immediately latch onto one of your nipples, while his capable fingers flick and tug at the other. Your whimpers echo through the small clearing as he uses his teeth to lightly pull at your sensitive nub, moaning as he feels it hardening in his mouth. The way he kneads and sucks at your soft skin reminds you of a starving man being offered food after a week without eating.

The Soldier has never seen a more beautiful pair of breasts in his entire life. Well, he doesn’t remember ever looking at a woman’s chest before, but if he did, he is sure it wouldn’t even get close to yours. 

The hickeys that now mark the tender skin of your tits are burning, causing you to flinch each time the Soldier’s tongue worships them softly. 

“What—oh shit—what’s your name?” You utter between your own wanton noises, eyes still closed as your head falls back against the bark of the tree. Your bare back keeps brushing against it as your body jerks in time with his tongue stroking your nipples. They are so sore, tingling whenever he leaves one exposed to the chilly October air to give the other some love. Still, the scratches on your back are already burning as the coarse surface cruelly scrapes your skin, and you’re certain they are going to hurt so bad in the following days.

The Asset momentarily leaves your nub with a wet pop, frowning up at your parted lips. He grips your jaw with one hand, keeping your mouth open while rising to his full height. He gathers a bit of saliva, before letting it fall gently onto your tongue. Your breath hitches at the unexpected, lewd act.

“Swallow.” His cock twitches at the way you obey at once.

“Soldat.” His voice is authoritative, leaving no space for questions and doubts, before going back to lavish your nipples. Your eyebrows momentarily knit in confusion, not understanding what it means.

Is it a video game character? Is that why he’s all geared up like some sort of spy?

Your brain doesn’t have the time to elaborate a sensible question, as a twist of your poor, abused peaks draws a loud cry out of your throat. 

The scent coming from between your legs is now too much for his straining cock. He needs to taste all of you: your mouth is sweet, your breasts are sweet... but the Soldier is certain your pussy is even sweeter.

With an annoyed huff at the realization he has to leave your tits, he makes quick work of removing his tactical vest, tossing it on the ground. You squeal as you are once again lifted in the air; still, you keep your eyes firmly shut and that makes his expression soften a little. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, sweetheart.” With a small peck, he takes you away from the poor tree that has already witnessed enough for one night, manhandling you down on your knees and guiding your hands on the ground to make you understand he wants you on all four.

“Stay.” The order growled right into your ear, along with his hands squeezing your hips, makes you whimper and nod quickly as a reflex.

Now that he’s behind you, you deem the situation safe enough for you to slowly open your eyes. Black spots soon materialize out of nowhere, yet you notice immediately the rough fabric underneath you. 

“Oh,” you blink at it. “Thank you, Soldat.” 

There might be a feral beast clawing at his chest, challenging him to take you right there right now, over and over again, but he doesn’t want the rough ground to scratch your knees and palms. The softness in your voice makes him tense up, enough to feel an unfamiliar sting behind his eyes. His name—his title—said with so much gentleness stokes the flames in his lower belly until he feels a damn blaze licking at his insides.

You barely catch the black glove being discarded to the side as his calloused hands grope your hips, pushing you back against his crotch. You gasp at the ferocity he puts into his thrusts as he starts rutting your ass, grunting and panting with the effort of not coming in his pants like a fucking virgin seeing a pretty girl half-naked for the first time.

“This is what you’ve done to me.” He groans under his breath.

“Soldat…” You hum, one arm reaching behind to caress a strong thigh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to come like this, humping me like an animal.” The little airy giggle you let out makes him swallow, a shiver running down his back at those mocking words that should make him recoil. Instead, the fire grows, and before he can regain control of his body, his hips stop abruptly. 

His nimble fingers don’t waste any more time, lifting the hem of your skirt until your ass is completely at his mercy.

“Yes, yes!” You encourage him, gently rocking back. The heady scent is stronger now, but it’s still not enough. The flimsy panties leave you with a sad ripping noise and a feral growl rumbling in his chest. A gasp falls from your lips at the sudden bareness of your core, giggling when you hear him inhale deeply. Is he smelling your underwear? Fuck, you want to turn around so bad and enjoy the show.

The Soldier almost drools when your scent clings to his nose, along with your slick soiling the delicate fabric. He clumsily stuffs your panties into his pocket, shifting around until he’s lying right beneath the lower half of your body.

“C’mere, bunny.” His digits sink into the skin of your thighs, forcing you down until you are fully sitting on his face. “It’s time to eat.”

“Wait! Oh, fuck!” Your lips part pathetically around a breathy moan as his tongue looks for your clit, pulling your knees apart until you’re completely spread open for him. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your hips uncontrollably buckle down, clawing at the vest when the tip of his tongue leisurely flicks your throbbing nub.

A loud moan escapes your lips when he finally breaches your hole, eating and sucking as if he’s savoring the most exquisite delicacy he’s ever had the chance to taste. Your body squirms at the unforgiving stimulation, still, you’re covering his face like a fucking oxygen mask and you’re far too worried he’s not breathing at all. 

“S—Soldat, wait! You can’t brea—AH!” A smacking sound echoes through the air as his palm leaves his mark on your asscheek. “Fuck, please! Do it again.” You beg, hips grinding down without restraint as slick shamelessly falls into his waiting mouth.

Finally.

The Asset internally preens at your enthusiastic reaction to something he did so spontaneously. Unprompted. Human.

Because you are not treating him like a ruthless weapon. A lethal killer that acts in the shadow. An ugly experiment with no dignity left. 

But like a man.

So he does it again. And again. 

“Taste so good, my pretty bunny.” He rasps out, returning to your clit, two of his fingers curling inside you in the meantime. You yelp, the knot in your belly getting closer and closer to snapping. Your asscheeks are burning, yet you don’t stop his punishing palm, instead arching up into his hand every time it comes down on your tender skin. 

“I’m gonna come.” You mumble deliriously, sobbing when in response his metal palm smacks your ass before meanly grabbing the tender flesh, and a third finger joins the other two, pounding against that sweet spot of yours before your orgasm hits you out of nowhere.

“Fuck fuck—Soldat!”

He wonders what he’s going to do from now on when he hears that word. It would be impossible to not get hard as your delightful whines resound through his mind. 

Your hole clenches desperately as he nurses on your throbbing clit one last time, panting heavily once he lifts your shaky thighs up. 

“Holy shit.” He whispers surprised, licking his lips clean. His lower face is completely damp with your arousal, and in that moment he decides he’s not going to wash his face until the scent disappears on its own. 

The Soldier takes a good, long look at your trembling body, now back on his knees behind you. His palms gently caress your raw skin, pulling a shiver out of you as one of his two palms is colder than the other, yet the sensation is soothing against your burning cheeks. 

He would really love to kiss the sensitive spots until you fall asleep, but he can’t stop now, not when his cock is painfully craving to be inside you, his imposing bulge pushing forcefully against his pants.

The rustling sounds behind you are loud but you can’t find it in yourself to focus, still dizzy after the violent orgasm Soldat drew out of you mercilessly. You are not inexperienced by any means, yet you’ve never come this hard and fast in your life. You wonder if it’s the whole situation influencing you—being half-naked in the woods while a feral, beefy stranger eats your pussy as if it’s his last day on Earth—or if he’s just that good.

Maybe it’s a mix of both, maybe it’s something else. You don’t care. You just want him to rearrange your insides. Now.

You seem to share the same sentiment as your eyes widen at his cock obstinate at your wet folds. Your gasp soon morphs into a startled moan when the tip slides inside. The way he feeds you his length is far from careful, and without warning, your hole is tightening around all of him.

The Soldier needs to take a deep breath, the muscles in his abdomen clenching to prevent himself from disappointing you by spilling his cum at once.

When was the last time he was intimate with someone? When was the last time he felt something other than fear? 

He doesn’t hold back, gradually pulling back, before lust takes over him and your trembling arms give up under you. You fall forward with a whimper, resting your cheek on his vest as his grip on your hips becomes brutal, and barely catching the foreign words being muttered under his breath.

You are delirious with pleasure, the stretch of his thick girth burning so good you can’t breath—for a second you truly fear your hole is going to tear apart.

It’s almost humiliating how it takes only a big cock and a pair of broad shoulders to reduce you to a shaky mess of moans and whimpers. 

“Beautiful, sweet creature... you’re so lovely.” The obscene, sloppy noises of your pussy swallowing every inch of him drives him insane. You’re like heaven incarnate wrapped around him, and he refuses to leave, his hips barely pulling back as he clumsily humps you from behind. 

“Mine, mine, mine.” You whisper the name he gave you, lying helpless with your eyes rolled into oblivion and drool soaking the dark fabric under you. It’s a miracle how the bunny headband still survives on your head as his harsh thrusts push your body back and forth, your fingers weakly holding onto the same ruined vest that your nipples brush against, now rubbed raw and sensitive.

“That’s a good girl. She’s squeezing me so tight, baby. I can’t let you go now that I found you, need to keep you forever here around my cock.” He grits out, head falling back as he feels his orgasm dangerously close, yet he’s ready to deny himself over and over again until he can feel you come around him again.

“Bet you’d like that... be my little cumdump until you are too full it starts spilling down your thighs. But I’ll just fuck more into you and then everyone will know you are fucking mine.” That’s when, with his mind clouded by pure pleasure, he reaches between your wet thighs, experimentally spanking your clit.

“Fuck!” Your squeal pulls a smirk on his lips, prompting him to do that again, his thrusts still frantic and erratic. 

“Take it, my sweet little bunny. That’s it.”

Your nub throbs as the man fucking you like an animal smacks it repeatedly, and you’re certain he’s enjoying himself so much watching you jolt each time, panting like a dog the louder you whimper. His tip relentlessly taps your sweet spot, and it’s just a matter of time before you let out a delirious moan, walls tightening as your second climax washes over you—this time leaving you stiff and crying as wave after wave of bliss settle deep in your bones. 

 “Got… you.” The Asset grits out breathless as he buries his cock deep into you with a hard, final thrust, succumbing to the overwhelming sensation of your hole squeezing him. He falls over the edge with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your insides at once—there’s so much of it you almost choke at the unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation of being stuffed full.

You shiver under him, exhausted but sated, yet the Soldier doesn’t seem to want to budge, still hugging you tight as his thighs shakes at every little twitch of his cock. 

It feels too much.

His dick snug inside your tight heat, your body held with care by the same hands soiled with innocents’ blood, the sudden emptiness in his chest after such a heavenly experience... Should he cry? He feels like crying. He’s almost certain of it, though he doesn’t understand why. He just had the best night of his entire life with the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. 

Still, the weird sensation sits somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar, pressing against ribs that only know obedience and survival.

He knows he’ll have to move eventually, reality catching up to him the moment he steps too far from this strange warmth you keep offering so freely.

But he doesn’t want to let you go yet.

Honestly, he isn’t sure he can.

“Soldat, my back hurts.” Your voice is feeble yet tinted with amusement. Still, he scrambles on his knees, pulling out carefully in fear of hurting you. You wheeze softly at the sudden loss, your weak arms barely moving at your sides as you try to get yourself into an upright position, but the man behind you has other plans. You find yourself facing him at once, gently led down until your back is touching the vest.

With your mind too foggy with exhaustion, it is hard to remember the only rule he gave you. And shock flashes across your face the moment you can finally see Soldat’s handsome features clearly.

Your lips part, a compliment already rising to the surface, but it never makes it out. His hands come up instead, cradling your face with surprising tenderness before guiding you into a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no urgency in his actions this time, no hunger sharpened by desperation. Just some deep and achingly careful adoration that makes your heart clench painfully all the same. The kind of kiss that feels dangerously close to a goodbye. Like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.

He kisses you until your lungs are begging for oxygen, and when he finally pulls away, neither of you can move. His blue eyes simply observe you, urgently tracing your features with a spark of veneration glinting in his gaze.

You look like the personification of debauchery with your smudged mascara and lips swollen from kissing and biting, the poor bunny ears hanging crookedly from your hair after being fucked so crudely.

Yet, the Winter Soldier thinks he has never seen anything prettier.

“I looked at you.” You whisper softly, your dazed eyes dancing over his face with sleepy fascination, utterly devoid of remorse.

His right thumb lovingly strokes your cheek, and somewhere beneath the Soldier, beneath HYDRA’s cruelty, something human finally smiles back at you.

Dean Di Laurentis leaned against the glass like he belonged in a hockey equipment ad. Sporting a Briar hoodie with a baseball cap shoved backward. An annoyingly amused expression plastered on his face.

Up close, he looked less polished than he did in the campus photos. Tired around the eyes. Hair curling slightly from the humidity of the rink.

Still irritatingly attractive, unfortunately.

“I support competence,” I replied. Dean barked out a laugh. “Jesus. Remind me never to disappoint you.” “You play hockey at Briar. I’m assuming disappointment isn’t something you experience often.” “Wow,” he said. “You know, most people start with hello.” I finally shut my textbook. “Most people don’t hover over me while I’m trying to study.” “Fair.”

For a second, neither of us said anything. The sounds of skates scraping across the ice filled the silence.

Then Dean nodded toward Leo. “You were right last week, by the way.” “About?” “The shoulder thing.” He crossed his arms. “Kid practically announces his backhand before he even moves.” I tried not to look too smug. “I’ve been telling him that for a year.” “Yeah, well.” Dean shrugged. “You explained it better than his last coach.”

That caught me slightly off guard.

Not because he complimented me. Mostly because he said it like he actually meant it. Before I could respond, a puck slammed against the boards behind him.

“Coach Dean!” one of the kids yelled. “Mikey said a bad word!” Dean closed his eyes briefly. “Fantastic.”

I snorted before I could stop myself.

His head turned toward me immediately, like he was surprised I’d laughed at all. Then he grinned.

And that was probably the first real problem.

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Over the next couple weeks, Dean became weirdly unavoidable. Not in an aggressive way.

Just… present.

Sometimes he’d stop by the bleachers between drills to complain about the kids trying to fight each other. Sometimes he’d steal my highlighters. One time he sat next to me without asking and spent ten straight minutes trying to guess what I was studying based solely on diagrams.

“That one’s definitely the liver.” “It’s the brain.” “Well,” he said, frowning at the page. “That feels poorly drawn.”

Another time, he showed up with a caramel iced coffee and handed it to me casually.

“I didn’t ask for this.” “Yeah, but you looked miserable.” “I always look miserable here.” “That’s true,” he admitted. “But today looked worse.”

I tried very hard to stop the familiar feeling in my stomach.

It got worse after he started actually helping Leo. Not fake mentorship-program helping. Real helping.

Dean stayed late after practice fixing Leo’s shot mechanics. He chirped at him constantly, but he was patient about it. Never made him feel stupid. Halfway through one drill, Dean pointed toward the ice with his water bottle.

“Watch.”

Leo pushed forward into the line, shoulders level this time instead of dipping left before his backhand. The puck snapped cleanly into the top corner. Leo immediately turned toward the bleachers, both arms raised like he’d just scored a game winner.

Dean looked annoyingly pleased with himself.

“Okay,” I admitted reluctantly. “That was actually a good adjustment.” “Thank you,” Dean said solemnly. “I’ll remember this compliment forever.”

Leo adored him almost immediately.

“You know he likes you, right?” Leo asked one night while I helped him untie his skates. You: “Dean likes everybody.” Leo: “No, like likes you.”

I nearly dropped the skate.

You: “He does not.” Leo gave me a look that was far too knowing for a ten-year-old. “He asked if you were coming next Thursday.” You: “That doesn’t mean anything.” Leo: “He remembered your coffee order.” I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you paying attention to this?” Leo: “Because it’s embarrassing watching both of you pretend.”

I stared at him.

You: “Who let you get this nosy?” Leo: “You did. You raised me.”

Unfortunately, he had a point.

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The first time Dean and I really talked was because the rink vending machine ate my last five dollars. I smacked the side of it again.

Nothing.

“You know violence isn’t usually the answer.”

I looked over to find Dean walking into the lobby carrying his gear bag over one shoulder.

“This machine just stole from me.” “Tragic.” “I’m serious. That was the last of my cash.”

Dean crouched in front of the vending machine, inspecting it like it was a complex debate. Then he hit one specific spot with the side of his fist.

My granola bar dropped. My immediate thought was wow even a damn vending machine listens to him.

I blinked. “What.” “Spent enough years in hockey rinks, you learn things.” “You learn how to assault vending machines?” “It’s a gift.”

He handed me the granola bar with a dramatic flourish before dropping into the chair across from me.

“You’re here late.” “Organic chemistry.” “That sounds fake.” “It unfortunately isn’t.” Dean leaned back in the chair. “Okay, explain one chemistry thing to me.” “Why?” “Because I failed a chem quiz last semester and I’m still bitter about it.” A laugh slipped out. “You failed chemistry?” “Relax. I’m just pretty and athletic.” “That’s actually devastating news for women across campus.” “I know.”

He smiled when he said it, but there was something loose about him tonight. Less performative.

Not hockey-star Dean. Just… Dean.

And somehow that version made it worse for me.

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A week later, Dean picked up one of my anatomy flashcards off the table during practice.

“CN Seven,” he read. “This sounds fake already.” “It’s the facial nerve.” “And you just know that immediately?” “I’ve already had to memorize all twelve cranial nerves for three separate classes this past semester.” “That’s horrifying.” “You’re telling me.” He flipped the card over. “Okay, wait. What does this one do?” “Motor function for facial expression. Taste for the front two-thirds of the tongue.” Dean stared at me for a second. “You people are terrifying.” “You play hockey for fun.” “Yeah, but concussions are different from homework.”

Somehow, he made being mocked feel like a compliment.

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The rink got colder the later it got.

By the second half of practice, I’d started stuffing my hands into my sleeves between highlighting notes.

Dean noticed eventually.

Didn’t say anything about it, either.

He just walked past after drill rotations and dropped his Briar hoodie over my head like he was throwing a blanket over furniture.

I pulled it down enough to glare at him. “What is wrong with you?” “You looked cold.” “And this was your solution?” “You’re welcome, by the way.”

The stupid thing smelled like laundry detergent and his cologne.

Is it bad that I wanted to take it home?

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By the time the late-night skating happened, it didn’t feel random anymore. It felt inevitable in the way small things sometimes do before you realize they’ve become important.

Leo’s practice had ended almost an hour earlier. One of the other parents offered to drive him home, which left me alone in the nearly empty rink lobby with my laptop, a pile of flashcards, and a rapidly deteriorating mental state.

The overhead lights above the rink had been dimmed, leaving the ice washed in cool blue light that stretched long shadows across the empty surface.

Dean wandered out of the varsity locker room sometime after ten, hair damp from his shower and duffel bag hanging off one shoulder.

He slowed when he spotted me.

“You’re still here?” “Anatomy exam tomorrow.” “Bad?” “I think my brain has started rejecting information on principle.”

Dean dropped into the chair across from me and picked up one of my flashcards before I could stop him.

“CN Ten,” he read. “This one sounds important.” “The vagus nerve.” “Huh?”

Despite myself, I grinned down at the table.

Dean noticed.

That was the issue with him lately. He notices things.

Dean grinned slightly before flipping the card over. “What’s it do?” “Parasympathetic control of the heart, lungs, digestive tract—” “Okay, hold on.” He held up a hand. “How are you remembering all of this?” “I’m not,” I said flatly. “I’m actively dying.” “Seems dramatic.” “You failed chemistry.” “That was one time.” “Didn’t you just say you were still bitter about it?” Dean pointed at me. “See? This is why I can’t stand pre-med students. You people remember everything.”

After a minute, he leaned back in his chair and nodded toward the rink doors.

“You need a break.” “I really don’t.” “You’ve been staring at flashcards for like three hours.” “I have an exam.” “And your eyes look crossed.” “They are crossed.”

Dean stood up and grabbed two pairs of skates from beside the rental counter.

“Oh my god.” “Ten minutes.” “Dean—” “Doctor’s orders.” “You’re not a doctor.” “Well… Coach's orders, then.” he said, which honestly sounded more like a question.

I should’ve said no.

Instead, twenty minutes later, I was stepping out onto freshly zambonied ice in borrowed skates while Dean skated backward in front of me with entirely too much confidence.

The rink was quiet except for the soft scrape of blades cutting across the ice.

Better than anatomy, unfortunately.

Dean matched my pace easily. “You know, you’re less scary when you’re not holding flashcards.” “That’s disappointing. Fear was all I had going for me.” “Nah.” He glanced over at me briefly. “You’ve also got the judgmental staring thing.” “I do not.” “You absolutely do.”

I opened my mouth to argue and immediately lost balance slightly on a turn.

Dean caught my waist automatically. For a second, neither of us moved.

Then he let go.

Not awkwardly per se.

Just aware. As usual.

“Oh my god,” I muttered. “Leo is never hearing about this.” Dean chuckled quietly. “Your reputation survives another day.”

We skated another lap after that.

Then another.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t thinking about the exam anymore.

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The outfit helped. There were worse ways to feel emotionally unstable than in a pink corset that made her waist look tiny and a sheer midi skirt that moved around her legs in soft, layered pieces, all gauzy and petal-thin whenever she shifted her weight. 

Glitter sat over the high points of her cheekbones, dusted down over her collarbones and the slope of her chest, catching every time she turned toward the lights. 

Allie had done it with the focus of a surgeon and the morals of a drag queen, leaning in close in the dressing room and saying, “If one person doesn’t accidentally walk into a wall tonight, I’ve failed.”

So, yes. The outfit helped. It didn’t, unfortunately, make her immune to Garrett Graham walking into a room.

Which was rude, honestly. Deeply rude. Months should have been enough time for a body to stop reacting to one specific man. Months should have been enough time for the sight of broad shoulders in a fitted sweater and dark curls and that stupid easy way he moved through a crowd to become a normal campus sighting, like a flyer for open mic night or a freshman crying outside the library. Something observed. Something passed.

Instead, the second the doors opened and Garrett came in with Tucker beside him and Dean a half-step ahead, her hand tightened around the plastic cup she wasn’t drinking from, the cheap rim biting lightly into her palm.

He looked good, of course. It would’ve been too merciful of the universe to let him come in looking tired or badly dressed or even slightly humbled by the winter. But no. Olive-green fitted knit, black pants, chain at his throat catching under the lobby lights in one small flash that felt frankly targeted. 

His hair was doing the annoying Garrett thing where it looked messy in a way she knew took no effort at all. He laughed at something Dean said as they came in, head tilting, mouth bright, shoulders loose, and the sound hit somewhere behind her ribs before she had time to brace for it.

Amazing. Fantastic. Great start.

She had broken up with him. This was a fact she kept returning to with the grim determination of a person trying to build a table out of wet cardboard. 

She had done it. She had said the words. She had decided she couldn’t keep standing in the middle of whatever they were, feeling like she was being measured against a whole campus of girls who had touched him before her, after her, near her, around her, in stories told too casually by boys who forgot she was in the room. 

She had been the one who got tired of swallowing the old hurt and pretending it wasn’t humiliating to know exactly how easily Garrett had been wanted before her. 

And he had been tired too, in his own way. Tired of needing her to be fine when she wasn’t. Tired of not knowing what to do with all the stuff in her that didn’t arrange itself neatly around his games, his schedule, his charm, his ability to walk into a room and be adored without seeming to ask.

They had loved each other badly for a while. Or maybe not badly, maybe just youngly. Messily. With too much pride and not enough skill.

Still, some ugly little part of her had thought they might circle back eventually. Maybe they’d talk one night after a party. Maybe he’d text. Maybe she would. Maybe they’d find each other in the line at the coffee place and it wouldn’t feel like stepping wrong on a bruised ankle anymore.

And then there was Hannah. Pretty, sweet Hannah, with the clear voice and the soft eyes and the kind of face that made jealousy feel especially tacky, because what was she supposed to do, dislike someone for being lovely? 

Garrett had been around her lately. Enough that people noticed. Enough that even if nobody had said anything directly, campus had done what campus always did and arranged a narrative out of sightings: Garrett and Hannah walking together after class, Garrett laughing beside her outside the music building, Garrett standing with his head bent toward her like he was listening properly. Garrett looking happy.

Now he’d barely made it three steps inside before his eyes found her. Hannah stood near the centre tables with Justin, hands wrapped around a cup, smiling up at him when he approached. Garrett’s face changed when he saw her. A small, immediate softening, a shift around the eyes, the kind of thing that had once made her feel chosen when it happened in her direction, and now made the inside of her mouth taste faintly metallic.

He crossed the room to Hannah like it was the most obvious place in the world for his body to go. She looked away before it could get humiliating.

“Careful,” Dean said beside her, not looking at Garrett, which meant he absolutely had been looking at Garrett. “You’re making the cup beg for mercy.”

She glanced down and realised the plastic had dented under her fingers. “It likes it.”

Dean’s mouth pulled into a grin. He looked almost offensively at ease in the lobby, all tall limbs and rich-boy posture, holding his drink with the lazy entitlement of someone who had never once questioned whether he belonged in a room. 

Dean Di Laurentis was a ridiculous person in many, many ways, but he had turned out to be a surprisingly decent friend once sex had been removed from the table with a large, permanent sign reading Garrett’s ex, do not touch unless you enjoy being murdered by a teammate and possibly also God. 

He still flirted as a reflex sometimes, but only in the harmless, atmospheric way he flirted with bartenders, professors, elderly women, and traffic lights. But mostly he’d just been a decent friend. He kept making stupid jokes. Kept inviting her into conversations when Garrett was around and things got weird. Kept pretending not to notice when she needed two seconds to recover from seeing her ex with his new girl.

“Very healthy dynamic you and the cup have,” Tucker said from Dean’s other side.

She looked at him, grateful for the dry landing. “Thank you. We’re working through some things.”

Tucker nodded solemnly. “Communication is key.”

Beau, who had been standing with them in the slightly dazed posture of a man who had agreed to come to theatre with hockey players and was now realising the bar had been a survival mechanism, lifted his drink. “I’m just excited to be culturally enriched.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “You are so brave.”

“I know,” Beau said. “Nobody talks about it.”

She laughed, and for a second the tight little thing under her sternum loosened. That was the problem with Dean, and Tucker, and the strange leftover orbit of Garrett’s world. She had meant to break up with one man and accidentally kept access to a whole ecosystem of idiots she had become fond of against her will. 

Dean had simply refused to leave the friend column. Tucker remained polite, steady, and impossible not to like. Logan wasn’t here tonight, thank God, because Logan in a theatre full of audience participation and alcohol felt like the kind of threat insurance companies wrote special clauses about.

Then, because the universe was committed to the theme of personal attack, Kendall walked in. She saw the hair first, glossy and perfect over a pink top, then the mouth, then the easy way Kendall scanned the room like she expected at least one person in it to have thought about her naked. 

Which, fine. Maybe statistically likely. Kendall had been one of those Garrett-adjacent girls before they’d dated, and then again after. Ex-fuck buddy? Fling? Girl who existed in the category of people who made her feel like a loser for caring about categories at all? Whatever the technical term, Kendall’s presence tonight was almost funny in its cruelty.

Her ex. Her ex’s new almost-girlfriend. Her ex’s former something. All in the audience of a show where she was dressed like a fairy slut and encouraged to make people drink.

Theatre, she thought, with an internal hysteria so clean it almost felt spiritual.

The lobby lights flashed once, then again, the signal bouncing over everyone’s faces in white little bursts. Her cue to move. Her body recognised it before her brain fully did, all the nerves that had been wasting themselves on Garrett snapping toward the familiar machinery of performance. 

Places. Breath. Smile. Shoulders back. Don’t trip in the heels. Don’t look at the man in the olive-green sweater like he took something with him and left a bruise.

She reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm, fingers closing around his sleeve, the grin coming on fast and bright because finally there was something to do with her face that wasn’t feel. “That’s my cue.”

Dean looked down at her hand, then at her, his grin softening in a way he would deny under oath. “Break a leg.”

“Thanks, guys.” She lifted her cup in a tiny salute toward Tucker and Beau. “Have fun. Drink up.”

“We’re here for the art,” Tucker said.

“No, you’re not,” she said, already backing away.

“Okay, fine,” Dean called after her. “We’re here for the hot girls in corsets.”

She flipped him off without turning around and heard him laugh as she slipped through the side door toward backstage.

The second the door shut behind her, the lobby noise turned muffled and thick, swallowed by black curtains and narrow hallways and the backstage smell of dust, hairspray, old wood, and bodies trying not to panic. 

Allie was already there in her blue corset, hair curled, glitter catching at her temples, looking both gorgeous and like she might bite anyone who wished her good luck too earnestly.

“You saw him?” Allie asked immediately.

She blinked. “Hello to you too.”

Allie gave her the flat look of a woman in blue satin with no time for lies. “Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And he has hair and legs and unfortunately remains three-dimensional.”

Allie made a sympathetic face. “Devastating.”

“And Hannah’s here.”

“Mm.” Allie’s eyes flicked toward the curtain like she could psychically locate every romantic complication in the room. “Saw that.”

“And Kendall.”

Allie’s mouth opened. Closed. Then she made a small, horrified sound of appreciation. “Oh, that’s camp.”

“It’s a fucking hate crime.”

“It is a little bit a hate crime.” Allie stepped closer, eyes sweeping over her corset with professional focus. “Okay. Tits?”

Blessedly, this was their actual ritual, and therefore required no emotional processing.

She looked down at Allie’s chest, tugged the centre of the blue corset a fraction, adjusted one strap, then gave a decisive nod. “Perfect. Mine?”

Allie leaned in, examined her like a very affectionate costume mistress, then hooked two careful fingers at the top edge of the pink corset and tugged it down half an inch. Enough to weaponise the garment as intended. “There. Sitting pretty.”

“Excellent. Teeth?”

Allie bared her teeth with all the elegance of a show pony and none of the shame. 

She checked quickly. “Good. Mine?”

Allie peered, nodded. “Perfect.”

They clapped hands once, sharp and familiar, palms landing with a tiny smack that steadied something under her skin.

“We got this,” Allie said.

“We got this,” she repeated, and for a second she almost believed it in every possible direction.

Out front, Dexter’s voice cut through the curtain, bright and obscene and already eating the room alive. “Come on, bitches. Let me hear you all scream for our gay show. A midsummer night’s… scream!”

The crowd erupted. Screams, clapping, whistles, someone banging on a table hard enough that the stage manager beside them closed her eyes as if praying for structural integrity. 

She slipped to the edge of the curtain and peered out through the narrow gap, not enough to be seen, just enough to let the room arrive in pieces. Dexter stood in the centre of the stage, arms thrown wide in glitter and velvet, grinning like he’d invented bad decisions. 

The audience had already given itself over, faces lit with anticipation and alcohol, chairs angled toward the stage, drinks raised.

Her eyes found Garrett before she meant them to. Middle row. Centre. Sitting with Dean, Tucker, and Beau, one ankle hooked out slightly, shoulders broad beneath the olive sweater, head turned toward Dean as if Dean had just said something deeply stupid. 

Dean looked far too pleased with himself for a man who had not yet committed his worst crime of the evening. Tucker sat beside them with his drink low in one hand, and a piece of fruit in the other, expression calm but alert, which was Tucker’s version of thrilled.

But Hannah wasn’t with them. Hannah was sitting with Justin, closer to the stage on a small couch, laughing at something he said, her body turned toward him. 

Weird.

Her pulse gave one irritating little misfire, not quite relief because she refused to dignify it with a name.

She stepped back from the curtain. No. Absolutely not. This mattered tonight. The show mattered. 

She had spent weeks memorising beats that would all go violently off-script the second audience volunteers got involved. She had sweated through rehearsals, bruised one knee during movement work, and spent half the afternoon in a dressing room getting glitter applied to her cleavage with the seriousness of a religious rite. She was not going to let Garrett Graham’s seating choices turn her into a stupid, lovesick girl before curtain.

Onstage, Dexter continued, voice ringing with manic delight. “Now, virgins oft find Drunk Shakespeare scary. If it’s your first time, I’ll pop your cherry.” The crowd whooped at that, because of course they did. “Now, there’s only one rule, my sweet, gentle twinks. When an actor calls ‘line,’ everyone drinks.”

The audience clapped.

She rolled her neck once, feeling the tiny stretch pull through the back of it, then shook her hands out at her sides. The nerves were still there, bright and quick, but they had shifted shape. Theatre nerves now. Useful nerves. The kind that sat in her fingertips and lungs instead of rotting behind her ribs.

The stage manager pointed. She went.

The heat hit first, that blunt stage-light warmth that made the glitter on her chest feel suddenly alive. Then the room, all those faces lifting toward her as she crossed into Dexter’s orbit in a swish of pink fabric and sheer skirt, heels clicking once, twice, three times across the boards. She leaned up and theatrically whispered into his ear, one hand cupped dramatically around her mouth.

Dexter gasped like she had told him the pope was pregnant. “No.”

She widened her eyes at the audience, hand pressed to her chest.

Dexter turned slowly back to them, face arranged in tragic solemnity. “I’m so sorry, everyone. It seems that the actors that were going to play our four young lovers have all been struck by a terrible affliction.”

Bec, who was sitting on the front of the stage, called out, all concern and sweetness. “True love?”

Dexter snapped his gaze to her. “No. Gonorrhea.”

The laugh that went through the room was immediate and generous, a wave of it rolling up toward the stage. She used the swell of it, the cover of everyone’s open mouths and clapping hands, to let her eyes cut once toward the middle row.

Garrett was looking at her. Full attention, quiet in the middle of all that noise, his mouth not quite smiling anymore. His gaze had caught somewhere between her face and the shimmer at her collarbones and the pink corset sitting exactly as Allie had arranged it, and the tiny satisfaction that moved through her was so petty and so human she almost forgave herself for it on the spot.

Good, she thought. Look.

Then she turned away before the look could do anything worse to her.

Dexter clapped his hands together, delighted with the room and himself. “Now, tragedy has stolen from us. Disease has humbled us. Theatre, as usual, has failed to plan responsibly. Which means we’ll be needing some brave volunteers from the audience.”

A ripple went through the crowd instantly. People sank in their chairs. People pointed at friends. One girl near the aisle visibly tried to become part of the wall.

Dexter shaded his eyes with one hand, scanning. “Oh,” he said suddenly, voice turning syrupy with threat. “Would you look at this couple?”

He pointed straight at Hannah and Justin. Hannah’s eyes went huge. Justin started shaking his head before Dexter had finished the sentence.

“No?” Dexter said. “You’re saying no? To art? To community? To me, personally?” He placed a hand over his heart as if wounded, then brightened at once. “Give it up for our Hermia and Lysander!”

The audience cheered with the relief of people watching someone else be sacrificed.

She moved down the steps and into the aisle before Hannah and Justin could fully disappear into the couch. Hannah was laughing now, nervous but game, one hand over her mouth. Justin looked like a man discovering, too late, that theatre people could smell fear. 

She reached Hannah first, offering her hand with the clean, stage-bright smile that made everything easier because it gave her a role to stand inside.

“Come on,” she said, low enough only Hannah could hear, and because Hannah was Hannah, sweet even while being publicly dragged into Shakespeare, she took her hand and laughed.

“I’m going to be so bad at this,” Hannah whispered.

“That’s the point,” she murmured back, helping her up.

Justin followed after with the helpless smile of a boy who had accepted doom because the crowd was clapping too loudly for pride. She got them both onto the stage and placed them where Dexter directed, Hannah flushing prettily under the lights, Justin blinking out at the audience like he’d been kidnapped by improv.

“Okay,” Dexter said, pacing with predatory glee. “Next, I need a big, strong man to play Demetrius.”

The words had barely landed before her eyes betrayed her. Just a flick. Just one stupid, automatic glance across the lights to Garrett in the middle row. A mistake, obviously. Fatal, theatrically speaking.

But Dean saw it. Dean Di Laurentis, who had been placed on this earth to make every delicate situation worse with astonishing commitment, sat up so fast Tucker’s drink nearly sloshed.

He cupped both hands around his mouth and called, in a voice so bright and clear it could have reached a neighbouring county, “Me, Garrett Graham, I want to be in the show!”

The room exploded. Garrett turned his head toward Dean so slowly it should have come with a warning sound. 

Even from the stage, she could see his mouth move around something furious and silent. Dean was grinning like an angel with a criminal record. 

Tucker had turned slightly away, shoulders shaking once, his hand pressed over his mouth in the weakest possible attempt at neutrality. Beau looked stunned and delighted, like he had accidentally attended a live execution and discovered he supported the death penalty.

Dexter spun toward the commotion with the instantaneous focus of a shark smelling blood. “Oh?”

Garrett was shaking his head before Dexter took a step. “No. That’s okay.”

Dean leaned into him, whispering aggressively. Garrett shoved him back with one hand, eyes narrowed, and Dean shoved right back with the delighted persistence of a man who had decided friendship meant physical betrayal.

Dexter held out his arms. “Come here, pookie.”

Another roar from the audience.

Garrett closed his eyes briefly. “No, I’m alright,” he said, loud enough to be heard and absolutely not loud enough to save himself.

“Oh, you’re ours now,” Dexter sang.

Dean gave Garrett one more firm push toward the aisle, and Tucker, traitor that he apparently was, shifted his knees just enough to make the route easier. 

The audience clapped and whooped as Garrett stood, dragging a hand over the back of his neck in that particular way he did when he was trying not to smile and trying very hard not to murder his best friend in public.

He looked up at the stage. At her, and for one second, the whole room narrowed around the line of his gaze and the warm stage lights and the stupid gold chain at his throat.

Then he came down the aisle. It was unfair, how much space he took up without trying. How the crowd reacted to him, the grin threatening at one corner of his mouth, the easy athlete’s confidence even under embarrassment. 

He climbed the stage steps and stepped into the light beside her, close enough that the scent of him reached her through hairspray and dust and other people’s drinks. Clean soap, warm skin, a faint trace of whatever cologne he used so casually it had once lived on her pillow for three days after he left.

Fuck.

He cleared his throat softly, dipping his head just enough that it looked casual to everyone else. “Hey.”

Her smile came tight-lipped and bright, the exact facial equivalent of a locked door with flowers painted on it. “Hi.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face, then down for the smallest, most controlled fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. Enough to be noticed by the part of her that had spent too many months trying to forget exactly what it felt like to have Garrett Graham look at her like he remembered her.

His mouth twitched, barely. “Nice outfit.”

Her heartbeat kicked in a way she deeply resented. “Nice kidnapping.”

“Dean’s dead after this.”

She hummed. “Get in line.”

Dexter slid between them like a glittery demon with perfect timing. “Now,” he announced to the audience, “we just need a Helena. She’s a real messy bitch who wants to get in Demetrius’ pants. Can anyone relate?”

Half the women in the room raised their hands. A chorus of “me!” and “over here!” and one very loud “I can fix him!” rose up so fast the stage nearly shook with it.

She scoffed before she could stop herself, rolling her eyes toward Allie in the wings, who was visibly biting her cheek to keep from laughing.

Garrett, unfortunately, heard it. She felt him glance at her, felt the question in it, but she kept her gaze forward with the grim dignity of a woman refusing to be emotionally undone by audience participation.

Then Kendall stood. She rose from the side section with terrifying composure, drink abandoned on her chair, hair falling over one shoulder, smiling like she had been waiting her entire life to be called a messy bitch by a man in velvet.

“Allow me,” Kendall said.

The audience lost its mind again. For one long second, she stared at the middle distance and considered the possibility that a chandelier might fall. Not on Kendall, or maybe on Kendall. But generally. A small technical emergency. Something with paperwork. Anything. Please, anything. 

Kendall climbed onto the stage without waiting for assistance, because clearly being picked was for people with shame, and crossed directly to Garrett’s other side. She stood close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his sleeve, smiling at him with the kind of familiarity that did absolutely nothing good to the inside of her body.

Garrett went still. She was close enough to catch it: the minute tightening around his mouth, the way his eyes flicked once toward her and then away, as if suddenly aware that every person from every messy little corner of his romantic history had been arranged on the same stage under theatrical lighting like an evidence board with cleavage.

Dexter looked Kendall up and down, delighted beyond measure. “Not even going to wait to be picked. That is messy.”

Kendall gave a little bow.

“She understands the assignment,” Dexter said, then threw both arms wide. “Let’s hear it for our four young lovers!”

The audience clapped and cheered, loud and bright and thrilled with the specific chaos they didn’t yet understand they had been handed. Hannah laughed into her hands. Justin raised one awkward arm like he was accepting election to a position he had never campaigned for. Kendall smiled like a cat in a warm window.

Garrett stood between the past and the present and whatever the hell Kendall counted as, looking for once like charm might not be enough to get him out of the room alive.

And she clapped with the rest of them, glitter catching at her chest, pink skirt shifting around her knees, smile fixed beautifully in place while something hot and awful and very, very funny curled under her ribs.

Drunk Shakespeare had decided to become personal.

Hannah turned slightly toward Kendall while Dexter fussed with the prop scrolls at centre stage, and because the stage was small and cruel and acoustics had chosen violence, she heard Hannah say, light and a little flustered, “Oh– No. He’s not… he’s not locked. He’s free to unlock anyone he wants.”

The words landed weirdly. Small and sideways, slipping beneath the laughter and clapping and settling under her skin with a cold little click. She glanced across before she could stop herself. 

Hannah was smiling like she meant to make it a joke, shoulders lifting in that sweet, awkward way of hers, and Kendall was looking back at her with one brow tipped up, amused, curious, maybe already smelling blood in the water because Kendall had the exact face of a girl who knew when information was about to become socially useful. 

Garrett, blessedly or horribly, didn’t seem to have heard. He was looking out into the crowd with the faintly strained expression of a man realising too late that volunteer theatre was distinct from hostage-taking only by tone.

He’s not locked. Free to unlock anyone he wants.

For a second she just stood there in pink glitter and stage lights and felt the phrase rearrange the last few weeks with humiliating speed. Garrett and Hannah walking together after class. Garrett bending his head toward her outside the music building. 

Garrett disappearing upstairs with her at Dean and Beau’s party, which had seemed, at the time, like the sort of thing a girl could absolutely survive elegantly if she was normal and mature and not already two vodka sodas past good decision-making.

She had not survived it especially elegantly. She remembered the kitchen at that party in flashes: Allie’s hand closing around her wrist when she reached for her phone; one of her theatre friends saying, “Nope, we love you, but absolutely not,” while physically sliding the device into her own bra like some kind of benevolent phone jail. 

Dean, of all people, appearing in the doorway and immediately clocking the entire emotional scene with one sweep of his eyes before saying, very carefully, “You good?” which had nearly made her cry because Dean being gentle was frankly an upsetting genre. 

She remembered insisting she was fine with the aggressive brightness of a woman who was visibly not fine. She remembered saying she wanted to call him and everyone in a three-foot radius saying, almost in chorus, “You broke up with him,” which was unfair because she knew that. She had been there. She had done the breaking. 

She simply hadn’t expected the broken pieces to keep behaving like they belonged to her.

And now Hannah, pretty sweet Hannah, apparently didn’t even have the lock. Great. Cool. The universe had mistaken her for a stronger woman.

Dexter clapped sharply, dragging everyone back to the next beat, and the cast began moving with practiced chaos around the volunteers. Hannah and Justin were led toward their first marks. 

Garrett and Kendall were swept half-backstage for the timing of the bit, and she went with them because that was the blocking and because theatre, unlike her personal life, had cues that people were expected to follow.

The backstage corridor was dim and narrow after the assault of stage lights, all black curtains and coiled cables and a folding table crowded with sweating bottles, plastic shot cups, cheap wine, and the kind of cut fruit someone had optimistically provided as if oranges could meaningfully alter the trajectory of a cast being encouraged to drink on command. 

From the stage, the play kicked off in full ridiculous motion, Dexter’s voice booming, Allie already chiming in with something bright and filthy enough to make the audience scream.

Garrett came to a stop beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him again, which was deeply unnecessary. Kendall leaned one hip against the wall like she had been born under a backstage cue light and immediately picked up a tiny bottle of something clear from the wet bar, examining it with interest.

She cleared her throat, because somebody had to be professional and apparently it was going to be the girl currently one Hannah sentence away from emotional combustion. 

“Um,” she said, looking mostly at the space between Garrett and Kendall rather than directly at either of them, “so, after this we’ve got, like, ten minutes of mechanicals. Just stay back here until we pull you again. Feel free to help yourselves to the wet bar.”

She turned to go, already reaching for the curtain edge, already grateful for the stage and the next line and the exact relief of becoming someone with a task.

Garrett’s voice caught her before she made it. “Hey– wait.”

Her hand tightened on the curtain. For a second she considered pretending she hadn’t heard him. The stage was loud enough. She could’ve sold it. But his voice did the same stupid thing it always did, slipped through the noise and found the part of her body that still answered before pride could get there.

She turned back, pink skirt brushing her calves, smile small and sharp enough to cut if handled wrong. 

“Sorry. I gotta go.” Her eyes flicked over him, then toward the stage. “I’m in a play, remember? It’s not all about Garrett Graham all the time.”

Kendall made a delighted little sound, the kind of reaction a person gave when they were thrilled to be standing close enough to drama without being asked to mediate it.

Garrett’s jaw shifted. He looked tired suddenly, or maybe just less protected by the lights and the audience and everybody wanting him to be easy. “That’s not fair.”

Her brows drew together before she could stop them. Enough for his eyes to catch on it. “Isn’t it?”

The silence after that was tiny. Barely half a second. Something moved across his face, quick and almost hurt, and the worst part was that it worked. 

Garrett had always had a face that could make a person start doubting the evidence in their own hands. She hated that. Hated that even now, with Hannah’s almost-not-a-confession still ringing in her ear and Kendall standing two feet away with a shot glass and the whole crowd waiting beyond the curtain, she could see him wounded and feel the old reflex to smooth it over.

But she didn’t. She turned and went back onto the stage before softness could become another mistake.

After that, the play did what Drunk Shakespeare always did and became, by degrees, less a performance than a ritual sacrifice to timing, alcohol, and the collective human desire to watch attractive people make terrible choices under lights. 

The first twenty minutes held together beautifully, which was always the danger period because it gave everyone false confidence. Then Dexter called line, the audience drank, Allie missed a cue because someone in the front row had yelled something obscene about fairies, and the whole room tipped into the exact kind of glorious disorder the show had been built to survive.

She got drunk in increments. The stage was hot and the crowd was loud and every time someone called line, the audience roared and drank and the cast drank with them, and each sip loosened a different little screw. 

The first made the lights softer around the edges. The second put a pleasant warmth behind her cheeks. The third arrived after she did a shot with a woman in the second row, and that one slid straight down into the part of her brain responsible for restraint and started rearranging furniture.

The crowd got worse too, which made them better. People who had arrived stiff-backed and curious were now leaning forward with elbows on knees, shouting suggestions, chanting for kisses, calling line whenever anyone even looked like they might forget something. 

Dean had become an issue in the middle row. Every time she crossed downstage, he found a new way to be loud about it. Tucker, beside him, kept attempting to look like he wasn’t amused, which was useless because his shoulders kept moving. Beau had committed to the evening with the serene panic of a man who had not expected Shakespeare to involve this much audience yelling.

At one point, she came out through the side entrance and climbed onto the little platform near the gold stripper pole, because some brilliant, sick mind on the production team had decided the fairy realm needed a metallic vertical feature and large detachable wings. 

She was meant to spin once, land, say something sharp and enchanted, and gesture toward the next entrance.

She remembered the spin. She did that part beautifully, actually. One hand around the pole, pink skirt lifting in a soft sheer flare around her legs, heels catching the light, glitter sparkling down her chest like she had been dipped in bad decisions by a very competent stylist. 

The crowd whooped. Someone screamed. The room tilted around her in a pretty, golden blur and for one perfect second she felt exactly as she was supposed to feel: ridiculous, lovely, untouchable, alive.

Then Dean wolf-whistled. It was loud. Horrifically loud. A piercing, obnoxious, jock-house wolf whistle that cut right through the cheers and hit her so unexpectedly she lost the line completely.

She snapped her head toward the middle row and saw him cupping his hands around his mouth, grinning like a demon. Her mouth opened. Nothing Shakespeare-adjacent arrived.

Instead she dissolved into giggles. The room loved this, obviously. The room loved anything that looked like the wheels coming off.

She pointed at Dean from the platform, trying very hard to gather dignity around the fact that she was clinging to a gold stripper pole in a pink corset. “Fuck you, Dean!”

The audience screamed. Dean clutched his chest like he’d been blessed.

She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, laughing too hard to recover the line, and finally threw her free hand up. “Line?!”

The response was immediate and feral. The whole room yelled with her. Cups lifted. Shots went down. The cast drank. The crowd drank. Somewhere in the back, the stage manager probably aged ten years. 

She took her own drink from Allie, who had appeared at the edge of the platform with the solemnity of a priest offering communion, and knocked it back while the audience chanted approval.

By the time Kendall and Garrett were brought back out, the room had fully abandoned subtlety. Hannah and Justin had gone through their early lover beats with surprising commitment, Justin somehow becoming funnier the more terrified he got, and Hannah turning out to have a very sweet, very deadly stage presence that made the audience adopt her almost instantly. 

Which was annoying, not because Hannah had done anything wrong, but because she was actually good. Game and bright and blushing every time Dexter flirted with her in character. 

It was just difficult to fully enjoy another woman’s charm when some small, gremlin part of your heart had already filed her under girl Garrett might have chosen.

Garrett and Kendall came out from the wings tipsy enough that the shift was visible before either of them said a word. Kendall stumbled on the first step, her heel caught and her balance tipped sideways. Garrett reached automatically, one hand closing at her waist to steady her.

They both laughed. It was nothing. It was literally nothing. A normal human reflex. Someone stumbled, someone else caught them. 

If Tucker had done it, she would have thought, oh good, nobody died. If Dean had done it, she would have assumed he’d been waiting for the chance. 

But Garrett’s hand was on Kendall’s waist, and Kendall was giggling up at him, and Garrett’s face had opened with that easy amused warmth he gave away like it cost him nothing, and her body reacted before any reasonable thought could intervene.

A small, ugly twist low in her stomach. A tightening in her throat. The stage lights, suddenly too hot.

Dexter swept in between them with a flourish before she could stand there and stare like an idiot. “I made this love potion special for the boys,” he announced.

That was her cue. She moved forward with two shot glasses, pink plastic catching under the lights, and handed one first to Justin, then to Garrett. 

When Garrett’s fingers closed around the cup, they brushed hers. Barely. A nothing touch. The kind of contact that could have been absorbed by the noise of the room if her skin had not been, apparently, a traitor with archival access.

His eyes were already on her. His gaze burned straight into hers, dark and steady beneath the stage lights, and for one second the whole drunken theatre seemed to thin out around the edges. 

She looked up at him through her lashes because the role let her, because the stage gave her permission to make things look deliberate that would have been unbearable anywhere else.

Garrett’s jaw clenched. Tiny and viciously satisfying. The muscle near his cheek jumping once like something in him had been pulled too tight.

Good, she thought again, meaner this time and more miserable underneath it. Feel something.

Dexter was still talking. She had no idea what he was saying for half a breath. Then the room surged around the line and she found herself stepping back into place while Garrett and Justin tossed back the shots.

Garrett swallowed his cleanly, throat moving, mouth tightening around whatever cheap sweet thing they had poured into the glass. His eyes flicked briefly to the shot glass with a look of disgust, and despite everything, despite Kendall and Hannah and the horrible circus of her own chest, she almost smiled.

Garrett Graham could take a check into the boards and keep skating, but one suspiciously fruity theatre shot had him looking betrayed by the arts.

“When they came to,” Dexter cried, “they only had eyes for Helena!”

He guided Kendall to the little throne set up stage left, all gold paint and fake flowers and one glittering cushion that had seen too many drunk volunteers in its lifetime. 

Kendall sat with immediate commitment, crossing one leg over the other, smiling as Dexter placed a crown on her head. The audience oohed obediently, the sound rising and falling like they had been waiting all night to worship messy women in prop crowns.

Dexter turned slowly, eyes wild with manufactured revelation. “But, fools and mortals. Who will win fair Helena’s hand? How is a buxom maiden ever to decide?” He pressed one finger to his lips, pretending deep thought. “Oh. I know.”

Two of the cast members came out from the wings and began removing the oversized wings from the gold stripper pole with the solemnity of stagehands handling sacred objects. 

The audience started murmuring before Dexter even said it, anticipation spreading fast and stupid through the rows.

Dexter threw one arm toward the cleared pole. “How about a good old-fashioned dance-off?”

The room detonated. Justin immediately pointed at Garrett.

Garrett pointed right back at Justin, shaking his head with a laugh already breaking through. “No. Nope. Him.”

Justin shook his head so hard his hair moved. “Absolutely not.”

The answer built from three voices to ten to half the room in under five seconds.

“Garrett! Garrett! Garrett!”

Dean was, of course, leading the chant with both fists in the air like he had founded a religion and Garrett’s humiliation was the first commandment. Beau had joined in with startling enthusiasm. 

Garrett dragged one hand over his face, laughing now despite himself. “Fuck you guys.”

The crowd only got louder. He flipped them off, which made everything worse. People screamed. Dean looked like he might actually ascend. Dexter clutched Garrett by the shoulder and spun him toward the pole with the kind of glee that suggested he had been waiting for an athletic man with public name recognition all night.

And Garrett, because he was Garrett, because he had never once been capable of doing anything halfway once a room started chanting his name, gave in.

A roll of his shoulders, a shake of his head, a laugh under his breath like he couldn’t believe this was his life. He stepped toward the open space, the olive sweater catching over the lines of his chest and arms, chain flashing once at his throat when he moved. 

The music shifted into something bass-heavy and obscene. The audience reacted before he’d even started properly, because anticipation had already made fools of them all.

He put one hand on the pole. Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t jealousy this time, or not only jealousy, at least. This was worse because it came from memory, hot and immediate and embarrassingly intact. 

Her body remembered before her mind could file an objection. Garrett on a dance floor with one hand at her waist and the other holding his drink above the crowd, laughing into her ear because she had accused him of having no rhythm and then immediately proving her wrong with the sort of casual hip movement that had made her lose the thread of her own insult. 

Garrett behind her at some party near Briar, mouth near her temple, his hand spread low on her stomach as they moved with too many people around them and not enough air between them. 

Garrett at three in the morning, waking her up in his bed with a kiss to her shoulder and his voice rough with sleep and want, murmuring something filthy and fond that had made her laugh into his pillow before he rolled her beneath him.

His hips. Fuck his fucking hips.

He hadn’t even done anything yet. That was the insulting part. One hand on the pole, one foot shifting into the beat, mouth still curved in that half-embarrassed, half-cocky grin, and already her brain had lit up with every inconvenient piece of him she had spent months trying to box away. 

His hands on her thighs. The chain against her mouth when she used to pull him down by it. The warmth of his chest under her cheek. His laugh in the dark after she told him he was insufferable and he said, yeah, but you’re awake.

The room kept chanting. Garrett moved his hips once, barely more than a test, and the audience screamed like they’d paid extra for the privilege.

She couldn’t breathe right. Which was dramatic and stupid because she was in public and tipsy and glittering and supposed to be part of the bit, not standing stage right with a fake smile and a real ache opening under it. 

The weird sick fold of jealousy and want and regret and alcohol, all going warm and sour together beneath the corset until the boning felt too tight around her ribs.

It wasn’t fair. That was the childish truth of it, and because she was drunk enough to be honest with herself but not drunk enough to enjoy it, the unfairness hit harder than anything else. 

It wasn’t fair that she had broken up with him and still wanted to be the only person allowed to miss him. It wasn’t fair that he looked good. It wasn’t fair that Hannah might not be dating him and somehow that made everything worse, because it took away the clean excuse and left only Garrett being Garrett and her being weak in his direction. 

It wasn’t fair that Kendall sat crowned on the throne, laughing like this was fun, like Garrett dancing for her was a joke and not a blade sliding neatly between old ribs.

Garrett glanced toward her. Maybe by accident. Maybe not. His hand still on the pole. Music crawling through the floorboards. Crowd screaming his name. His eyes found hers across the stage, and whatever he saw on her face made his grin flicker.

That was enough. Before he could start properly, before he could move in a way that would make the whole room lose its mind and make her hate every nerve ending she owned, she slipped backward into the wing.

The noise dimmed by half the second the curtain edge fell between her and the stage. The chant still thudded through the black fabric. Music pulsed through the floor into the heels of her shoes. The backstage air was cooler and dustier, smelling like hairspray and electrical heat and the cheap citrus of sliced oranges sweating on the wet bar table.

She took one breath. It did absolutely nothing. So she grabbed the nearest shot off the table and downed it.

It was tequila. Or vodka. Or something pretending to be one of those while failing several requirements. It burned down her throat and hit her empty-ish stomach with a hard bright slap, and she bent slightly at the waist for one second, one hand braced on the folding table, eyes squeezed shut.

From onstage, the crowd screamed louder. Garrett must have started dancing.

She laughed once under her breath, but it came out wrong. Thin and sharp and almost nothing.

“Fuck,” she whispered to the bottles, the cables, the indifferent black curtain. Then she pressed the heel of her hand lightly against the glitter at her chest, right over the too-fast beat underneath, and tried to remember which cue came next.

The curtain shifted. The black edge pulling back a few inches, enough for sound to leak in harder and stage light to cut across the folding table in a pale gold stripe, catching on the wet rings around the shot glasses and the glitter dusted over her knuckles.

For one stupid second, she thought it might be Garrett. Which was unfair of her body, honestly. Delusional. Embarrassing. The kind of reflex that should have been taken out back and put down humanely months ago.

But it wasn’t Garrett, it was Hannah.

Hannah slipped through the curtain, cheeks flushed from the stage lights, hair a little loosened from whatever Dexter had made her do three minutes earlier, looking so pretty and concerned that it somehow made the shot burn worse in hindsight. 

She blinked into the dim backstage space, eyes finding her by the wet bar.

“Hi,” Hannah said, just soft enough that the stage didn’t steal it. “Are you okay?”

The question was so genuinely asked that it hit her all wrong. There was no smugness, no little victory tucked under the sweetness. No hidden I win, you lose. 

Only Hannah standing there looking at a girl she barely knew like she had noticed something go sideways and had enough kindness or poor survival instincts to follow it.

She nodded too fast. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” The word came out bright and brittle and not remotely worth believing, so she picked up another shot glass because at least that gave her hands something less incriminating to do. “Sorry. You should… go back out to–” She swallowed, the stage noise pushing at her back like a wave. “To your boyfriend.”

Hannah’s brows pulled together immediately. “Garrett?”

The name did an annoying little thing in the air between them.

She lifted one shoulder, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around lightly poisoned. “Unless you’ve got another one out there.”

“No.” Hannah shook her head, a little laugh catching awkwardly in her throat. “No, he’s not– no. He’s not my boyfriend. Like, at all.”

The shot was already at her mouth, which was convenient because it meant she didn’t have to answer right away. She tipped it back. It was worse than the last one, or maybe her throat had just begun filing formal complaints. 

Her eyes watered slightly, which was humiliating, but not as humiliating as how quickly the sentence went through her.

He’s not my boyfriend. Like, at all.

She set the empty glass down with more care than it deserved. “Seems like it.”

Hannah’s face did something small, like she was figuring out where all the broken glass was on the floor and trying not to step in it. “Kendall… Kendall told me about you,” she said, and her voice gentled around the last word like it had become fragile without permission. “Just– just before. About you and Garrett.”

Fucking typical that Kendall, who had walked onto the stage like a human plot device in heels, had found time between accepting the crown and letting Garrett steady her waist to give Hannah the emotional program notes. 

Kendall had probably delivered the whole thing with the delicate sympathy of a woman enjoying herself enormously. Here’s the ex. Careful, she bites. Also she looks like she might cry if he takes his shirt off. Enjoy the show.

She sucked at her teeth, gaze dropping to the table because looking at Hannah was too much like looking at someone who had accidentally wandered into the aftermath of a storm and was now politely asking if the roof had always been in the pool. “What about us?”

Hannah hesitated. 

From out front, the crowd roared. Something heavy thumped against the stage. Dexter screamed, “Art!” like that was either a line or an emergency, and somebody in the audience started chanting Garrett’s name again with the persistence of people who had been given a hot athlete and no adult supervision.

Hannah glanced back at the curtain, then at her. “I mean… I think that he–” She stopped, mouth pressing together for a second as if she knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded to deliver emotional speculation in the wings of Drunk Shakespeare. “I mean, it seems like he misses you. Or I think he does.”

The words should have landed soft, but they didn’t. They hit something already bruised and made it flare, sharp and stupidly tender. 

Her fingers curled around the edge of the table. The glitter on her chest caught in the sliver of light from the stage, every breath making the shimmer move like her body had decided to keep performing even after she left the scene.

“You’ll miss your cue, Hannah,” she said, because if she gave that sentence even one inch of room it might start growing teeth. “You should be out there.”

Hannah didn’t move right away. “I’m not trying to–”

“No, I know.” She looked up, and the smile she gave her wasn’t unkind, which felt like a miracle considering the amount of alcohol and old heartbreak currently operating the machinery. “Seriously. You should go.”

The crowd screamed again. Louder this time. Filthy, delighted, entirely too invested. Against every good instinct she had left, she glanced through the gap in the curtain.

Garrett was shirtless now. Somewhere in the thirty seconds since she had fled the stage, theatre had found a way to remove his sweater and expose the broad, warm chest she once slept on more often than her own pillow to an audience already one group chant away from needing a priest. 

His olive knit was gone, probably flung over the throne or into Dexter’s evil little hands, and he was in the middle of the stage with the gold chain still against his chest, skin warm under the lights, hair messed from someone’s hand or his own or the general chaos of being cheered at by drunk college students.

Kendall sat on the throne, crowned and laughing, one hand braced on the armrest as Garrett, grinning now in full showman surrender, backed himself toward her lap with a ridiculous over-the-shoulder look that made the audience shriek. 

He wasn’t touching her in any real way. It was theatre. It was parody. It was drunk, stupid, harmless, exactly the kind of thing the show had designed itself to produce. Then he playfully ground back against her knees. Kendall threw her head back laughing.

The audience nearly came apart.

She picked up another shot and swallowed it before her body could decide whether it wanted to throw up, cry, or walk back out there and commit an act of artistic violence.

“Yeah,” she said, voice flat around the burn. “Really seems like he misses me.”

Hannah’s face fell a little. Understanding, maybe. The soft, useless kind.

“I should–” Hannah said, then stopped, glancing back toward the stage as her name was yelled by Allie with the kind of sharp backstage friendliness that meant get the fuck out here right now. “Okay. I’m going. But he’s not my boyfriend.” She stepped backward through the curtain, then paused for one second with the black fabric caught in her hand. “And I don’t think Kendall knows as much as she thinks she does.”

Then she was gone, swallowed by light and noise and the bright, drunken mess of the play.

The rest of the show happened in pieces after that. She hit her cues. Mostly. She said her lines or called line with enough timing to make the audience scream. 

She took another shot with a man in the front row. She watched Dexter nearly lose his balance on a prop stump and recover with such flamboyant rage that the crowd gave him a standing ovation for remaining vertical. 

Allie, drunk and radiant and too talented for the amount of chaos around her, at one point went entirely off script, seemingly rambling about Sean. But she performed it so wonderfully she got a standing ovation anyway. Kendall committed fully to being worshipped as Helena, which was deeply annoying and, if one were being fair under duress, objectively good stage instinct.

Garrett was good too. That part she hated most. He should have been awkward. A little stiff, maybe. A hockey player dragged onstage by his horrible friends, laughing through the embarrassment, throwing out just enough charm to survive. 

Instead he turned out to have the infuriating competence of a man whose body understood audience approval in any room. He was loose by the end, tipsy and grinning, leaning into Dexter’s prompts, making Justin break character twice, letting Allie drape a flower crown over his curls while he bowed with stupid solemnity. 

Shirt back on eventually, thank God, though not before half the room had wolf-whistled itself hoarse and Dean had nearly needed medical intervention from laughing so hard.

Every time Garrett looked toward her, she looked somewhere else.

The final scene arrived in the kind of glorious collapse only live drunk theatre could earn. The crowd was wasted. The cast was worse. Somebody had spilled red wine near stage left and covered it with a fake fern like that solved anything. 

Dexter’s closing speech had become half Shakespeare, half slurred nonsense, and by the time the last line landed, the audience was on its feet.

The applause was hot and huge and messy, rolling over the stage in waves. She stood with the cast, hand linked with Allie’s, pink skirt sticking lightly to the back of her knees, glitter still catching along her skin, the room swimming beautifully and terribly in front of her. 

She bowed and nearly overcommitted the angle, Allie tightening her grip just enough to keep her upright without making it obvious.

“Subtle,” Allie muttered through her smile.

“I’m a professional,” she whispered back.

They bowed again. The audience roared. Dean had both hands above his head, clapping like a lunatic. Tucker stood beside him, smiling despite himself. Beau looked sunburned from secondhand embarrassment and deeply changed as a person. 

Garrett, somewhere behind them with the volunteers, clapped too, and she didn’t look at him until the lights dropped enough to give her mercy.

Backstage afterward was a disaster of bodies, costumes, half-empty cups, and everyone speaking too loudly because their ears were full of applause and alcohol. 

People hugged each other with the sweaty urgency of survivors. Someone cried because they always did after a show, even a show where a man in fairy wings had yelled drink, sluts at a paying audience. 

Allie was dragged into a cluster of cast members near the mirror, blue corset flashing as she laughed with her head tipped back. Dexter had already acquired a bottle of champagne from somewhere and was calling it hydration for homosexuals, which nobody had the energy to correct.

She had just leaned against the edge of the dressing table, one heel half-slipped from her foot and her throat dry enough to make swallowing feel like an additional challenge on top of all the others, when Garrett appeared in front of her holding a cup of water.

Filled properly, condensation gathered along the outside. He held it out with a slightly awkward little lift, like he'd been carrying it for long enough to think too hard about how offering water to your ex after she watched you shirtlessly dance for another girl might be received.

“Uh,” he said. “Here.”

She looked at the water first. Then at him. His sweater was back on, though the neckline sat a little stretched from being pulled off and on in chaos, and his curls were a mess from the flower crown, from the stage, from the night. His chain was still there, sitting at his throat like an insult in gold.

She took the cup. Their fingers didn’t touch this time. “Thanks.”

He nodded once, eyes moving over her face in a quick, careful scan that made her chest feel worse. Not the sexy scan from the stage. Not the stunned little outfit glance. 

This was Garrett checking. Water, balance, pupils, whether she was smiling in a way that meant she was about to bite. Captain instincts, boyfriend instincts, ex-boyfriend instincts. Whatever they were, they hadn’t been switched off with the breakup, apparently.

“You were incredible tonight,” he said.

The compliment landed somewhere soft and inconvenient. She looked down into the cup because it was easier than looking at his mouth while he sounded sincere. The water wobbled slightly in her hand. “Um. Thanks.”

“I mean it.” His voice warmed a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I didn’t know you could do all that.”

She glanced up. “What, Shakespeare?”

“No.” His gaze moved over her face, careful and warm in a way that made the backstage noise feel suddenly farther away. “Being up there. Holding the room like that. You were really good.”

A laugh almost got out of her, a little disbelieving. She hated that too. Hated how close it sat under her ribs, waiting. “That was… quite a show you put on out there.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” She took one sip of water, mostly to prove she could, then immediately wished it were anything else because the sudden cold made her stomach realise how much alcohol it had been asked to process tonight. “Very Boys Gone Wild.”

He laughed then, quick and genuine, his head tipping down for half a second. “Thanks.”

“Not a compliment.”

“Felt like one.”

“Mhm.”

The smile stayed on his mouth, smaller now, still trying not to be too much. He looked almost pleased she was talking to him like this. Like sharp was better than silence. Like he would take a little blood if it meant she was still close enough to swing.

She shifted her weight and regretted it instantly when the room softened at the edges. “You should probably go–” she murmured, setting the water down on the dressing table with intense focus. “Go find Hannah.”

Garrett’s expression changed. “Hannah?”

“Yeah. Or–” Her heel caught wrong against the floor. She stepped back half a pace to correct it and the whole room made an unhelpful little tilt to the left.

Garrett caught her waist. One hand at her side, the other hovering near her elbow like he was trying very hard not to grab more of her than necessary. “Whoa.”

The contact went through her immediately, warm and humiliating. Her corset suddenly felt too tight again, or maybe that was just her lungs misplacing the next breath. 

She looked down at his hand, fingers spread carefully over the pink fabric at her waist, and then back at him with as much dignity as a tipsy girl in glitter could gather under difficult circumstances.

“Or Kendall,” she mumbled. The words came out before she could sand the edges down. “Or half… half the girls on campus.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. It was the wrong reaction, obviously. He seemed to know that, because he bit it back almost immediately, pressing his lips together like the smile had physically tried to escape against his will.

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“Usually.”

“Garrett.”

He looked down at her, and the smile softened into something worse. Something too fond to be fair. “You jealous?”

“No,” she said immediately. Too immediately.

Garrett’s brows went up.

She frowned at him with great concentration. “No.”

“Yeah, alright,” he said, and there was a laugh in his voice now, tucked low and warm where she could feel it even without letting him have the satisfaction of smiling back. 

She swayed again, enough that the hand he still had on her waist went from polite to necessary.

His amusement dimmed by a fraction. “Will you sit?”

“Nope.” She shook her head, which was a mistake. “No… no, I… will… not.”

Garrett stared at her for a beat, then sighed like he was calling on several reserves of patience he was very proud of himself for owning. He looked like he wanted to laugh and was trying to be decent about it, which somehow made him more unbearable. “Fine. Can I at least drive you home?”

“Nope. I’m–” A hiccup broke through, tiny and sharp, cutting the sentence in half.

Garrett’s mouth moved. He lost the fight for about half a second, smile flashing at the corner before he got it under control. “You’re?”

“I’m going out after.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Totally.”

“I am.”

“Yeah, no, that sounds like a great plan.” His eyes flicked down to her feet, then back to her face. “Can you even stand?”

She straightened with the wounded dignity of someone being slandered by physics. “I’m standin’ right now.”

Garrett nodded again, very serious. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

His hand left her waist. The betrayal was immediate, she hadn’t realised how much of her balance he’d been supporting. The room moved backward, or she did, or the floor had finally had enough of her and decided to make a point. Her body tipped before she caught up to it, shoulders going first, one hand flying uselessly toward the dressing table and missing the edge by an amount that felt personal.

Garrett caught her again with both hands, one at her waist, one wrapping around her back, pulling her gently but firmly upright against him.

“Yeah,” he said, voice warm with amusement right beside her ear. “Thought so.”

She shut her eyes for one second, partly because the room was spinning and partly because being held by him still felt good in a way she found to be incredibly offensive.

“Don’t be happy,” she muttered.

“I’m not happy.”

“You are.”

He tilted his head. “I’m a little happy you didn’t hit the floor.”

“Noble.”

“Thanks.” His hand moved once at her back, careful, steadying without rubbing. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift.”

She wanted to argue. Truly. A principled objection rose somewhere inside her, assembled itself out of pride and glitter and tequila, then collapsed.

She sighed. “Mhm.”

Garrett’s expression softened like he knew exactly how much surrender that little sound had cost her. He did not, thankfully, comment on it. 

He only turned slightly, one arm still under hers to keep her stable, and reached for the bag hanging over the chair beside the dressing table. “This yours?”

“Pink one.”

“The one with rhinestones?”

“Mm”

He slung the bag over his own shoulder without a hint of embarrassment, rhinestones flashing against his olive sweater, and shifted his arm around her again. “Ready?”

“No,” she grumbled. 

“Great.”

Getting out of backstage was a process. She said goodbye to people as they passed, or maybe people said goodbye to her and she waved in several wrong directions. 

Dexter blew her a kiss and called, “Petal, hydrate or perish.” Allie appeared briefly near the hall and immediately assessed the situation with one devastating glance.

“You good?” Allie asked.

“She’s good,” Garrett said.

She lifted one hand. “I’m good.”

Allie looked at Garrett’s arm around her, then at Garrett’s face, then at hers. Something sharp and protective passed over her expression, but she didn’t push. 

“Text me when you get home,” Allie said.

“I will.”

“Garrett,” Allie added, with the calm menace of a woman in a blue corset and glitter eyeshadow who could absolutely ruin a man’s life if motivated.

Garrett nodded once, not offended. “I’ll make sure she does.”

Allie held his gaze a second longer, then stepped aside. “Good.”

They made it into the side hallway and then out through the lobby, which had emptied into post-show clusters of drunk, overexcited people still quoting lines badly and taking selfies under the poster. Dean spotted them immediately from near the bar.

His eyes dropped to Garrett’s arm around her, then to the pink bag over Garrett’s shoulder, and his grin began to spread with the slow, terrible beauty of dawn.

“Not a word,” Garrett said without breaking stride.

Dean put both hands up, drink in one of them. “I said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

Tucker, standing beside him, looked her over with far more subtle concern. “You alright?”

She gave him a thumbs up that came out a little too close to her own face. “Thriving.”

“She’s drunk,” Garrett said.

She pointed at Dean as Garrett guided her past. “You wolf-whistled me.”

Dean placed a hand over his heart. “In support of the arts.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Garrett kept walking, which was probably wise, because Dean looked like he had at least four more comments loaded and none of them would have improved the evening.

Outside, the cold hit hard enough to make her gasp. The air smelled clean and wet, all pavement and campus trees and the far-off smoke of someone’s cigarette near the curb. 

Her bare shoulders prickled instantly under the thin straps of the corset, glitter cooling on her skin, and she folded a little closer to Garrett before she remembered she was mad at him or sad about him or whatever pathetic cocktail of the two had been sloshing around inside her all night.

Garrett noticed, his arm shifted a little, drawing her more securely against his side while they crossed toward the parking lot. His body angling to block the wind before she could ask. 

That was the sort of thing he had always done that made hating him properly difficult. The quiet practical stuff. The hand before the fall. The water before the headache. The careful thumb over a cup rim while he said something smug enough to make her roll her eyes.

She hiccuped again halfway across the lot.

Garrett glanced down. “You okay?”

“I did so many shots.”

“I saw.”

“You were a slut.”

His mouth pulled in at one corner so fast she almost missed it. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” She lifted her face toward him, very serious now because this was important. “A stage slut.”

“Is that a formal theatre term?”

“It is now.”

He huffed a laugh. “You danced on a stripper pole too.”

She stopped walking for half a second, offended enough that he had to adjust his grip before she tripped over her own heel. “Mine was for Shakespeare.”

Garrett nodded very seriously. “Right. Academic.”

“Yours was…” She searched for the word with great effort, brows drawn, then landed on it with grim satisfaction. “Being a whore.”

Garrett’s laugh came out properly this time, warm and startled in the dark. He ducked his head like he couldn’t help it, curls falling slightly over his forehead, and for one painful second he looked exactly like the Garrett she had once loved in easy moments. Laughing because she had said something stupid and he adored it before he remembered not to.

“Okay,” he said, still smiling as they reached his car. “Watch your head.”

He opened the passenger door and turned her carefully by the waist, one hand hovering over the top of the frame while the other helped her fold into the seat. 

She sat with a soft little collapse, pink skirt spilling over her thighs, one heel slipping loose again, the glassy edge of drunkenness turning the dashboard lights into a low blur.

Garrett crouched slightly to gather the sheer fabric before it got caught in the door, tugging the layers in with a focus that made something tender and awful press against the inside of her ribs. He tucked her bag near her feet, then reached for the seatbelt.

“I can do it,” she mumbled.

“Okay.”

She reached for the belt, missed it once, found it, pulled it halfway across herself, then got distracted by the way his chain flashed when he leaned in and forgot what the next step was.

Garrett waited about two seconds. “Can I?”

She handed it over with what she hoped was dignity. “Fine.”

“Thank you for your trust.”

“Don’t make this weird.”

“Oh, I would never.” He clicked the belt in and tugged once to check it, eyes flicking briefly to her face. “You gonna puke in my car?”

“No.”

He straightened, one hand still braced lightly on the roof of the car. She looked up at him from the passenger seat, at the sweater stretching across his chest, at his hair still messy from the stage, at his face half-shadowed by the parking lot light. 

The night had blurred so much at the edges, but he had gone weirdly clear. Annoyingly clear. Like every drink had washed out the background and left only Garrett Graham standing in front of the car door with her glitter probably on his sleeve.

He started to pull back. She caught his jumper before he could close the door. Her fingers closed in the knit at his stomach. 

Garrett looked down at her hand first, then at her face. His expression changed immediately, the smile fading into something cautious.

The words came before she could make them pretty. Maybe because pretty had been the problem all night. Pretty corset, pretty stage lights, pretty Hannah, pretty Kendall, pretty Garrett being adored by the room while her chest did something ugly underneath all the prettiness.

“I’m really sorry,” she said.

Garrett went still.

Her grip on his sweater tightened by a fraction. The wool was soft under her fingers. Warm from him. “For… everything.”

For breaking up with him. For not knowing how to stay. For wanting him to become less known, less wanted, less Garrett so she could feel safer loving him. For leaving and then resenting every space he filled without her. For Dean and the phone confiscation and the way she had looked at Hannah like happiness itself had wronged her. For tonight. For calling him a whore in a parking lot after a Shakespeare show where she had done shots with strangers and nearly cried into a wet bar.

She didn’t say all that, obviously. There were limits. Even drunk.

But maybe some of it sat in the air anyway, because Garrett’s face softened in that careful, unguarded way that made him look less like the boy half the campus wanted and more like the person who used to lie beside her at four in the morning and ask questions he didn’t always know how to hear the answers to.

He looked at her for a long second. Then he nodded once. “Me too,” he said.

Just two words, low and rough enough to make her fingers loosen in his sweater before she had fully decided to let go.

Garrett waited until her hand fell back to her lap. Then he closed the door gently, like the quiet mattered. Like slamming it would have broken something already cracked.

Through the glass, she watched him stand there for a second, head dipping, one hand dragging once through his hair. 

Then he walked around the front of the car, and she sat in the warm, dim passenger seat with glitter on her skin, tequila in her blood, and the horrible, tender knowledge that sorry had not fixed anything.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

He was busy. Hockey, classes, captain shit, the usual revolving door of women who used to come and go before she’d started appearing in the kitchen in his sweatshirts and stealing the last banana off the counter with the lazy comfort of someone who knew exactly which drawer the forks were in.

Garrett denied all of it. Continually. Aggressively, even. Like if he said the words she’s not my girlfriend often enough, the universe would stop presenting evidence to the contrary.

Unfortunately for him, the universe was a petty bitch, and so were his friends. Dean had been killed by Tucker for the third time in under two minutes and was halfway through an appeal to basic human decency when the first noise came from upstairs.

Not a bed thump. Not laughter. Not the usual muffled, morally concerning sounds that made Tucker reach for the remote and Logan yell, “Bro, volume,” without looking away from the screen.

This was a voice, her voice. And it was furious. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, GARRETT?”

Every thumb in the living room stopped moving at once. Onscreen, Dean’s character was immediately shot in the head.

Nobody cared.

There was a half-second where the whole downstairs seemed to hold its breath around the TV static and the low hum of the fridge from the kitchen. Logan lifted his head first, slow and delighted. Tucker’s brows went up. Dean turned, beer paused halfway to his mouth, eyes brightening with the reverent attention of a man who had just heard the opening note of live theatre.

Upstairs, something moved hard enough to creak through the ceiling. A footstep. Maybe two. Then Garrett’s voice came down, rough and defensive and very much not using his captain voice. “What? Jesus Christ, I looked at my phone.”

“You were snapping a puck bunny right before you fucked me!”

Dean’s mouth fell open. Logan’s eyes went huge. Tucker closed his eyes once, like a man hearing a disaster he could have warned someone about if anyone in this house respected wisdom.

“Oh, rookie error,” Logan said solemnly, pointing one finger toward the ceiling without taking his eyes off the stairs. “That’s a rookie error.”

Dean nodded, gravely, as if Garrett had failed a sacred code. “Yeah, no. You can’t do that.”

Tucker set his controller down on his knee. “You absolutely cannot do that.”

From upstairs, Garrett snapped, “I wasn’t snapping a puck bunny.”

“Oh, fuck you, Garrett!”

“Oh, fuck me?” Garrett shot back, voice rising now, indignant in that very particular Garrett Graham way where he sounded personally offended that reality had chosen to disagree with him. “Fuck me? Are you shitting me? I go on my phone for, like, two seconds and you freak out?”

“I was straddling you, you asshole!”

Dean made a strangled sound and pressed his fist to his mouth, eyes shining. “God, she’s good.”

Logan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fully abandoning the game now. His abandoned character stood motionless on screen while someone named xXSlayerBoiXx unloaded an entire magazine into his chest. “Yeah, no, I’m with her on that. That’s insane. You don’t check messages mid-straddle.”

“It’s about respect,” Dean said, sudden and earnest, like the spirit of an Italian grandmother had entered his body. “You gotta keep that shit separate, man. Girls know when you’re mentally in the room. They can feel it.”

Tucker looked at him.

Dean looked back. “What?”

“No, I agree,” Tucker said after a beat, which somehow made it funnier. “I just didn’t expect you to be the one bringing emotional literacy into this house tonight.”

Dean lifted his beer in salute.

Upstairs, her voice came again, closer this time like she’d moved toward the door or maybe toward Garrett, which somehow made the whole thing worse and better. “You literally smiled at your phone.”

“I smile at shit!”

“You smiled like a slut!”

Logan lost it. He folded forward, laughter punching out of him so hard he had to slap one hand over his mouth. Tucker’s mouth twitched. Dean pointed up at the ceiling with the beer bottle, triumphant.

“That,” Dean said, “is a woman with language.”

Garrett barked something they couldn’t quite catch, then louder, “It was a team thing.”

“Oh my God, don’t lie to me with hockey. That’s so insulting.”

“I’m not lying with hockey!”

“You’re always lying with hockey. It’s your little emotional support sport.”

Dean wheezed. “Oh, she’s killing him.”

“She’s not wrong,” Tucker said, and picked up his controller again only to realise no one else was playing. He set it down with the soft resignation of a man accepting that the night had changed shape. “He does use hockey as a legal defence.”

Logan wiped under one eye with his thumb. “Your Honor, I couldn’t text back because we had a power play.”

“Exactly,” Dean said. “And the jury’s like, damn, compelling.”

The argument upstairs hit a sharper pitch then, the words overlapping enough that downstairs only fragments came through: Garrett saying her name in that strained, warning way; her cutting over him with something about half the campus knowing exactly what your stupid little smirk means; Garrett snapping back that she didn’t get to act like he’d done something when he hadn’t done anything; her laugh, sharp and humourless enough to slice through the floorboards.

The thing was, from downstairs, it was hilarious. It was the kind of fight you listened to with one hand over your mouth and the other hovering near your beer because you didn’t want to miss a word.

But even through the ceiling, even with Dean’s face lit up like Christmas, there was something hot and real in it. Garrett could say casual until his voice gave out. The guys had seen him check every time the front door opened on a Friday night in case it was her. They had seen him turn down girls without making a production of it and then act like he didn’t know he’d done it. They had seen him stand in the kitchen at nine in the morning holding two mugs of coffee, one black and one with the stupid oat milk she liked, and still somehow insist he was not, under any circumstances, doing relationship shit.

Upstairs, something thudded, like someone had shoved a door or dropped a shoe or Garrett had knocked into his own dresser while gesturing too aggressively for a man who claimed to be calm.

“Don’t walk away from me,” Garrett said, clearer now.

“Oh, now you care where I am?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That– that thing where you make it sound like I don’t give a shit.”

There was a pause after that. Barely a pause. Downstairs, all three of them went quieter without meaning to.

Then she said, voice still furious but lower now, scraped around the edges, “You were smiling at another girl with my thighs around your waist, Garrett.”

Logan’s face changed first. The grin softened out of it by a fraction. Tucker looked down at his beer. Dean, for all his many sins, at least had the sense to stop laughing for a second.

Garrett didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice had lost some of the heat. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“Baby–”

“Oh, do not baby me right now.”

Dean inhaled through his teeth. “Tough room.”

“Deserved,” Tucker murmured.

Garrett said something too low for them to make out, then louder when she clearly answered over him, “I’m not trying to make you look stupid!”

“You don’t have to try, you’re doing great.”

Logan made a tiny, appreciative noise. “Goddamn.”

Dean leaned back against the couch, eyes narrowed in thought now, as if evaluating odds at a racetrack. “I got ten bucks on Kitty.”

Tucker turned his head slowly. “Kitty?”

“Yeah.” Dean said it like this was obvious, like the naming of women based on their probable combat style was an established household tradition. “Kitty.”

Logan frowned. “Why Kitty?”

Dean looked offended by the lack of memory. “Because she scratches the shit out of him. You didn’t see his back last week?”

“Oh shit,” Logan said immediately, pointing at Dean. “That’s right. In the locker room. I thought he got attacked by a raccoon.”

“Exactly.” Dean spread one hand, pleased with his own case. “Kitty.”

Tucker’s brows drew together. “Nah. She’s hotter than a housecat.”

Dean tipped his head, considering. “I didn’t say housecat.”

“You said kitty. That implies housecat.”

“She’s not a housecat,” Dean said seriously.

Logan leaned back, very invested. “Cheetah?”

“No,” Tucker said. “Cheetahs are too sleek. She’s got more… attitude.”

“Mountain lion,” Dean said, snapping his fingers.

The room went quiet in collective consideration.

Logan nodded first. “Mountain lion works.”

Tucker lifted his beer. “Yeah. Respectfully.”

Dean tipped his bottle toward the ceiling. “Ten bucks on Mountain Lion.”

Upstairs, Garrett’s voice rose again, but not in the same way now. “You think I’m sitting there trying to get with somebody else while you’re literally in my room?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Garrett, because you keep telling me this is nothing.”

That hit the downstairs like somebody had turned down the TV and let the actual room in. Logan’s mouth went a little flat. Dean’s eyes flicked toward Tucker, then away. Tucker exhaled through his nose and leaned back in the chair.

Garrett said nothing. She laughed again, quieter this time, and it was worse than the yelling. “Right. Yeah. Exactly.”

A door creaked upstairs. A floorboard shifted.

Garrett’s voice came out rough. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is you acting like I’m insane for being embarrassed when you keep making sure I know I’m not allowed to be anything else.”

“Jesus. That’s not–” Garrett stopped, frustrated enough that they could almost see him dragging a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Another silence. Dean, who had somehow turned from smug spectator into anxious civilian in under thirty seconds, whispered, “Say something good, dumbass.”

Tucker shot him a look. “You whispering isn’t helping him.”

“I know, but, like, he can sense my spirit.”

Garrett finally spoke, lower. They couldn’t catch the first part. Only the end. “…don’t want you thinking I’m messing around with other girls.”

“But you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were smiling at your phone like–”

“I was smiling because Logan sent me a video of Dean eating shit in the driveway.”

Tucker stared at both of Dean and Logan, disgusted. “This house is an ecosystem of idiots.”

Upstairs, there was a beat of silence. Then her voice, much flatter now. “What?”

Garrett said, louder, with the rushed relief of a man finally locating evidence in his own defence, “It was Dean. It was the video of Dean slipping on the ice by the cars. I was laughing at that.”

Dean pointed to himself, touched. “I saved his situationship.”

Logan leaned over and slapped his shoulder. “Your pain had purpose.”

“I told you I’m important to this team.”

The floorboards creaked again. Upstairs, she said something too low for them to catch. Garrett answered, also too low, his voice doing that thing it did when he was trying not to sound soft and failing just enough for people who knew him to notice.

Then she snapped, suddenly audible again, “That still doesn’t fix the fact that you’re weird about me.”

Garrett’s answer came immediate and defensive. “I’m not weird about you.”

All three guys downstairs went still. Then, as one, they looked at each other. Dean’s face went blank with disbelief. Logan’s mouth opened. Tucker’s eyebrows lifted toward his hairline.

“He’s so weird about her,” Logan whispered.

“Incredibly,” Dean agreed.

“He once made me Venmo her for mozzarella sticks because I ate the ones she left in the fridge,” Tucker said.

Logan turned to him. “He made you Venmo her?”

“She didn’t even ask. She was asleep.”

Dean nodded solemnly. “That’s husband behaviour.”

Upstairs, she said, “You got mad at Tucker for eating my leftovers.”

Tucker lifted both hands as if personally vindicated by God.

Garrett shouted, “Because he knew they weren’t his!”

“They were in a communal fridge!”

Dean clutched his chest. “Oh my God.”

Logan dropped his head back against the couch. “He’s cooked.”

“Burnt,” Tucker said.

Upstairs, the argument blurred again into movement, voices crossing, Garrett’s frustration and her hurt colliding in the messy, intimate rhythm of two people who knew each other well enough to know exactly where to press and not enough to stop themselves from pressing there anyway. 

There was another thud, softer this time. Something fabric-heavy hitting the floor. Maybe the edge of a comforter. Maybe one of Garrett’s hoodies being launched with intent.

Then she said, sharp but trembling around it, “I’m not asking you to marry me, Garrett. I’m asking you not to make me feel stupid for liking you!”

The living room went dead silent. Even Dean didn’t joke.

For a second, there was only the muted TV, the distant rush of heat through the vents, the soft electrical buzz of the lamp beside the couch. Tucker looked away first, because there were some things a man wasn’t supposed to witness even through drywall. Logan rubbed a hand over his mouth. Dean’s face did something strange, caught between sympathy and the reflexive horror of sincerity arriving without warning.

Garrett’s voice came low enough that they had to strain for it. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

She answered, quieter too. “You act like I am.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“Yeah, well.” Her voice wavered, barely. “You’re really good at it anyway.”

There was another pause, longer this time. Then Garrett said her name, and it sounded so unlike the way he said it when he was teasing her downstairs, so stripped of performance, that even Logan stopped breathing loudly.

“I’m busy,” Garrett said, and immediately Dean made a face like he wanted to climb through the ceiling and tackle him. But then Garrett kept going, rougher, faster, like if he didn’t get it out in one rush he’d lose the nerve. “And I’m not– I don’t do this shit. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to stop hiding behind that.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Garrett.”

Silence. Then, quieter, from him: “Maybe a little.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

Logan whispered, “Progress.”

Tucker nodded once. “Huge.”

Whatever she said next didn’t reach them. It was softer, swallowed by the ceiling and the old pipes and the house settling around all of them. Garrett answered in the same register. For a minute, the boys could hear only the shape of it: his voice low and trying; hers still hurt but no longer slicing; a murmur, a footstep, another smaller sound that might have been a laugh or might have been her telling him he was an idiot in a tone that had lost most of its blade.

Dean leaned slowly toward the ceiling, listening so hard his beer tilted dangerously in his hand.

“Are they making up?” Logan whispered.

Tucker held up one finger. “Wait.”

The upstairs went very, very quiet. A bedframe creaked once. All three of them froze.

Then, clear enough to cut through the entire house, came a high, breathless little squeal that immediately dissolved into a muffled laugh and Garrett saying something low that none of them could make out but absolutely did not sound like an apology anymore.

Dean nodded once, satisfied. “Yup.”

Logan picked up his controller. “They’re fucking.”

Tucker reached for the remote and turned the TV volume up three notches with the resigned precision of a man who had lived in this house too long. “Good for them.”

Dean lifted his beer toward the ceiling. “Mountain Lion won.”

“You don’t win a fight by sleeping with Garrett after,” Tucker said.

Dean considered this. “Depends on the fight.”

Logan unpaused the game and immediately got shot. “I still think Garrett lost.”

“Oh, he definitely lost,” Tucker said.

Dean grinned, settling back against the couch as the game roared back to life and the upstairs became, blessedly, a problem the TV volume could mostly handle. “Yeah, but he’s not gonna know that until morning.”

From above them came another muffled thump, followed by Garrett’s laugh, low and pleased and stupidly gone.

Logan shook his head, respawning. “He’s so fucked.”

Tucker’s mouth curved faintly as he lifted his controller again. “Yeah.”

Dean, eyes on the screen now, smile still wide, said, “But in his defence, did you guys see her in that little skirt earlier?”

Tucker killed him instantly in the game.

Dean stared at the screen. “Wow.”

“Respect women,” Tucker said pointing at Dean, calm as anything.

Logan laughed so hard he missed his next shot, and upstairs, Garrett Graham continued very loudly pretending he didn’t have a girlfriend.

The room has gone quiet in the aftermath, the sort of quiet that arrives after a small, localised weather event has torn through and left evidence everywhere for later people to pretend not to see. 

Garrett’s comforter is half on the bed and half dragged toward the floor, one corner caught under her knee. A pillow has somehow ended up near the closet. Her shirt is inside out beside the desk chair. One of Garrett’s socks is on the nightstand, which makes absolutely no sense, but the whole room has taken on that loose, wrecked, airless quality of a place where nothing had been put down so much as flung away in the service of more urgent priorities. 

The lamp throws soft gold over the wall and across the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, and under it all the house is still making noise downstairs: gunfire from the TV, somebody laughing too loud, a dull male groan of defeat that is probably Dean dying in the game again.

She’s sprawled on her stomach across Garrett’s chest, bare skin warm against bare skin, one leg tangled in the sheet and the other hooked lazily over his thigh like she has no intention of giving his body back to him anytime soon.

Her chin rests over his sternum, and she traces nonsense patterns over his chest with the tip of one finger, slow little loops through the faint sheen still drying there, feeling the hard, steady thud of his heart under her cheek when she tilts down. 

It’s stupid, really, how quickly the fight has gone soft at the edges now that they’ve burned through it. Her throat still feels a little raw from yelling. Her body feels heavy and loose and humming in places she’s absolutely not going to name out loud. Garrett’s hand sits at the base of her spine, thumb moving every now and then like he keeps forgetting he’s doing it.

For a while neither of them says anything. Which is probably for the best, because words have been historically risky in this room tonight. Then the floorboards creak somewhere downstairs and Logan’s voice carries faintly up, followed by Dean’s laugh, bright and stupid and unmistakably delighted by his own existence.

She stills. Garrett’s hand pauses on her back.

Her eyes lift to his face. “Do you think the guys heard us?”

Garrett looks down at her for half a second, mouth already fighting the kind of grin that means he’s decided honesty will be funniest if delivered without mercy. His hair’s a mess from her hands, curls pushed in every wrong direction, face flushed in that warm, post-sex way that makes him look softer and smugger at once, which should be illegal on a man who already has enough advantages.

“Think the whole campus heard us,” he says.

She lets out an offended little laugh and drops her forehead against his chest. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously.” His voice is lazy now, rough around the edges, pleased with himself in a way that makes her want to bite him. Again. “Pretty sure the women’s soccer team knows you’re mad at me. And now... not so mad at me.”

“Oh my God.” She presses her face harder into his chest, but she’s giggling now, because the alternative is imagining Logan, Tucker, and Dean downstairs, all three of them going dead silent and absolutely listening like the worst little creeps in Massachusetts. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I literally do.”

“You’re naked on top of me.”

She grins into his chest. “That’s unrelated.”

“Feels related.”

She lifts her head just enough to glare at him, which doesn’t work at all because he’s grinning at her like she’s the funniest, most inconvenient thing that has ever happened to him.

That look gets under her skin in a way she hates. The part where his amusement goes warm and stupid around the eyes because he’s not just entertained. He’s happy she’s there. Happy she’s still touching him. Happy in the middle of a room that looks like a crime scene made of laundry and bad decisions.

His hand slides up her back, slow and broad, then comes around the side of her neck with the kind of easy confidence that makes her body go annoyingly still. His fingers resting lightly beneath her jaw, thumb brushing once along the side of her throat while he tips her face up.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and kisses her before she can say something defensive.

It’s quick, technically. Barely more than a press of his mouth to hers, warm and lazy and smug at the corner because he can probably feel the way she melts by half an inch the second his hand settles there. 

But it does something ridiculous inside her anyway. Something bright and helpless and fluttering low in her stomach. She kisses him back without meaning to make anything of it, but he smiles against her mouth, and that’s somehow worse.

When he lets her go, she blinks down at him. “You’re very annoying after sex.”

“Before too.”

“True.”

“During, though?”

She pauses, letting her eyes move over his face with theatrical consideration. “Tolerable.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lift. “Tolerable?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s crazy, considering the volume you were using ten minutes ago.”

She gasps and shoves at his chest, but he catches her wrist before she gets far, laughing low in his throat, the sound moving under her palm. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Evidence-based confidence, baby.”

She rolls her eyes, but the baby lands anyway, soft and warm and stupidly effective in the middle of all that cocky shit. Which is exactly the problem. Garrett could say something that made her want to smother him with his own pillow and then two seconds later say baby like it belonged in his mouth, like he hadn’t even had to think about it.

He gives her ass a lazy pat and exhales, long and reluctant, glancing toward the clock on the nightstand. “I gotta get up.”

Her brows draw together. “Why?”

“Because I told Coach I’d be at the rink early.”

“It’s nighttime.”

“I'm captain.” He shifts under her, and she makes a small noise of protest before she can stop herself, which makes his mouth twitch again. “Don’t start.”

She pouts. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a sound.”

“I’m allowed to make sounds.”

“Clearly.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but Garrett’s already moving, careful and slightly awkward with the sheet and her limbs and the fact that she has absolutely no interest in helping. 

He sits up, easing her off his chest and onto the mattress, and she flops onto her back with the kind of boneless indignation only a girl who has just been thoroughly ruined and then abandoned for hockey can really commit to.

The air cools instantly where his body was, and she hates that too. Hates the little absence of heat along her side. Hates, more than anything, the fact that she notices.

Garrett gets out of bed naked, completely unbothered by the fact that he looks like that in lamplight and has the audacity to walk away from her with broad shoulders and hockey-built thighs and his back scratched to hell. 

She hadn’t realised she’d done quite that much damage. There are red marks dragged down over the muscle beside his spine and along one shoulder blade, bright against his skin, some already fading, some very much not. The sight sends a hot little pulse through her, equal parts pride and embarrassment and something so pleased it probably needs to be medically reviewed. She bites her bottom lip to stop the grin. It doesn’t work.

Garrett bends to grab his boxers from the floor and pulls them on, then glances back over his shoulder because he feels her looking. “What?”

She shrugs against the pillow, still grinning. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “That face is obviously not nothing.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You look way too proud of yourself for nothing.”

“I’m just lying here.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning enough that she gets the full benefit of his expression now: amused, suspicious, a little too aware of his own effect on her and absolutely not above using it. “That’s the problem.”

She lets her gaze drag over him again on purpose this time, slow enough to be rude, from the messy curls to the bare chest to the low waistband of his boxers, then back to his face. Garrett watches her do it. 

His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, then closes again. His jaw shifts. He looks briefly toward the ceiling, as if appealing to God, Coach, or whatever patron saint governs self-control in sexually compromised hockey players.

She giggles. “What?”

Garrett exhales through his nose. “Nothing.”

“No, what?” She props herself lazily up on one elbow, sheet slipping down just enough that his eyes drop despite his clear attempt to be a disciplined athlete with somewhere to be. “What did I do?”

He gives her a look.

She widens her eyes, all fake innocence and bare shoulders and hair messy around her face in ways she knows are not helping him. “I’m not doing anything!”

“You look like that,” Garrett says, accusingly.

She glances down at herself like this is new information. “Like what?”

“Like that.” His hand moves vaguely in her direction because apparently language has left him. “All…” He stops. Swallows. Drags a hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”

The grin takes over her whole face now, slow and delighted. “Garrett Graham. Are you objectifying me?”

“I’m trying very hard not to.”

“How noble.”

“I’m a good guy.”

“You’re currently staring at my boobs.”

His eyes snap up. “I’m flawed.”

She laughs, and the sound loosens something in his face. For one second he just looks at her, standing there beside the bed in his boxers with scratches down his back and his hair wrecked by her fingers, caught between leaving and crawling right back over her. 

The room feels warmer for it. Smaller. The mess of it suddenly not messy so much as lived-in for one strange little slice of time – her clothes with his, her phone on his nightstand, his handprint still warm somewhere on her hip, the argument hanging around but no longer sharp enough to cut.

Then he sighs like she’s personally ruined his life. “I’m gonna be late.”

She frowns immediately, because the words take a second to land in the right order. “No, you’re not.” She rolls onto her side and reaches for her phone on the bedside table, fingers searching blindly until they close around it. The screen lights her face blue for a second. “You have plenty of– oh.”

The oh comes out because Garrett’s moved while she was checking the time. Fast. Smooth. Infuriatingly athletic, even in boxers, which feels unfair given the circumstances.

One second she’s looking at the screen. The next his hands are around her thighs, warm and sure, tugging her down the mattress until her hips slide to the edge of the bed and the phone slips from her hand. She drops it with a soft thump into the sheet, breath catching in a little startled laugh as he steps between her knees.

“Garrett.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

He lifts one of her ankles first, then the other, setting them over his shoulders like he has all the time in the world and not a single intention of using it responsibly. His hands settle against her thighs, thumbs pressing in just enough to make her stomach flip.

The lamplight catches on his grin when he looks down at her, all cocky mouth and dark, focused eyes and the kind of heat that makes every smart thing she might have said disappear before it reaches her tongue.

“I’m gonna be late,” he says.

For a second she just stares at him. Then her smile spreads, helpless and bright and already half-breathless. She lets her head fall back against the mattress, laughter spilling out of her as her fingers curl into the rumpled comforter. “You’re gonna be late.”

Garrett’s mouth curves, pleased, and his hands slide a little higher on her thighs.

“Yeah,” he says, like this is simply what the night has decided and who is he to argue with circumstances. “Definitely.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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There’d been a hunch in place of hard evidence that the lot of you were being tortured in the Capitol, though to what extent no one knew. And absolutely no one was prepared for what awaited them by the time the three of you were safe in District Thirteen.

Peeta had promptly tried to off Katniss which was very off brand of him; Johanna’s head had been shaved, she was emaciated, and had a plethora of evidence of gruesome physical torture, and you…

You weren’t filled with the same loathing, hatred, and disgust that Peeta seemed to carry for Katniss. No, you were completely and utterly terrified. 

Medics had to sedate you when Finnick rushed into the room upon hearing of your arrival because you’d thrown yourself against the wall so violently you’d split your head open, then nearly ripped your nails clean off your fingers in your desperation to open a locked door in an attempt to escape from him. And if that hadn’t been devastating enough, the sounds of your guttural screams and desperate cries caused by him still haunted many of Finnick’s nightmares.

Finnick had been hesitant to return to you after that; he didn’t want to ever cause you that much distress again. 

Haymitch tried to reason with him; Finnick wasn’t the one causing you this much distress, it was the Capitol. The medics tried to reason with him; it was to be considered exposure therapy, they hoped that - over time - as you regained some familiarity and comfort with him and worked through your memories and trauma with the doctors that you’d start to remember.

He reluctantly agreed. So, he was horrified when, the first day he returned, you’d been strapped down to your bed in preparation for his meeting. 

“This is sick!” He’d shouted at the medics as he gestured at your current state. “This isn’t exposure therapy, this is torture!”

“Mr. Odair, the hope is that once she begins to realize there’s no need to fight or run, we’ll be able to take the restraints off.” One of them explained in a bored manner. 

“Fuck whatever you’re hoping for! You’re torturing her; she’s not going to feel any safer here than she did in the Capitol!” 

They’d tried calling after him, but he simply looked over at you and offered a pathetic “I’m sorry, honey” that you probably hadn’t heard over your own desperate wails before he fled.

The next day he returned, you hadn’t been strapped down, but you had been heavily medicated with some kind of sedative before his arrival. He swallowed around the bile in his throat as he took a seat in one of the chairs, pretended to read his book and tried his hardest to ignore the extremely wary and haunted gaze that stayed glued to his side for the entirety of his visit. 

The third visit went much the same, except about halfway through his scheduled ‘visit’, he noticed that your eyes seemed to fall extremely heavy. 

“Are you tired, sweetheart?” He murmured quietly, though you would have thought he’d screamed at you with the way you bodily flinched and your eyes snapped open. 

He just continued watching you as you fought to convince your heart to return to its normal tempo, slowly, cautiously nodding your head yes to his question when you seemed to realize he was earnest in his question. 

“Would you like me to leave so you can get some rest?” 

Your brows furrowed ever so subtly, eyes darting across his face as you searched for any hidden meaning or potential threat. 

You must not have found one. 

“Please.” You whispered, and - though it was still but a whisper -  it was the first time he had heard your voice since the Quarter Quell that wasn’t shrieking and sobbing in fear, causing a lump to form in his throat.

“Okay, honey, I’ll go.” He whispered back, smiling at you through tears as he stood and swiftly left the room, hardly closing the door fully behind him before he let out a sob. 

Over the weeks, you began finding your own routine and schedule outside of the time you spent working with doctors and medics. You were hardly ever seen without your journal on your person, and one of your doctors explained to Finnick that you were beginning to compile notes to differentiate between things you knew, things that you didn’t know, and what was real or not real. Many times, Finnick could find you working in your journal when he arrived, and though you still managed to keep a concerned eye on him at any given point and your body never fully relaxed while he was there, he was grateful you were becoming more or less accustomed to his company. 

And then one day he showed up to your room to find one wall completely transformed into a giant drawing board. The board was divided into two equal sides; one side was labelled REAL and one side was labelled NOT REAL. The only thing that had been written down so far was on the NOT REAL side, which read “Finnick did not set you up and leave you there to die.”

“She’s been struggling to sleep without the aid of sedatives; she wakes up quite violently from nightmares, struggling to differentiate between what is real and what is not, even when we’re standing right there in front of her.” One of the medics told him. “We tried once to have her look through her journal, but she threw it across the room and told us to get away from her. We thought maybe having a very large visualization in front of her in her own writing would be helpful to tether her to reality upon waking.” 

And that seemed all well in good, but Finnick found himself sick over some of the things the Capitol had convinced you he was guilty of more than once. 

But, if this is what you needed, if this was helping you, Finnick would stomach it, no questions asked. 

So, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop. 

He knocked twice gently on your door before stepping inside, watching as you stepped quickly away from the board and hid the marker and eraser behind your back as if you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, watching Finnick as though you were waiting for him to attack. 

“Hi, honey.” He greeted quietly, nodding politely at you before he pulled out his chair and took his place, flipping his book open to an arbitrary page as he pretended to read. 

You didn’t move; your feet seemed to be glued to the spot as you watched Finnick pretend to not be watching you. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had missed your gaze, quite selfishly, and found that while the atmosphere wasn’t exactly relaxed, he was happy enough just to have your eyes on him again. 

Finnick wasn’t sure how much time had passed before you ended up breaking the silence.

“F…Finnick?” You asked, barely above a whisper; question so quiet that Finnick was sure if he hadn’t only been pretending to read, he would have missed it entirely.

You sounded as though you were trying his name out for size, just to see how it felt on your tongue. Finnick missed the days when you used to squeal his name in laughter, or groan his name in frustration, or call his name in excitement. But even though it came out cautious and stilted, he didn’t think he’d ever heard as pretty a sound as the sound of his name falling from your lips. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asked eagerly, fighting to keep his tone, face, and body language calm as he saved his ‘place’ with a finger and leaned forward in his chair, resting his knees on his elbows. 

You swallowed thickly and fiddled with the marker in your hands as you stole yourself to speak. “Can I ask you something?” 

He wanted to be an ass; he wanted to say ‘you just asked me two things’, he wanted to whoop and holler at finally having an actual conversation with you after weeks of finally having you back, yet not really having you back at all. 

Instead, all he said was “of course.”

You cleared your throat before gaining the courage to ask what he heard as “you love me; real, or not real?” 

Finnick wasn’t sure an answer had ever come to him so fast. “Real.”

You seemed somewhat surprised by his answer even though it was clearly the answer you’d been expecting. After a few moments, you simply nodded at him before turning back to your drawing board’s REAL side. 

Finnick loved me you wrote, adding bullet points underneath it...

He told me so

He acts like it

Gut feeling

...is what you cited as proof to this revelation. Finnick wanted to weep. A gut feeling; you were still in there, somewhere. There was still a version of you that knew deep down that Finnick loved you.

“It’s not quite right, honey.” He offered softly, fighting the urge to smile when you turned at his interruption, yet didn’t flinch at the sound of his voice as you often did. You simply looked at him in confusion. 

“Do you mind if I make a minor adjustment?” He asked as he carefully placed his book on your empty bed and slowly stood, holding his hands out in ask. 

You looked between him and the marker and eraser in your hands before holding them out for him; an invitation. 

Finnick smiled at you as he slowly walked towards you, hyper focused on remaining as unthreatening as possible as he gently took the items from you, careful not to touch you unnecessarily. 

He moved to the REAL side of the board, using the edge of the eraser to remove the d from the end of loved and replacing it with an s. The sentence now - properly - read Finnick loves me. 

“There, now it’s perfect.” He offered you with another smile as he held the items back out to you, gently placing them in your hands when you held them open for him before he turned back towards his chair, retrieved his book, and sat back down. 

Your eyes stayed glued on the correction he made to your board as the marker and eraser hovered uselessly midair; moments dragging on before your arms finally lowered to your sides. 

Finnick didn’t bother pretending to read, so when you turned to look at him - face full of confusion, curiosity, concern, and what looked to be devastation - you found him already looking at you. 

“Still?” You asked, voice cracking painfully as a heavy tear fell down your face. 

And if Finnick thought that no answer had ever come faster to him before, he was sorely mistaken. 

“Always.” He promised.

You leaned closer to the window and propped your chin on your arm as you gazed out at the rural area you were driving through. The wind wiped in your face and you suddenly understood why dogs stuck their heads out of the car; it was euphoric and free. Euphoric and free weren’t words you would use to describe how you felt in your daily life. Sure, you had moved to the city after college like most fresh graduates would dream of doing, but the job you secured wasn’t as fun as you were led to believe in the interview and you were suddenly drained of energy since joining the real world. During your first year of work, your boss slowly piled more and more work upon your shoulders. You didn’t want to look like you were slacking, so you picked up the extra work with no complaint.

That was your first mistake.

As soon as you proved you could handle the bigger workload, your boss started asking you to spend more time at the office and even called you on weekends occasionally to ask you to draft a contract or schedule a meeting, or whatever other bullshit assistants had to deal with all the time. You grumbled under your breath whenever you had to put in the extra hours but turned on the smile when your boss was around.

Your second mistake was giving too much of your time to work so that you barely had a social life. While you moved to the city knowing no one, you lucked out on finding an incredible roommate – Natasha Romanov. She quickly became a great friend and helped you navigate the city whenever it seemed to bog you down. Natasha had lived in the city since she was ten and knew almost every borough inside and out. During your first year, she made it her mission to take you out every weekend to see one of the sights or to go dancing or whatever she claimed was a “must” for a newbie. It was easy to handle your work life and small but budding social life that first year.

After that, you slowly started to become increasingly burnt out and, being the introvert you were, you started to decline invitations to go out. Natasha hadn’t said anything at first, but over the years she started to drop comments here and there about you missing out on life by giving it all to work.

That was easy for her to say. She had a job that aligned perfectly with her interests and was flexible on hours. The more you got to know Natasha, the more you were sure she was destined to be a private investigator. She was eerily good at picking up on people’s insecurities and emotions. She always watched more than she talked and she always asked the right questions just the right way. Natasha radiated confidence and everyone she encountered knew not to get on her bad side.

She seemed to have her life figured out while you still felt like you were drowning most days. The drowning sensation had lessened once you quit your assistant job six months ago and started to bartend, but you still had no clue what the next few years of your life would entail. It was exciting and nerve wracking all at the same time.

Since making the career jump to being a bartender, you got to spend more time with Natasha, as she frequented the bar when she knew you were on the schedule. To be fair, you would too if the roles were reversed. Having a decent bar just across the street from your apartment was a blessing. You were saving so much money by not using the subways or buses and the tips were nothing short of amazing.

Natasha had even brought two of her close friends by the bar – Sam and Wanda. This was a big deal since she was a private person and tended to keep her loved ones close to her chest. Sam was perhaps the most boisterous person you had ever met, and his charisma always amazed you. When he came to the bar, he would have strangers eating out of the palm of his hand within an hour. Wanda, on the other hand, was more similar to you: introverted, kind, and happy to stick with her small group of people.

Having a somewhat healthy savings account, an understanding boss, and more energy for life had landed you here: stretched out in the back seat of Sam’s truck with Wanda riding shot gun and playing DJ while you headed for a beach down the coast. One of Natasha’s more lucrative clients had offered their beach house as a bonus for successfully getting pictures of her husband cheating on her with not one, but five other women. Needless to say, she had swept the field when it came to dividing their assets and you were able to enjoy one of said assets.

Natasha was already at the house with her other two friends she invited along: Steve and Bucky. You had heard her talk about them in passing but you had yet to meet the two elusive men. From what you gathered, the two served in the military along side Sam and when they were discharged, the two moved back to their old neighborhood in Brooklyn and invited him to join. Steve had become an artist and had just recently had a gallery exhibit that explored the traumas that soldiers face coming home from the battlefield. Bucky was a mechanic at a small repair shop in Brooklyn. He preferred the quieter lifestyle after coming home from their last tour.

You were a bit anxious to meet the two men, but you were more excited that Natasha was showing you her closest friends who she considered family. If they were anything like Sam and Wanda, you were sure that you would have a great time with everyone.

Within an hour, the three of you in Sam’s truck were pulling into the driveway of the beach house and various sounds of disbelief filled the truck’s cab.

“How rich were these people?” Sam asked as he peered up at the house.

“For a three-story house at the beach? I’d say very,” Wanda added as she gazed out the windshield in awe.

“And we have this house – no, mansion for three weeks?” you added.

Said mansion was enormous in your eyes after living in a tiny apartment for the past four years. The windows on the first floor were floor to ceiling, revealing a minimalist décor preference and giant pieces of furnishing in front of a purely white, state-of-the-art kitchen. The second floor, where you assumed the bedrooms were, had picturesque arched windows and a large bay window looking over the property. The third floor seemed to be a small observation room since it was mostly windows with a giant telescope in the middle of the small room. The exterior of the house was the classic beach shake style with small pieces of wood collected to make the siding with crisp white trim and a pale blue door.

“Remind me to give Natasha a bottle of wine or something,” Sam said as he pulled up to the car port where another car and a motorcycle were parked.

“Remind me to name my first born after her,” you chuckled as you all started to gather your things that had been spread across the truck during your road trip down to the coast. Wanda laughed and Sam shook his head with a smile as they shoved their belongings in their bags and pockets before opening the truck doors and sliding out.

You put your phone in your back pocket and grabbed the water bottle you had finished before jumping out and going to the back of the truck to grab your suitcase. As Sam was opening the bed, the front door of the house opened and Natasha stepped out, followed by unfamiliar, large figures. Nat walked over to you and pulled you into a quick hug before pulling back and doing the same with Wanda.

“How was the drive? I see you made it all in one piece,” she quipped as she nudged Sam with her elbow.

“Hey, I drive very well for your information,” he defended as he pulled all three suitcases to the edge.

“More like you drive like a roadrunner,” Wanda joked. “He was going at least ten over the speed limit the entire time.”

“Sue me for wanting to get my vacation started as soon as possible. Plus, we’re all safe, that’s what really matters,” Sam said as he puffed out his chest slightly.

You laughed and shook your head.

“Well, c’mon,” Nat said as she gestured towards the house. “Steve went out and got lunch for us and I’m starving.”

Grabbing your bag, you put it down on the ground before Sam closed the bed and started towards the house with Wanda. You looked up at the house for one moment and took it in before moving to follow everyone. You pulled the handle up from your suitcase and started tugging it behind you when suddenly, the handle slid out from its spot and a wheel fell off of the bottom at the same time. Your cheeks warmed in embarrassment and a bit of frustration, but before you could move, you heard someone jogging over to you.

“Hey, no worries, I’ll bring it in,” a deep voice said behind you.

You turned around and saw the darker haired one of the two men right in front of you. He had beautiful blue eyes that you swore you could drown in. They looked over you as you stared at the man they belonged to. He had short hair that looked so soft and moved with the sea breeze. The lower half of his face was covered with a beard that looked like it had been trimmed recently. The next thing you noticed were his broad shoulders and strong arms. You noticed that one arm was flesh while the other was a very sophisticated, black and gold prosthetic.

He grabbed your suitcase and picked it up like it weighed no more than a feather. Heat spread through you upon seeing his muscles flex with his movements.

“Oh, thank you,” you said as you bent to pick up the stray wheel and broken handle. You turned back to him and slowly started walking to the house beside him, offering your name as an introduction.

A small, but crooked smile spread across his pink lips and he repeated your name, as if testing how it would feel on his lips. “I’m Bucky,” he replied. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Nat.”

“All good things, I hope,” you nervously smiled.

“All good things,” he confirmed.

You looked at him once more and bit your bottom lip to keep your nerves at bay. You were always nervous around men you found attractive and it was safe to say that Bucky was the most attractive man you had ever seen with your own eyes.

When you both reached the front door, he stood back to let you enter first before following and closing the door. He set your suitcase down by the stairs, next to Wanda’s oversized tote bag and Sam’s duffle bag. You dropped your broken suitcase parts on top of your luggage and looked around the foyer that opened to the whole first floor.

“Wow, this house looks like it should be in an architecture or design magazine,” you commented as your eyes scanned all the matching furniture and accent pieces that probably cost more than you made in a month.

"I think Nat said that the owner has had a few design firms take pictures of the interior,” Bucky said.

You turned back to meet his gaze and felt a slow heat creep up the back of your neck when you noticed he was already looking at you. If you were going to be here for three weeks with this beautiful man, you needed to pull yourself together – quickly.

“That tracks,” you laughed. “Most of the things in this house probably cost more than my paycheck.”

“I thought bartenders made good money,” Bucky said with a furrow in his brow.

“How did you know I was a bartender?”

“Oh, uh… Nat kind of talks about you a lot,” he added with a shy smile. Your eyes immediately fell to his lips and watched as his smile grew a bit bigger upon noticing you staring at his mouth.

“She does?” you questioned, glancing back up at his eyes. He nodded his head and watched as you bit your lip to try and suppress a goofy grin from taking over your face.

“She normally doesn’t have much to say about people, but you seemed to have made an impression on her,” Bucky told you.

“Well, I’m just honored just getting to meet you all,” you said. “She really loves you guys and I can see why. You’re all very nice and welcoming.”

“I don’t hang around people who aren’t worth my time,” Natasha’s familiar voice came from behind you. You spun on your heel to see the redhead behind you, leaning on the banister of the stairs with a sly smirk on her face as she looked between you and Bucky. “Now, c’mon. You still need to meet Steve.”

With that, she hooked her arm in one of yours and pulled you further into the house. As you both walked towards the kitchen, you chanced a peek behind you and saw Bucky standing where you were, looking down at his shoes and shaking his head. Your heart skipped three beats before settling back into a normal rhythm.

“You must be the famous roommate!”

You turned around and found another figure standing in front of you. The genuine smile on his face matched the warm timbre of his voice. The blonde haired, blue-green eyed, over six-foot tall man had the energy of a golden retriever, and it felt easy to return his welcoming energy.

“You must be Steve,” you replied. Before you could take another step forward, he swooped in to give you a quick but comforting hug. You returned the embrace at the last second, shocked that he was so outwardly friendly with even his affections. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“I could say the same,” he said. “Natasha talks about you enough that I feel like we already know each other.”

You glanced over at your friend who was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching you two interact with a small smile on her face. Your heart swelled, knowing you were now a part of her inner circle.

“Well, I hear nothing but great things about your art. Nat even said she thought about buying a piece or two.”

At that, Steve’s head turned to Natasha and a teasing smile took over his face. “Oh, really? I thought they were ‘just alright’.”

She rolled her eyes and pushed off the counter before putting her chin on your shoulder. “Remind me to not compliment people around you. You’re liable to spill my secrets.” She gave your side a squeeze before sauntering off to where Wanda and Sam were sitting at the kitchen table with their plates full of food.

You turned to the spread that Steve had gotten for everyone and started to pile a plate with food. As you were debating how much food to get, Steve and Bucky joined you in filling their plates.

“So, which one of you has the motorcycle?” you asked, trying to make small talk.

“That’s all Buck,” Steve said, clapping his friend on the back of his shoulder. “He actually built the engine himself.”

You looked up in awe at the man who had helped you earlier. “I’m sorry, you built the engine yourself? I might not know much about cars and bikes, but I know that must have been a challenge,” you said. A faint blush crept up his neck at your attention, and you felt a giddiness spread through your veins knowing that you could get a reaction out of him.

“It’s really not that hard,” he deflected. “The hardest part was finding all the parts I needed, but building the actual engine took about two days.”

You nodded, impressed that he was very gracious about his engineering feat.

“Well, congratulations,” you said. “It looks really good.”

He met your gaze and gave you a shy smile. “Thanks.”

Next to him, Steve was fighting off a smile and shook his head as if he was fighting to keep his thoughts to himself. He left the counter with a plate piled high and sat down next to Wanda. You noticed that the only two seats left were right next to each other, meaning you and Bucky would be sitting near each other.

The two of you walked over to the table after assembling your lunches, sat down, and joined the conversation. The table was made from nice oak wood, but it wasn’t very big; Sam and Wanda were practically smushed together and Steve and Natasha sat at the heads of the tables. During the meal, you noticed that Bucky’s knee kept knocking into yours every so often and you found yourself moving your knee closer to his every time he would pull away slightly. You felt like a schoolgirl with her first crush, and it felt like the feelings were reciprocated, but you weren’t sure if you were reading into it too much.

The next few days were full of exploring the island that you all were staying on. There were a few local museums about the native inhabitants, two art galleries filled with colorful pieces made of sea glass and oil paints, and a handful of Mom-and-Pop shops that had everything from fishing poles to surf boards to Christmas ornaments. You also went to every beach access that you could find, relishing in the soft sand, warm sun, and cool ocean spray.

You had a lot of fun getting to know everyone better. Wanda was very artistic and signed up for an art class held at one of the galleries; Steve ended up joining the class also. Natasha seemed to be immersed in the history of the island and bought a book about the local history at a small book shop. You found out that Sam had a knack for fishing after telling you about how he grew up on a fishing boat with his dad and sister. Bucky had ended up enjoying the beach nearly as much as you did, finding the sound of the waves lulling and comforting.

Getting to know Bucky had been your favorite part of the trip so far, though. You learned about his affinity with machines and science. He told you about his collection of Tolkien’s books and mentioned he’d lost count of how many times he reread The Hobbit.

He asked questions about you and seemed genuinely interested in knowing the answers, unlike most guys you dated. It was refreshing to have your interest reciprocated for once.

You also noticed that the two of you seemed to always be close to one another or touching in some way. He always sat near you during meals and your knees or feet would be touching. When you all explored the museums and shops, he held the door open for you and would guide you out with a hand on the small of your back if it was particularly crowded. At night when everyone would pile up on the furniture in the living room, he always opted to sit next to you. If you were sitting on the floor, he would sit on the couch behind you and guard your personal space like it was his job.

A few days after arriving, you all decided to spend the day at the beach. Sam was surf fishing, Steve and Wanda were sketching, Natasha was reading under an umbrella, and you and Bucky were walking along the shoreline. You were looking through all the shells you came across, and Bucky was content to hold the shells you deemed good enough to keep.

“So,” Bucky started as he watched you bend down to comb through a section of small shells, “what makes a shell good enough to keep?”

You paused in your search and looked up at Bucky, shielding your eyes from the afternoon sun. Standing in front of the ocean in his linen button up that was unbuttoned halfway and his hair moving with the wind, Bucky looked like he could be in a perfume commercial or one of the men on the cover of a steamy romance novel. His sunglasses obstructed his eyes from your view, but you could feel his gaze on your face.

“I guess it’s up to the person collecting,” you said.

“What’s your criteria then?”

“For me, I like shells that look like they’ve traveled through the ocean a long time. They aren’t perfect, but they still have a beautiful color or pattern on them,” you explained, looking back down at the shells in front of you. One that matched your description laid in front of you. You grabbed it and stood up to show Bucky. Holding your hand out, he moved closer, observing the shell in your hand. “See this one? Its edges are a little jagged, but it still has a bright color and feels smooth in my hand. It feels like it has lived a life of its own.”

Bucky reached out and slowly traced his finger down the middle of the shell before trailing his finger over your palm for a second. A shiver ran down your spine, and you had to fight the gasp that threatened to leave your lips. Bucky looked up at you and tilted his head to the side a bit.

“Jagged edges don’t bother you?” he asked. His tone of voice suggested that he wasn’t just asking about the shell’s jagged edges.

You gave him a gentle smile and shook your head. “No, they don’t bother me. Should they?”

“Some edges are sharper than others,” he explained cryptically.

You knew that he served in the military and had suffered many injuries. You had a suspicion he was talking about his jagged edges and not the shell’s. There were so many words swarming your brain, but none of them seemed adequate to quell his nerves. Nonetheless, you still had to try.

“Well, lucky for the shell, time and sand smooth the sharp edges. They never go away, but they become more manageable,” you said.

His mouth opened slightly upon hearing your explanation and you could tell that the words had landed in his chest with impact; you just didn’t know if it was something he needed to hear or something he didn’t want to acknowledge. Instead of thinking about it too much and second guessing yourself, you placed the shell in the front pocket of his button up and left your hand on his chest to cover the shell. He looked down at your hand on his pec before looking up to you.

“This one is for you,” you said, moving one finger in a soothing motion over the skin just beneath the thin material of linen. “The pattern on it reminds me of the bands of gold on your arm.”

You couldn’t tell if what you said hit a nerve or if it landed as softly as you meant it to, but you noticed him go still for a few moments before lifting his hand to cover yours that remained over the shell in his pocket. His fingers wrapped around your palm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you,” he murmured under his breath. If the sea breeze hadn’t paused during that moment, you wouldn’t have heard his thanks and you wouldn’t have felt a tightness behind your ribs in response.

“Of course,” you said, slowly pulling your hand away from his chest so you could resume your search for shells. “Pretty people deserve pretty things.”

A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. “Oh, so now I’m pretty?”

“Um, have you ever looked in a mirror, sir?” you laughed. “Your face could make anyone, man or woman, fall headfirst before realizing. It’s quite unfair.”

“Anyone, huh?”

Realizing you might have just been too forthcoming with your attraction to Bucky, you crouched down once more to the sand and looked down so he wouldn’t notice your flustered expression.

“Uh, yeah. I mean when Sam gets buzzed, he talks about the pretty boy and the golden retriever, and after meeting Steve, I know he’s the golden retriever,” you explained, hoping he would just leave it at that.

“I don’t care about what Sam thinks,” he said, his voice getting closer to your ear. You turned your head to the side to see him crouching next to you, sunglasses now pushed up so you could see his eyes. The blue of his irises were mesmerizing and more enchanting than the literal ocean at your back. You found yourself unable to look away from him.

“Don’t tell Sam that,” you tried to joke, as a deflection. “I bet he would throw a fit.”

“He’ll get over it.”

After a couple of seconds, you pulled your gaze from his and returned to looking through the shells at your feet. Your fingers combed through the shards and fully formed shells, trying to distract yourself so you wouldn’t make the mistake of throwing yourself at him.

How was it possible for someone to look so perfect in the harsh afternoon sun? It was clear that if God was real, Bucky was his favorite creation.

You picked up a pale pink shell and turned it over in your hand, inspecting it, before handing it to Bucky. When he didn’t take the shell you were extending between you, you turned your head to look at him once more just to find that he was still looking at you. The only difference was the soft, gentle look in his eyes as he took in your features. You could feel your internal organs melting together to form one big cartoon heart that threatened to beat out of your chest.

After a second, he took the shell from your fingers before looking down at the object. He flipped it over and ran his thumb over the bumpy ridges before putting it in his other hand with the rest of the shells you wanted to keep.

“Just for the record,” he started as he looked over all the various shells in his hand. “I think you’re pretty, too.”

As if you were on the set of a romance movie, the sea breeze picked up and your hair flew back in the wind as his comment hit your ears. He slowly turned his gaze back to you and you swore that the air between you thickened with something you couldn’t put your finger on.

This beautiful man had just called you pretty.

Was this real life?

Before you could say anything in response, he stood back up and held out his hand for you to take. You slipped your hand into his grasp and let him pull you up, so you were standing right in front of him.

It would be so easy to reach out and pull your faces closer together, but his comment kept you rooted in place, still trying to process the moment.

With a wry, boyish grin taking over his face, he nodded his head in the direction of the shoreline you had yet to reach. “C’mon, let’s go see if there are any other worthy shells. I have my pretty shell, now we have to find one that’s as pretty as you are.”

As he started to walk, you expected him to drop your hand, but you were pleasantly surprised when he kept his hand wrapped around yours. The warmth from his palm seemed to transfer to your skin and soaked into your bloodstream. You felt as if you were walking on clouds and you were so sure that there was no moment in your life that could possibly top this one.

The next day, everyone seemed content to laze around the house, but you wanted to go out and explore the tidal pools you had seen the day before.

“I’m headed out to the tidal pools,” you announced to the group. Sam was asleep on one of the couches, Wanda was attempting to finish her painting from yesterday, Steve was eating something while watching a football game on the television, and Natasha was spread out on a large recliner, nose stuck in her book. Bucky had been missing the better part of the late morning and afternoon.

“Enjoy,” your roommate said without peeling her eyes from the text in front of her. Steve waved his free hand and Wanda gave you a wink.

You turned and walked over to the front door, sliding your sandals on and grabbing your bag which had your sunblock, sunglasses, and camera inside. Just as you were about to wrap your hand around the front door’s knob, the door was thrown open with a gust of wind that blew in along with the man who had been taking up real estate in your head.

His form took up most of the space in the door frame. He was panting and sweating as he stopped when he saw you. A bead of sweat slid from his temple, down the side of his face, and down his neck and you found yourself momentarily envious of the drop of perspiration. His grey shirt looked almost black with all the sweat soaking in the material. His face was a bit red, but you couldn’t tell if it was from the sun or from overexertion, or if it was from both.

“Hey,” he greeted, in a flat tone. The smile that you came to associate with him was missing from his features and his eyes seemed to lack that sparkle you had grown to admire. You offered a shy smile and a quick greeting in return.

“Um, I’m going to the tidal pools, but everyone else is in the living room,” you explained when you noticed his gaze land on your bag and your sandals. He nodded his head and looked over your shoulder to see everyone spread out, doing their own thing. You wanted to ask him where he had been for most of the afternoon, but you didn’t want to push any buttons as he was clearly not feeling like himself, from what you could tell. “You’re welcome to join, if you want. No pressure, though.”

Bucky brought his flesh hand up to scratch at the back of his neck while he contemplated the offer. You couldn’t tell which way he was leaning since he was doing such a good job of keeping to himself. You stood there in the foyer for a while, waiting for his answer. The moment felt like it lasted for five days rather than five seconds. 

His hand fell into his pocket and he looked up at you with a stormy expression in his eyes. The feeling of rejection spread through your chest, which was silly, since he clearly needed space and you were offering too much social interaction. You went to open your mouth and retract the offer, but he cut you off with a nod of his head.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “I just need to shower and change, then I’ll be ready.”

“Yeah, of course. Take your time,” you said quickly, surprised that he was accepting your invitation after all. “I’ll just be outside by the cars.”

He gave another stiff nod before slipping past you and dashing up the stairs. When he disappeared from your sight, you went to head out the front door but caught Natasha looking at you over her book with a mischievous glint in her eyes. You awkwardly cleared your throat and left the house, not wanting to feel her stare probe you for information she probably had already gathered.

You and Bucky had been orbiting each other since you met earlier in the week and everyone had seemed to make something of it, while you were trying to figure out why you felt so out of your depth around him. The only one who had said anything was Steve after he pulled you to the side one night once Bucky had gone to the bathroom following dinner.

He started by asking you how the trip was going so far and if you were having fun. When you mentioned that you were having more fun than you expected, he quickly mentioned that Bucky seemed to be having more fun than anyone thought he would. You looked up at him curiously when he said that and he quickly satiated your need for information.

“Buck had the hardest time out of all of us when we were touring. His story isn’t mine to tell you, but he came back with a lot of baggage. After seeing him this week though, it’s like seeing my friend from college all over again,” he had explained. “You know, it takes a lot from us to get him to smile and break behind his gruff exterior, but you seem like a natural at it.”

“Oh,” you said, looking down to hide the embarrassment on your cheeks.

“It’s nothing to be shy about,” he quickly remedied. “I guess I just wanted to tell you that he seems really happy around you.”

You met his gaze at that and found a heartfelt smile on his face. You returned the gesture with a shy smile of your own and he left you on the porch overlooking the water. You had stayed out there for a while that night, thinking about all that Steve had said and all the pieces of information Natasha had dropped about Bucky over the years.

“If you don’t mind,” Bucky’s gravely voice started, breaking you out of your thoughts, “I thought we could take my bike.”

You turned to look at him and the second your eyes met his, your throat seemed to go dry. His dark hair was still wet from the shower, but he was wearing a white compression shirt that looked like it was straining against his muscles. When your eyes roamed to his face, you could see some of the light had returned to his eyes. A small smile broke across your face at the sight.

“Okay,” you conceded. “I will warn you, I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before, though.”

He grinned and motioned for you to come over to his bike while he swung a leg over the body of the machine. He put his helmet on before digging around in his side bag for another. He produced the helmet and gave it to you. You fumbled to put it on, but eventually got it secured around your head.

Bucky held his hand out for you, and you took it, cautiously climbing on to the motorcycle behind him. Once you were seated, you placed your hands on your thighs, not knowing where else to put them. A rumbling chuckle emanated from his chest before he grabbed your leg and moved you closer to him.

Your chest was pressed against his back and your legs bracketed his. The feeling of his leg hair brushing against your skin made your brain short circuit and you let him manipulate your hands to wrap around his torso.

“You’re going to want to hold on, sweetheart,” he said before bringing the bike to life. The loud sound of the engine was enough to have you plaster yourself to his back and squeeze your arms around his abdomen. You felt his laughter this time but couldn’t hear it over the sound of the idling engine. He lifted his feet off the ground and the bike slowly pulled itself down the driveway. Once the coast was clear, Bucky turned on to the road and that’s when you truly felt the power of the motorcycle.

As the machine quickly picked up speed, you tried to move even closer to his body. Your thighs squeezed around his solid ones and you couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out of your mouth when you let yourself relax a little and enjoy the wind surrounding your bodies.

As he drove, you looked around as nature flew by. You were starting to understand the appeal of a motorcycle, especially since it let you press your body closely to Bucky’s frame. The heat from the sun and his body lulled you into a tranquil state. You leaned your head on to his shoulder and closed your eyes, letting the warmth fill every cell in your body. You had never felt this content to be close to someone before and it was a thrilling feeling. All the love songs, poems, romance books, and cinema you watched about finding solace in another person made complete sense if they felt half as content as you did.

The motorcycle slowed down as Bucky pulled off the main road and came to a standstill in a parking spot on the side of the road. After shutting off the bike’s engine, his slipped his hand down your arm and gave your hands a squeeze while they were still clasped around his body. You dropped your hands reluctantly when you felt his body move to dismount. He took his helmet off as he turned around to face you as you also got down from the machine’s back. You offered him the helmet and he put both away before you started walking towards the shoreline and the tidal pools.

Bucky walked by your side but remained quiet on your trek. You didn’t want to intrude on his thoughts, so you remained quiet as well. The silence wasn’t awkward; instead, it was comfortable. You sneaked peeks at his side profile every few steps, noticing how his brows furrowed occasionally, and how his lips were pursed, but in a tight line. What you wouldn’t give to see inside his mind.

After the five minute walk to the tidal pools, you set your bag down on a big rock and pulled out your camera, ready to shoot some wildlife portraits. The clear waters allowed for you to see sea stars, urchins, barnacles, and tiny, colorful fish feeding in the pools. You looked over your shoulder at Bucky and saw him looking at you already. You gave him a small smile before turning back to the tidal pool and crouching down to get a closer shot.

“I didn’t know you were into photography,” Bucky observed from behind you.

You nodded your head and took another photo before turning to face him. “My parents gave it to me when I left for the city,” you explained. “I never ended up using it. It sat on my bookshelf collecting dust for years, but Nat encouraged me to take it on this trip and finally start using it.”

“Too busy galivanting around the city to use your camera?” he jested.

“I wish. More like I was drowning in work and didn’t realize I was selling my soul to the corporate world,” you said with a laugh at the end. “I would use all my energy at work, trying to prove to my boss and everyone else how good I was with completing tasks. Why? I’m not sure, but it seemed like something I was supposed to do. By the time I would get home, I would barely have enough energy to cook for myself or even shower some days,” you confessed, trying your best to gloss over the harder bits of your life in the first few years after college.

“I understand,” he said after a moment. “Sometimes life takes more from you than you thought you would give.”

You nodded your head in agreement. “Switching careers helped get my life back, I guess. Or at least it made me realize that some things are more important than my professional life.”

 “What have you found that’s more important?” he asked.

“I found out how much I enjoy hanging out with people and that I didn’t need to work all day, every day just to make a living,” you answered. “Being a bartender isn’t exactly the glamourous life, but it pays the bills and lets me have free time outside of work. And that’s where I found that life happens; in those moments you get every day. I was just wasting my life by working and coming home and crashing out from my lack of energy.”

There was a pause in the conversation as he seemed to think over your words.

“Plus, if I was still at my shitty corporate job, I wouldn’t have been able to come to the beach and finally meet you and Steve,” you added with a small smile.

“Well, then I guess I’m grateful for your career change, too,” he muttered. You weren’t sure if he meant for you to hear his words, but you were glad that you did. Your heartbeat picked up its pace momentarily and you could feel the back of your neck flush.

You turned back to the tidal pool and put your camera down, opting for touching the creatures in the water. The fish scattered as soon as your hand reached into the pool. You traced your fingertip over the sea star, feeling its ridges and appreciating its color.

The sound of your camera’s shutter opening and closing stole your attention and you looked over to see Bucky holding the camera in your direction. The surprise on your face must have been another great moment to capture in Bucky’s mind since you heard the camera take two more pictures. A goofy grin took over your face and he snapped another photo before pulling the camera down from his eye.

“Too good to not document,” he said with a shrug as he put the camera back down beside you.

“Well, now it’s your turn, mister,” you chided as you picked up the camera and pointed it in his direction.

His features changed from appreciative to mild discomfort as he started to lift his hand to block his face. Your fingers were faster, though, and you caught a candid of him that you were sure was going to turn out beautifully.

“I don’t think you need to take pictures of me,” he said, as if trying to play off his importance. “Save your film for the beach.”

“But you’re a part of this trip and I want to remember you,” you explained.

The discomfort disappeared as a shy acceptance took over and you quickly snapped more pictures, hoping you could capture the expression on his face. You wanted to remember him in this moment for the rest of your life. His gentle appreciation and surprise were sure to make your stomach flutter when you got the photos developed.

“What? Are you going to be done with me after this trip?” he goaded.

A giggle slipped out of your lips and you tilted your head to the side before you answered.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be done with you, Bucky.”

His blue eyes were almost swallowed by his pupils as they enlarged. The small smile disappeared from his lips and he looked at you with a stunned expression briefly before it morphed into a playful one.

“Good, because I’m nowhere near done with you,” he replied.

When his words graced your ears, you felt your lungs stop breathing and your pulse stop briefly. You had never had someone express their interest in you so clearly and to say it was wreaking havoc on your nervous system would be an understatement.

The two of you were walking back to his motorcycle when you passed an elderly couple going for a walk on the beach. An idea popped into your head and you rushed up to them, asking politely if they could take a couple of pictures of you two. After they agreed happily, you skipped back to Bucky who looked confused.

“Smile, pretty boy,” you joked. “I want some pictures of us.”

A chuckle rumbled from his chest as he accepted the circumstances. When you were side by side, he slipped his flesh arm around your waist and tugged you closer in to his side. A surprised squeal came from you as you regained your footing from the surprise movement. You looked over at the couple and gave them a big smile, excited that you would be able to have documentation of his arm wrapped around you.

After the couple took a few photos, they walked over to you and handed you back your camera.

“You two are just adorable,” the woman gushed. “I’ve never seen a better looking couple.”

Bucky stiffened a little beside you before dropping his hand from your waist as if he had been burned and you gave an awkward chuckle.

“We’re not…” you trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. You weren’t a couple, but the way you felt spending time with him was what you assumed partners would feel about each other.

“Sorry, about her,” the man jumped in. “She just loves love and sees it everywhere she goes.”

“It’s no problem,” you quickly said. “Thank you for the photos! Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

They wished you the same as they resumed their stroll along the beach. You put your camera back in your bag and looked up at Bucky. He was looking at you with an emotion you couldn’t quite pinpoint but tried to cover it up when you met each other’s gaze. He nodded his head towards the road and you followed along after him.

As you walked behind him, you couldn’t stop yourself from overthinking. Did the implication of you being a couple make him that uncomfortable? Was it you or just the idea of being in a relationship? Had you been reading too far into your time together and all the smiles you shared? He said he would never be done with you just a few moments ago, but did he mean it in a different way than you had?

You had to stop yourself from going down the catastrophizing route or you would ruin the rest of your day. As much as you wanted to think about all the possibilities, you didn’t want Bucky to see you spiraling since he already seemed to be on edge before you even left for the tidal pools.

When you reached the motorcycle, Bucky handed you the helmet once more and sat down before offering you his hand. Instead of taking his hand, you placed your palm on his shoulder as you swung your leg over the body of the bike. You secured your helmet and placed your arms on his side, waiting for him to start the bike. After a moment, he started the engine and slowly backed out onto the road before taking off towards the house. You wrapped your arms around him but tried not to press yourself too close.

With your feelings and emotions being all jumbled right now, the last thing you needed to do was confuse yourself further by sinking into his warmth. You felt him stiffen after a minute. Could he feel you holding back or was he just adjusting his posture?

You shook the thought off and focused on the dunes and sparse patches of grass instead, reminding yourself not to spiral. All it would do is make the situation more uncomfortable and awkward and that was the last thing you wanted.

When Bucky pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, you took a moment to gather yourself before slipping off the bike and unlatching your helmet’s strap. As you handed the helmet back to Bucky, you glanced over him briefly and mustered up a smile.

“Thanks for the ride and coming with me,” you said.

“Yeah, no problem,” he said after coughing to clear his throat. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but no words came out of Bucky’s mouth afterwards.

With that, you turned and headed for the house, needing a little space to sort out your thoughts and feelings. You could hear Bucky walking behind you, but his footsteps weren’t as close as they had been in the previous days. It’s like he knew you needed space and was granting it to you. You didn’t know if that hurt more or if you were glad for it.

The rest of the day passed by quickly with dinner and a small game of poker before everyone went to bed. Bucky had been the first to call it a night, followed by Sam, Wanda, and Steve.

You and Natasha were cleaning up the poker chips, drinks, and cards when she turned to you and examined your body posture.

“What happened?” she asked. “You weren’t as smitten when you got back from the tidal pools.”

“It’s nothing,” you deflected. “Just tired from the sun.”

She narrowed her eyes and cocked an eyebrow. You prayed she would let it go for now, because you didn’t even know how to voice what was going on in your head. As if she could sense you pulling into yourself, she let out a sigh before she continued to clean up after everyone.

Natasha retreated to her room for the night after giving you a much needed hug, leaving you all alone in the living room. You weren’t tired, but you didn’t want to make too much noise and disturb anyone’s sleep, so you grabbed a light blanket and walked out onto the deck. You sat down in one of the chairs closest to the railing and draped the blanket around you.

You sat with your knees pulled into your chest and rested your chin on top of your knees. Above you, the moon was in the process of waning and the stars twinkled around it as if they were talking to each other. The sight was beautiful and it helped to calm the storm brewing in your head.

Just as you were starting to truly relax, the back door slid open and you heard footsteps approach you from behind. You kept your head forward, refusing to tear your gaze from the cosmos in front of you until you heard the chair next to you scrape against the deck as someone took a seat next to you.

You looked over and saw a familiar pair of blue eyes looking at you with something akin to regret in their eyes. You didn’t say anything as you turned your head back to the stars. If you continued to look into Bucky’s eyes, you were sure you would crumble or burst apart.

“My real name is James,” came a quiet murmur from the man next to you. You looked at him out of the corner of your eyes and saw him fidgeting with his hands, entranced with the sight of his own fingers moving around. Your head remained on your knees, but you tilted it in his direction instead of the stars’. “Bucky comes from my middle name, Buchanan. My mom had an affinity with names from the early nineteen hundreds.”

“You kind of look like a James,” you chimed in.

He huffed out a laugh and shook his head before looking up to meet your gaze.

“My sister used to call me Jimmy,” he added, earning a small smile from you. “I remember Steve tried to call me Jimmy once.”

“What happened?”

“I chewed him out and he never said it again,” he admitted with an embarrassed grin presenting itself on his face. “I let him get away with a lot of other things, though. He was practically my brother.” He paused and turned his gaze out to the stars you were admiring earlier. You didn’t know where this conversation was going, but you were content to let him think through his words before sharing them with you. “We first met in kindergarten. He was this small kid who could have disappeared with the wind if it was strong enough. There was another kid on the playground, Connor, who used to tease him and push him around. I didn’t do anything to stop it the first week of kindergarten, but once he started to talk about his mom, I could see that Steve was ready to fight. I couldn’t let him fight when one punch would have sent him to his early grave. So, I stepped in and gave Connor a pretty good beating. I got in a lot of trouble for it and had to spend the rest of the week’s recesses in the classroom instead of on the playground. But Steve stayed back with me. The first few days, he didn’t say anything to me, then one day he came over and sat at my table and started talking about some cartoon he saw on the television and ever since then, we’ve been best friends.”

You had no problem conjuring a small Bucky and even smaller Steve in your mind. It was heartwarming to know that Bucky was a defender of those who needed help.

“We went through school together, got our driver’s license together, pulled pranks on my sister, Rebecca, and the other neighborhood kids, and talked about everything we wanted to do. We were best friends and I can’t imagine growing up a different way. Right after we finished college, we went into the army. My old man had served and Steve was hellbent on protecting others any way that he could. I wasn’t going to let him go by himself, so I joined with him. My parents were proud. My sister was mad that I wasn’t going to be able to drive her and her friends around anymore, but also proud.”

As he told his story, you watched him intently, watching his thoughts and emotions play out in real time across his face. By the way he kept fiddling his fingers and the way his brows pulled together tightly, you could tell that this was taking a lot of effort on his part.

“Steve got drafted into this government program for soldiers and disappeared for about a month before coming back a completely different person. Before, he was so thin and lean and when he came back, he seemed to grow almost a foot and gained muscles that should have taken years to build. He couldn’t tell me about what happened, but the changes spoke for themselves. The kid that used to wheeze when spring would come around was suddenly running laps with me without breaking a sweat.”

“That must have been jarring for you,” you noted.

He nodded his head. “Yeah, it took a while for me to get used to. After another month of training, we got assigned our divisions. I was a sergeant in the one-oh-seventh and Steve was going to be returning to whatever program made him what he is today. I shipped out pretty soon after that and I was thrust into the middle of war. Everything we learned in basic training was miles away from what was happening on the ground. There was one night when we were resting in the barracks when the power cut out. At first, we thought nothing of it, but then we started hearing gun fire. Turns out, we were being ambushed in our sleep. I remember stepping out with my gun held in front of me before being hit in the head with something hard. I blacked out and when I came to, I couldn’t tell where I was.”

Bucky took a deep breath and balled his hands into fists before continuing.

“I was strapped to a table, hooked up to an IV and something else that was a bright blue. I didn’t know it at the time, but whoever took me was using their own version of whatever the government gave Steve. They were building biologically enhanced soldiers. I can’t remember much of my time being held captive, but I just remember a searing pain running through my veins and people talking above me in a different language.”

His knuckles were white from how tightly he was clenching his hands and you could feel your heart break into pieces from watching the pain he was going through just to retell the story to you. You didn’t want to invade his space or push him too far, so you reached a hand out and placed it on the arm of his chair. Your index finger extended and you gently traced circles in the side of his sweatpants. The touch seemed to help him as he relaxed his hands a bit and took another deep, steady breath.

“Eventually, Steve’s division found me and saved me and a few of my other men. When we came back to the base, I was brought to a room with Steve and the head of the government program he had been a part of. They explained everything in detail and before I could process everything, I was thrust into the same division as Steve. There were only a handful of us that had survived the biological experiments. After a week of rest, I was back in the field running operations with Steve and the others. Everything was fine for the first month. Our missions always ran smoothly and we could handle the loose ends that came up every now and then,” he said in a somber tone. “But one mission came and before we knew we had been compromised, we were separated by a blast. I was knocked back so hard that I couldn’t stay fully conscious. I couldn’t hear anything through the ringing in my ears and my arm felt like it was being pulled from my body. Someone dragged my body somewhere and the same foreign language filled my ears from my first time being captured.”

“Bucky, you don’t have to—” you tried to reassure him.

“I know, but I want to,” he said, grabbing your hand that was resting on his chair’s armrest. His gaze turned down to your hands clasped together before he continued. “I remember bits and pieces of what happened, but it’s all a blur. I remember waking up and feeling a heavy weight on my left shoulder and when I looked down, my left arm looked like it belonged to a cyborg, not me. Looking around, all I could see was blood everywhere and people talking around me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying and I ended up passing out from the pain. The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital in the States with a commanding officer in front of me telling me how I was being honorably discharged for my service.”

Tears pooled in your eyes as you imagined a young and distraught soldier who had already been altered without his consent waking up to find that he had lost a limb. You squeezed his palm and brushed your thumb over the back of his hand. All you wanted to do was wrap your arms around him and keep him safe for the rest of his life, but you knew that wasn’t possible.

“My parents came and took me home. I remember my mom nearly falling down when she saw me for the first time in the hospital room. My dad had gone ghost white and sat in silence. When I got home, Rebecca was there and I remember her falling apart when we first saw each other.” Bucky took a deep breath and finally looked over at you after telling his story. You could see the devastation in his eyes and the quiver of his bottom lip. “It was a long road to recovery, and honestly, I’m still living with the ghosts of my past every time I close my eyes. I don’t think I’ll ever be normal again.”

You moved your body closer to his chair and nodded your head. “I don’t think anyone expects you to be, Bucky.”

“I just – it’s hard for me to imagine anything normal in my life,” he nearly sobbed. “Today was the anniversary of me coming home and it all piled up as soon as I woke up this morning. I ran myself ragged trying to literally run from my past this afternoon, but then you offered me an escape that wasn’t a form of punishment. Going to the tidal pool with you was a momentary breath of fresh air and I could feel myself letting all my thoughts go. But then that woman made that comment about being a couple and it just tore the wound open again.” His eyes became glassy with unshed tears. “After everything, it’s hard for me to want to open up and see myself sharing a life with someone because that means they have to hold my baggage and that’s not fair. But then, meeting you…”

He trailed off and brought your hands to his lips, gently brushing them over your knuckles. At the gentle touch of his skin to yours, the tears you were holding back escaped from your eyes. After hearing his story, your heart swelled ten times its normal size. To know he had been through hell and back, twice, and still chose to continue living his life to the best of his ability was more than admirable. It was awe inspiring.

“The day we met, I felt like a young boy again, seeing a beautiful woman for the first time. For the first time since I returned home, my first thought wasn’t to run away, but to stay and get to know you,” he explained. “It was like opening the window after a long, harsh winter and feeling the first warm breeze of spring.”

You didn’t know what to say. There were so many thoughts and affirmations you wanted to shower upon him, but you knew this wasn’t the moment to overwhelm him. This was a moment to comfort him and just be here.

“Thank you for telling me, Bucky,” you whispered, hesitant to break the silence that followed his past. “I’m so sorry that you had to experience what you did, but I think you are still worthy of everything you wanted before life dealt its hand to you.”

He looked at you and held on to your hand as if it was anchoring him to the earth. In a rare moment of vulnerability, you felt him pull your arm closer to his body and you followed, getting out of your chair and standing in front of him as he pulled you closer, between his knees.

“It’s hard for me to believe I’m worthy of normalcy, but I think I want to try when it’s you saying it,” he said, gazing up at you with his turbulent blue eyes. “I’ve never felt this way with someone before and I know it’s selfish, but I want it.”

Your hand that wasn’t encased in Bucky’s reached up and threaded itself through the soft locks of his hair. “It’s not selfish,” you stated, leaving little room for disagreement. “It’s human.”

The tears that made his eyes glassy finally spilled over his lids, streaming down his face as he pulled you closer to bury his face in your stomach. His hand let go of yours in favor of winding around your waist to bring himself that much closer to you. Your now free hand joined the other one and you gently swept your fingers through his hair, comforting him during his moment of emotional turmoil. You could feel his tears soak through your shirt and his hold tighten around you, but you remained still, giving him just a fraction of the comfort he deserved.

After a few moments, he pulled away and looked down at his feet. You could feel the awkwardness trying to worm its way between you two, and you would be damned if you let it. You gently cupped his chin and tilted his head up to meet your gaze. “I want this, too,” you admitted, earning a small but genuine smile from him. “And just so we’re clear, I’m not stuck carrying your baggage. I want to help you carry it.”

You could see the moment the words landed with Bucky. The weight of his shoulders lessened, the sorrow left his eyes, and his eyes sparkled with warmth instead of tears. His metal hand slid up your waist, slipping under your shirt to land on the warm skin of your lower back. The sensation of the cool metal sent shivers down your spine. Your fingernails scratched his scalp and you watched as his eyes fluttered shut in contentment.

Everything that happened today made perfect sense after hearing him out and you wanted to kick yourself for selfishly thinking that you were the root of his unusual demeanor. People were nuanced and knowing what he’d been through had ripped your heart open, but hearing him admit that he still wanted whatever was happening between you – even if it scared him – had mended your broken heart and fortified your admiration for the man in front of you.

His piercing blue eyes opened after a moment and you could practically feel the heat emanating from them. Bucky guided you to sit in his lap, sealing the remaining distance between your bodies. You were nose to nose and seeing him this close had your stomach churning in anticipation. Your eyes traced his features from the crow’s feet by his eyes, the slope of his nose, to the dark pink of his plush lips. His lips were less than an inch away and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from them.

They looked so soft and inviting and you knew that if you had a taste, you would be addicted for life. It was taking all of your willpower to stop yourself from leaning in and sealing your lips over his mouth. You knew you shouldn’t especially after the day he had gone through. Revisiting the past was never fun, but in Bucky’s case, it was probably one of the seven layers of hell. You didn’t want to overwhelm him or take advantage, so you settled for brushing the tips of your noses together.

You could feel his body relax further underneath yours and it brought you a sense of comfort that you could relieve him of whatever plagued his mind, even if for a moment. One hand rose to bury itself in his hair once again while the other came up to rest on his jaw. His beard was surprisingly softer than you thought facial hair could be. You lightly scratched your nail through the hair and you swore you could hear him purring.

A soft, but crisp breeze blew across your forms and you couldn’t help but shiver. The light blanket you had draped over your shoulders had fell the moment you moved closer to him and while the heat from his body was entrancing, you knew that you should move inside.

As if sensing that you were about to move, Bucky’s metal arm wound tightly around your waist and his flesh hand gripped your thigh tightly. “Don’t go,” he said in the softest whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere except for inside,” you said with a smile. “It’s a bit too cold out here for my liking.”

“Mm,” he hummed while clutching you even tighter.

“C’mon,” you gently urged. “Let’s just move this moment into a warmer place, like the living room.”

 After a little more coaxing, Bucky relinquished his hold on you while the two of you moved indoors. When your bodies reclined on the couch, you gravitated towards each other and found your limbs intertwined once again with Bucky’s head resting on your sternum and your fingers working their way through his hair. It didn’t take long for him to drift off and you were content to remain his pillow for the rest of the night.

As you slowly woke from the grips of your slumber, you felt a heavy weight on your chest and a warmth against your left side. Before you could process the sensations you felt, you heard the click of a camera shutter and the whispering of multiple voices around you. You opened your eyes slowly to see Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Wanda standing above you, all with different expressions on their faces ranging from shock to pride to feigning disgust; the latter obviously being Sam.

You looked down at your chest to see Bucky slowly waking up from the noise and you wanted to chide the adults in front of you as if you were a mother hen protecting her own. As he woke from sleep, Bucky sat up slowly and rubbed his shoulder before opening his eyes. He froze in his movements and stared at your friends who were still standing above you both. When he noticed the camera in Natasha’s hands, he turned to look at you and you could see the recollection of last night catch up to him as he saw you still laid out next to him.

A flush quickly spread across his cheeks and the back of his neck as he realized you were caught cuddled up on the couch together. You stifled a laugh and sat up as well.

“Sleep well?” Natasha coyly asked as she looked between you two.

You grabbed a pillow from beside you and threw it at her playfully, getting everyone to give you both some space. Once they dispersed, you turned to Bucky only to see him already looking at you.

“I guess we should get ready for the day,” he said in a gravelly voice due to not using it for hours.

You nodded your head and let him pull you from the couch and up the stairs towards your bedrooms and bathrooms. The two of you separated to get showered and dressed. Once you finish putting your bathing suit on and pulling your coverup on, you descend the stairs and head to the kitchen to get some food. There, you find Bucky sipping coffee from a mug, scrambling eggs on a pan over the stove. As you walk over to stand beside him and make your own coffee, Natasha and Wanda slide up beside you.

“We’ve decided that we are all spending the day at the beach again,” Wanda said with a kind smile on her face.

“Yep, and you’re going to hang with us and not Barnes today,” Natasha added.

Next to you, Bucky’s shoulders slouched hearing the girls demand your presence. You had to admit you were also sad that you wouldn’t be able to spend the whole day with him. After last night, the connection you felt to Bucky had strengthened and you wanted to explore all the other ways you guys could deepen the budding feeling between you. But you also wanted to spend time with your ladies.

“Yeah, and Barnes, you’re going to spend the day with us,” Sam mocked as he walked over to put his breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Bucky flipped him off without turning around from the stove and you suppressed a giggle. “Damn, I thought you loved me,” Sam continued to tease. “I’m wounded.”

“Fine,” you said to Natasha and Wanda. “But I just want to lay on the beach today.”

“Deal!” Wanda squealed. “I’ve been needing to work on my tan.”

With that, the two women left to get dressed for the day and you and Bucky sat down at the table to eat your breakfast. Sam and Steve had left the room quickly after Bucky shot them a glare that was meant to wither. The two of you ate in a comfortable silence.

“So, what are you going to do today?” you asked Bucky after drinking the last bit of your coffee.

“I’m not sure,” he said, pushing his plate and cup away before turning to face you. His eyes were twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Maybe I’ll work on my tan.”

You laughed, throwing your head back as you imagined you, Wanda, and Natasha laying on the beach, under the hot sun, with Bucky next to you, doing the same.

“Mm, you are looking rather pale,” you played along. “Plus, we’d still be able to spend the day together.”

“That’s the idea, sweetheart,” he said with a wink before collecting your dishes and cleaning them up. You were practically beaming as you watched him clean up around the kitchen, admiring him as his large frame carried him around the kitchen gracefully. You watched the way the muscles in his arms contracted as he scrubbed the pan and put it on the drying rack. And with his back to you, you were free to ogle the rippling muscles on his back. It was a lovely sight to behold.

A simmering heat appeared in your stomach and you could feel it spreading further south, making you clench your thighs together. You tried to regain your composure. This man had just told you about his horrific past and here you were less than twelve hours later, lusting over him while he did something so domestic and normal.

Bucky turned towards you when he was done and leaned against the counter. You slid out of your seat and slowly walked over towards him. When you were within arm’s reach, he wrapped his metal arm around your waist and pulled you against his body. You put your hands on his chest, steadying yourself from the sudden movement.

“Good morning,” he muttered as he brought his nose to the crown of your head. Your body melted into his and returned his sentiment.

“Good morning, pretty boy.”

He grunted and pulled back to look down at you once more.

“Sorry we were woken up by those idiots,” he apologized while rubbing small circles into your hip as his cool hand slipped lower. His flesh hand brushed a few strands of hair out of your face and lingered on your cheek.

“It’s okay,” you said. “I’m just hoping I don’t look like a mess in the picture they took.”

“I’ve never seen you look like a mess,” he reassured.

“That’s what you’re supposed to say,” you brushed off.

“Whether I’m supposed to say it or not, the statement still stands,” he said as he brushed his lips against your forehead. At the sensation of the soft sign of affection, you gripped his shirt and tipped your head up to look into his cerulean eyes.

“Thank you,” you said, not knowing if you meant it about the compliment or if it was for sharing a part of his soul last night. Regardless of whatever the reason was, you didn’t know what other words could sum up the circus that was going on in your heart.

The look on his face changed to one that was similar to awe and you wished he could look at you like that all of the time. You leaned forward on your toes as he began to lean down and you both paused when you were close enough to brush your lips against one another’s. You looked into his eyes and swore you could swim in them and never tire of it. How could someone have eyes this marvelous?

Just when you were about to close the distance and finally fuse your lips together, you heard Natasha call your name in a teasing tone. You both deflated a bit upon having the moment disappear. Your limbs slowly detangled from each other and you took a step apart before exchanging shy smiles and turning to see everyone standing at the door, looking like they had been waiting on you for minutes.

You walked over, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment on your cheeks, and Bucky followed. Once everything was gathered, you all piled into Sam’s pickup truck. The boys sat in the cab of the truck while you, Nat, and Wanda sat in the bed of the truck. The weather was perfect and the wind was soothing as you closed your eyes and leaned your head back, enjoying the wind blowing through your hair. Natasha was grumbling about the wind messing up her hair and you could hear Wanda laughing at her. When you opened one of your eyes, you saw a miffed looking Natasha, Wanda was moving her hands through the air in childlike joy, and a pair of brilliant eyes staring at you through the back windows of the truck.

Bucky didn’t avert his gaze when you opened your other eye and peered at him in curiosity. Instead, he just smirked and continued to look at you. While you enjoyed his attention, you didn’t know what to do with it in this moment, so you settled on an instinct you’ve had since you were four.

You stuck your tongue out at him and watched as he broke into a fit of laughter. Smiling, you looked down and shook your head. It was amazing to you how Bucky brought out this side of you that you had thought was lost to time. You weren’t scared to be yourself around him and to be goofy or affectionate. Other relationships in the past had felt like learning experiences compared to this. This felt freeing and exhilarating and you couldn’t wait to see where this summer trip would lead you two.

About five minutes later, Sam pulled up to the beach access and everyone piled out of the vehicle, gathering their towels, sunblock, and whatever else they brought. You pulled your sunscreen out of your bag and started to lather the protective balm over your skin. You were able to get it everywhere except for your back. When you turned to ask Wanda or Nat if they could help you, you saw that they were already helping each other.

“I can help,” Bucky’s voice said from behind you.

You turned around and saw him standing in front of you without his shirt, already slick with sunscreen. He extended his hand and you put your lotion bottle in his hand and turned around, gathering your hair into your hands so it doesn’t get in the way of the sunblock.

You thought you had mentally prepared yourself for having his hands on your skin, but when his hand made contact with your shoulders, you could feel yourself turning boneless under his strong touch. His touch spanned from your shoulders and the back of your neck, down your arms, and over the expanse of your back. His calloused hands felt like magic as they rubbed the sunscreen into your skin. His touch left a trail of tingles in their wake and you had to fight a whimper that tried to escape from your throat as he pulled his hand away.

Spinning around, you took the bottle and put it back in your bag before gazing up at the man in front of you. “Thank you,” you said.

“It was my pleasure,” he said while his eyes trailed over your skin before meeting your eyes.

“Alright lovebirds,” Sam yelled to get your attention. The two of you looked over and saw everyone holding their belongings, ready to head to the beach. “If you’re done, the rest of us would like to hit the beach.”

“Nothing’s stopping you,” Bucky shouted back, waving his friend off playfully before taking your hand in his. The two of you followed the group and walked over the dunes to the beach. After a short walk down the shoreline, you all found the perfect space. It wasn’t too close to other beach goers and it gave the boys enough room to throw the various balls that Sam and Steve had brought with them. You dropped Bucky’s hand as you were pulled over to the tanning area where Natasha already had her towel set up. You set up your towel next to Wanda’s and sat down as Natsha laid down, propping her hands over her eyes for protection. You looked over at the men as they threw a football back and forth. Bucky was facing you and sent you a playful wink when you shot him a smile.

“So,” Wanda started, “that happened quickly.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “I wasn’t expecting it, but there’s something about him that makes me feel…”

“Seen? Smitten? Lovey-dovey?” Natasha filled in as you trailed off in thought.

You rolled your eyes and laid down on the towel, covering your eyes as Natasha had done. The warm rays of sunshine and the soft sand and towel under you had you slipping into a very agreeable mood that you normally wouldn’t have in a situation like this.

“Honestly, yes,” you answered. “I haven’t felt like this since I was eleven and had a crush on Zac Efron.”

Wanda broke into a fit of giggles and Natasha remained silent, but you had no doubt she had a victorious smirk on her face.

“You laugh, but the second I laid eyes on him in High School Musical, I was done for,” you replied with a small laugh of your own.

“Well, I think it’s cute,” Wanda said. “And I’ve never seen Bucky open up like this to anyone, let alone this quickly.”

You hummed, not knowing what to add as your thoughts turned to the soldier who had occupied your thoughts over the last week.

You remember Natasha telling you about Bucky before you met him; about how he was gruff, grumpy, and dealing with an intense load of PTSD from the service. Apparently, he was still able to go through the motions of life, but Nat said it often felt like he was waiting to make his departure when they would hang out.

Reconciling that version of Bucky with the warm, thoughtful, and deeply feeling man you had come to know wasn’t as hard as you thought it might be. After he opened himself up last night, you knew that if you continued chasing whatever feeling was blooming between you there would come a moment when you would have to deal with his “baggage” as he put it.

There wasn’t a moment of hesitation when you jumped in last night and there was no feeling of dread hanging over you now. You knew that your relationship wouldn’t remain in this rose-tinted affection stage, but after seeing just a few parts of him, you knew you weren’t going to leave him unless he wanted you to. You wanted to stick around for the hard nights and days, you wanted to be there when he was feeling grumpy, and you wanted to be there for whatever came next.

You lifted one of your arms off of your eyes and looked around, seeing the boys continue to toss the football at one another, trying to make the others fall or fumble in the process of diving for the ball. Bucky had a relaxed air about him and Steve and Sam were all smiles. The sight made you feel warm and content on the inside.

“He told me about what happened to him while he was serving,” you said after a moment. A gasp was heard next to you and you turned your head to see Wanda looking at you with surprise and Natasha lifting an eyebrow. “I can’t begin to understand what he went through, but I know that it’s not something that will make me turn away from this. He’s been so strong by himself for so long and last night I could see just how tired he was.”

Wanda’s eyes began to water and Natasha’s lips slowly curved into a smile.

“It almost felt like he was trying to scare me off, but he seemed like he needed me to understand more than anything,” you continued. “I told him I wasn’t going anywhere and that I wanted to help carry the weight of his past. I think that really put things in perspective for him and after that, we committed to seeing where this thing goes.”

“That’s so beautiful,” Wanda said, her Sokovian accent seeping into her words as she was overcome with emotion for her friend. “It’s like something out of a romance novel.”

It did sound like something out of a romance, but it was really happening to you. Life was funny like that sometimes. Less than six months ago, you were stuck at a dead-end job, withering away, and wishing for a change. Now, you had a savings account that was growing slowly but surely, you were on vacation with your friends, and you had met someone who fit so naturally into your life.

“I think it’s better than a romance novel,” Natasha chimed in before turning over to tan her back. Wanda smiled in agreement before doing the same.

You stayed on your back, feeling the sun beat down on your face and body while you tried to remain in the present. You didn’t need to think about the future with Bucky because that would just put you in your head and you wanted to be here, in the present, where you could enjoy every moment for what it truly was.

After a few minutes, you flipped over and reached behind you to untie your top so your back could tan evenly. You floated off into a light slumber as the sun warmed you. There were no thoughts on your mind other than the sound of the ocean waves and the sound of other beach goers a little further down the beach from you.

You had lost track of how long you were on your tummy when you were woken by cold water dripping on your back. Your head shot up and you looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. As you went to turn on your back, a pair of hands, one cold and one warm, halted your movements.

“You’re going to flash the whole beach if you move, sweetheart,” a familiar voice cooed as you felt deft fingers grab the strings of your top and tie them together. “And I’d prefer if you kept the sight just for me.”

You turned over and saw Bucky hovering above you. His hair was dripping sea water on you and running down his neck and torso, making him look irresistible. His smile revealed his white teeth and you briefly wondered what it would feel like to have them sink into your flesh.

“Are you assuming you are going to see me topless sometime soon?” you playfully questioned.

“If I play my cards right, I’m betting on it,” he answered as he looked down at you. His eyes strayed from yours and wandered down to your chest before coming back up to stop at your lips.

“Why are you wet?” you asked, knowing it had something to do with the ocean in front of you.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

The smirk that took over his features was devastating for your heart. You pushed at his shoulder and he moved back, sitting up at the end of your towel. You followed suit and sat up, looking at him as you waited for an answer.

“Sam threw the football into the water and Steve pushed me in to go get it,” he said.

You laughed before thinking of his arm. “Wait, can your prosthetic get wet?”

He gave you a shy smile before nodding his head. “Yeah, it’s waterproof which is really nice.” His eyebrows wiggled on his forehead and you rolled your eyes at the implication. “You going to join me in the water?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think so. That’s the fish and shark’s home, I don’t need to invite myself in.”

Bucky threw his head back in laughter and you could see the look of boyish joy temporarily take over his features before he controlled himself and looked back down at you.

“That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard someone say about the ocean,” he commented. “But don’t worry, I’ll be there to defend you even if it’s in their house.”

“Think about it! I hate seeing bugs in my apartment. Their house is outside, where they belong, so the same goes for ocean life. I don’t need to go inside their house to appreciate it,” you said.

Bucky shook his head and stood up, pulling you up with him. Once you were both standing, he started to walk backwards towards the ocean, tugging your hand so you would follow him. “But the water is so nice, I want you to come in with me.”

“You just want an excuse to feel me cling to you in the water,” you said as you stared at him with a knowing look.

“Guilty,” he said before bending down and throwing you over his shoulder. You screamed and pounded your fists on his back, laughing even though you wanted to be put down. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. The fish told me you were invited.”

The moment the water hit your feet and legs, you shivered, getting used to the colder temperature. Bucky continued to wade out into the ocean with you over his shoulder, only pulling you down his body once the water was up to his waist. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist and your hands clung to his shoulder. His hands wound around your body, one under your bottom and the other around your back as he continued to walk further into the waves.

He came to a stop once the water was almost over your shoulders. You could feel his hands squeezing your body in reassurance which caused you to relax a bit in his hold. You looked over his shoulder to see the rest of your friends also in the water, but a little further down the shoreline. They were playing chicken and from the looks of it, Sam and Wanda were winning.

“You know,” Bucky started, drawing your attention back to him. “We were rudely interrupted this morning.”

You tried to keep your face neutral, fighting the smile that wanted to spread across your face. “Oh, really? I can’t seem to remember what it was we were doing…” you trailed off, pretending you were forgetful of the almost kiss between you two.

With a pinch to your bottom, you squealed and pushed your body closer to his body and further from his hands.

“I’d be more than happy to remind you,” he teased as he leaned into your space. Your noses brushed as you rested your foreheads against each other. After a moment, he angled his head so he could better reach your lips with his. At the slight brush of his lips to yours, you tensed in anticipation. Bucky searched your eyes with his for any signs you didn’t want him to be in your space, but he found none.

Finally, after dreaming of this moment since you met him, your lips met in a tender kiss and your body surrendered to the affection. His lips were slightly chapped, but the kiss was no less sensational because of it. He pulled away, but the distance was short lived as you surged forward to capture his lips once again.

This kiss was less tender, but still just as sweet. Your lips molded to the shape of his bottom lip and he groaned as he felt the scrape of your teeth against the soft flesh. You used the opportunity to sneak the wet muscle of your tongue into his mouth, much to his surprise. Just as the kiss began to intensify, so did the grip that you had on each other. Your legs clenched around him, pulling his hips to yours as his arm around your back pulled you flush to his chest and his fingers spanned the expanse of your skin.

Shortly after your tongue made its way into his mouth, his barged into your mouth and stroked itself against yours, eliciting a moan from the back of your throat. Your hands slid from the tops of his shoulders into the hair at the nape of his neck, manipulating the angle of his head so you could deepen the kiss. Bucky’s hips bucked into yours roughly at the feeling of your fingers and your control.

You pulled apart with a gasp, glancing between his features as his eyes remained closed in bliss. The smile on your face couldn’t be wiped away as you remained in his arms and brushed the tips of your noses together.

“Woah,” he said after a minute, opening his eyes to look at you.

You giggled and nodded your head in agreement. “That was...”

“Amazing,” he filled in.

You leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss before pulling back just to see your friends frozen in the water, staring at the two of you with mixed expressions of entertainment and disgust.

“Don’t look now, but we have an audience,” you said.

Bucky groaned in embarrassment and hid his face in the crook of your neck. You laughed and buried your head in his neck, too, enjoying the closeness of your embrace. The two of you remained like that, wrapped around each other and sharing kisses every now and then, for a while before you convinced Bucky to take you back to the sand.

As the two of you stepped out of the waves and headed for the towels still stretched out on the sand, you saw the rest of your group throwing a frisbee back and forth, enjoying themselves.

When you reached the towel, you stopped in your tracks, causing Bucky to bump into your back and halt his movements.

“What is it?” he asked, concerned when you had stopped and remained silent.

You pointed down to the sand where a giant heart was drawn with your initials and Bucky’s inside with “4ever” written under them. You knew this had to be the work of Natasha or Sam, but you couldn’t help but feel your heart soar at the elementary display of feelings.

“How childish,” Bucky muttered. When you looked back at him, he had a smile on his face, betraying how he truly felt about the sand art. You gave him a smile and a peck to his cheek before you laid down on your towel once more, letting the sun dry the water from your body. Bucky flopped down on Wanda’s towel next to yours and propped himself up on his elbows to look at you.

You extended your hand and trailed your fingertips over his bicep, watching as goosebumps rose in the wake of your touch. You were content to sit in the silence with him as you soaked up the sun once again.

For the first time in a long time, you felt truly happy.

You never wanted this feeling to end.

next | masterlist

Six months later.

The cabin is so remote that supply drops only come once a month.

You chose Norway because the cold helps. Something about extreme temperatures stabilizes the radiation — makes the constant hum under your skin almost bearable.

The cabin is small. One room, actually. A bed you rarely sleep in, a kitchenette you barely use, and a desk completely buried under research materials. Quantum physics textbooks in three languages, compound's database you stole before disappearing, including Bruce's notes.

Your hands hover over an equation, and they're glowing again. Faint purple light seeping through your skin like bioluminescence. You've learned to control it somewhat— channel it into small bursts of energy manipulation. You can move objects now without touching them, create shields, sense energy fields within a hundred-meter radius.

But it doesn't matter. None of it matters, because you're alone.

The dog tags hang heavy around your neck, you haven't taken them off once in six months. Sometimes you hold them when you sleep and pretend there's still a heartbeat behind them.

You wonder if he's given up looking yet. You wonder if Steve finally convinced him to let you go, if he started healing, started living, started forgetting—

Your hands flare bright purple and the coffee mug on the desk shatters.

"Shit." Your voice sounds strange. You haven't spoken out loud in three days, maybe four.

You clean up the ceramic shards with your bare hands, not bothering with the broom. The cuts heal almost instantly now, another side effect you discovered in the past weeks: accelerated healing, enhanced strength, and a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep can touch.

The latest book you've read is about quantum entanglement. The theory that particles can remain connected across any distance, that what affects one affects the other instantaneously. You'd laughed when you first read it, because of course that's what you are now. Quantumly entangled with Bucky across whatever distance you've put between you, feeling the ache of separation like a physical wound.

Your notes are getting more desperate, the handwriting sloppier. Margins filled with half-formed theories and crossed out equations. What if you could reverse the cellular integration? What if you could extract the energy signature? What if, what if, what if—

You slam the book shut and stand up too fast, the chair scrapes against the wooden floor, loud in the oppressive silence.

Outside, it's snowing again. You pull on your jacket—his jacket, actually, one of the things you took when you came here— and step out into the blizzard. The cold hits like a slap, but you welcome it. The wind screams, and you scream back, your voice low in the howl of the storm.

"TAKE IT BACK!"

Your hands are blazing now, purple energy crackling between your fingers like lightning. The snow around you melts in a perfect circle, steam rising as radiation meets ice.

"YOU GAVE THIS TO ME, SO TAKE IT BACK!" You're on your knees now, hands pressed into the snow, and where your palms touch the ground, the energy pulses outward in waves. "I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE! I DON'T WANT ANY OF IT!"

The universe doesn't answer. It never does.

You collapse forward, forehead pressed against the frozen ground, and the sobs come like they always do: violent, wrenching and endless. Your fingers dig into the snow until they hit permafrost, and the dog tags swing forward, cold metal against your neck.

"Please," you whisper to no one, to nothing. "Please just let me go, let me fade… let me disappear. I can't do this anymore."

The wind howls.

You stay there until hypothermia starts to set in—which takes longer than it should, because apparently, cosmic radiation makes you resistant to temperature extremes too. When you finally drag yourself back inside, there's a perfect circle of dead earth where you'd been kneeling. Nothing will grow there for years.

You don't bother changing out of your wet clothes, you just curl up on the bed, still wearing his jacket, clutching his dog tags and stare at the wall. You probably should sleep, but instead, you reach for your phone.

You know you shouldn't do this, you've promised yourself every night you won't do this again, but you do it anyway.

The folder is called DO NOT OPEN and you've opened it 180 times, once for every night since you've been gone. Your finger hovers over one video for just one moment—one last chance for saving yourself— before you press play.

The screen fills with Bucky's face, and your heart immediately shatters. He's in bed, hair messy from sleep, early morning light streaming through the window behind him. This was recorded four months before everything went wrong. Before you knew that touching him could kill him.

"Stop recording me," video-Bucky mumbles, but he's smiling. That real, genuine smile he only ever gave you. The one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Never," your own voice responds from behind the camera, playful and so fucking happy it hurts to hear. "You're too pretty in the morning, it's unfair."

"I'm not pretty, I'm rugged."

"You're pretty and rugged, that's a dangerous combination."

He reaches for the camera—for you— and the frame shakes as you dodge away, laughing. God, your laugh sounds so carefree, like you didn't know that in four months, you'd be alone in a frozen cabin listening to this laugh and wanting to die.

"Come back to bed," video-Bucky says, and his voice is rough with sleep and affection and want. "It's too early for this."

"It's 10 AM."

"Exactly, too early." He props himself up on one elbow, and the sheet slips down to his waist. You remember this moment, remember thinking he looked like something out of a dream. "Put the phone down and come here."

"Make me."

His grin turns wicked. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe."

What happens next is blur—he's suddenly lunging forward, the camera spins wildly, and then you're both laughing, breathless and so in love it radiates from every frame. The video stabilizes eventually. Now you're both in frame, squeezed together in a selfie angle. His arm is around your shoulders and your head is tucked against his chest.

"Say hi to future us," you say to the camera.

"Hi future us," Bucky obliges, then he looks down at you, and his expression goes soft. "Hope you're having a good day."

"Hope we're still this happy," you add quietly.

He kisses the top of your head. "We will be, I promise."

The video ends.

You're sobbing before the screen even goes dark. It comes out in ragged, gasping waves—the kind of crying that feels like it's tearing you apart from the inside out. You curl tighter round the phone, pressing it against your chest like you can somehow press yourself back into that moment. Back when you were warm and safe.

"I'm sorry," you choke out to the empty room. To the ghost of him in the video. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't keep us that happy, I couldn't—"

Your voice breaks completely.

You replay the video again.

And again.

And again.

Then you close your eyes and try to sleep, knowing you'll dream of him. Knowing you'll wake up reaching for someone who isn't there. Knowing tomorrow night you'll watch the video again. Because it hurts, but it's all you have.

AVENGERS COMPOUND, month 2 since you left.

Bucky hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.

Steve finds him in the lab at 3 AM surrounded by data pads and holographic displays, Carol Danvers' contact information pulled up on the main screen.

"Buck—"

"She's out there somewhere, completely alone, probably thinking she saved me." Bucky doesn't look up from the screen, his metal fingers tap against the desk in an arrhythmic pattern that betrays his agitation. "She's got cosmic radiation tearing her apart from the inside and she's alone, Steve."

"You don't know that she's—"

"Yes, I do." Now Bucky looks up, and Steve flinches at what he sees in his eyes. "I know her, she took every piece of research she could carry. She's trying to fix herself, trying to find a cure so she can come back."

Steve sits down heavily. "Or she's trying to accept that there isn't one."

"No," the word comes out flat. "I don't accept that. Carol Danvers survived direct exposure to an Infinity Stone, so did Peter Quill and his entire team. Wanda got his powers from the mind stone. There are precedents, Steve, there are options."

"Bruce already—"

"Bruce doesn't know everything." Bucky pulls up a new file—Carol's SHIELD profile, her encounter with the tesseract. "Carol Danvers absorbs energy, that's her entire power set. What if she could absorb the radiation from—"

"Bucky, you're grasping at straws."

"I'm following leads," Bucky's jaw tightens. "There's a difference."

Steve watches his best friend for a long moment. The shadows under Bucky's eyes, the tension in his shoulder, the way his flesh hand keeps reaching for something that isn't there—your hand, probably. The habit is so ingrained that he doesn't even notice he's doing it anymore.

"If you find her," Steve says quietly, "and there's no cure… what then?"

Bucky's smile is sharp and humorless. "Then I'll find one anyway, I'll search every corner of this universe and the next if I have to."

"Buck—"

"She gave everything to save me, Steve. She walked away from me—the person she loved the most— because she thought it was the only way to keep me alive." Bucky stands, gathering his research into a neat stack. "So yeah, I'm gonna find a cure, and then I'm gonna find her. And then we're gonna have the forever she didn't think we could have."

"You sound pretty certain."

"I am certain," Bucky's smile heads for the door, pausing a the threshold. "I didn't survive seventy years of HYDRA just to lose her to bad luck and cosmic radiation. I'm getting her back, Steve. That's not a question. The only question is how long it will take."

He's gone before he can respond.

Month 3: Carol Danvers.

Turns out finding Carol Danvers is harder than expected. She's off-world more than she's on it, handling emergencies across multiple galaxies. Bucky makes a bunch of favors to Nick Fury so he can let him borrow his pager.

He waits patiently for one week until Carol materializes in a flash of gold light, landing in the empty field where Bucky's been waiting.

"You're Bucky."

He stands his ground. "Yeah, thanks for meeting me."

"Fury said you needed help with an Infinity Stone problem." Carol crosses her arms. "I'm listening."

So Bucky tells her everything. The mission to Morag, the power stone, the way you grabbed it to save everyone and the radiation poisoning that followed. Carol listens without interrupting, when he's done, she's quiet for a long moment.

"She grabbed the Power Stone with her bare hands," Carol says finally, "and survived."

"Barely."

"No, you don't get it." Carol shakes her head. "She should be dead. The fact that she's alive at all means her body did something right, it adapted somehow."

"But she's still emitting radiation—"

"Because her body doesn't know what to do with the energy it absorbed. It's trying to expel something it should be integrating." Carol starts pacing thinking out loud. "When I absorbed the Tesseract energy, my cells restructured at a molecular level, the energy became part of me. Your girlfriend's body is stuck in limbo—it absorbed the energy but can't process it."

Bucky's heart rate picks up. "Do you think… you can help her?"

"Maybe." Carol turns to face him. "I can absorb energy, it's literally what I do. If she's emitting Infinity Stone radiation, I might be able to pull it out of her system."

"Might?"

"I've never tried to absorb Infinity Stone energy from another person before," Carol's expression is serious. "But I'm willing to try. Where is she?"

And there it is… the question Bucky's been dreading.

"I don't know," he admits. "She disappeared three months ago, I've been trying to find her, but—"

"But she doesn't want to be found." Carol's expression softens slightly. "Smart girl."

"I need to find her first," Bucky says. "But when I do, will you help?"

Carol studies him for a moment and sees the desperation he's trying to hide, the determination, the love.

"Yeah," she says finally. "I'll help. But Barnes— even if I can absorb some of the radiation, it might not be enough. Infinity Stone exposure on this scale… there might not be a complete cure."

"Then I'll find one anyway."

Carol almost smiles. "Stubborn."

"You have no idea."

"Actually, I think I do." She pulls out a pager that looks exactly like Fury's. "Here. If you find her, call me and I'll come as soon as I can."

Bucky takes it carefully. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Carol's eyes glow faint gold. "Just find her, and when you do tell her Carol Danvers said she's a bad ass for surviving this long."

She's gone in a flash of light.

Month 4: Peter Quill.

The Guardians are harder to track down than Carol was. They don't exactly have an Earth address, they don't check in with any planetary authorities. They're mercenaries, pirates, heroes—depending on who you ask—and they move through the galaxy like ghosts.

Bucky has to call in a favor from Thor's old contacts. Has to promise things to people he'd rather shoot and has to follow a trail of bar fights and unpaid tabs halfway across the galaxy in a borrowed ship.

He finds them on Knowhere, of all places, in a dive bar that smells like engine fuel. Peter Quill is drunk… not falling-down drunk, but close.

Bucky slides into the seat across from him without asking. Quill looks up, squinting

"Do I know you?"

"I'm Bucky Barnes, I'm—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Steve Rogers' boyfriend or whatever." Quill waves a hand vaguely. "What do you want? We're not taking any jobs right now."

"I'm not here to hire you," Bucky pushes a data pad across the table. "I'm here because you survived direct exposure to the Power Stone."

That gets Quill's attention. He straightens up, suddenly more sober. "Why do you want to know about that?"

"Because someone I love is sort of dying from the same thing."

The words hang in the air between them.

Quill's expression changes. "Tell me," he says quietly.

So Bucky does, again. The whole story. By the time he's finished, Quill has ordered another drink.

"She grabbed it to save you," Quill says.

"To save everyone on the mission."

"But mostly you."

Bucky doesn't deny it.

Quill stares into his glass. "Gamora died because of a Soul Stone, because Thanos—" He cuts himself off, jaw tight. "I know what it's like, losing someone like that. Having to keep going when the only person you want is gone."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, and means it.

"Yeah, me too." Quill drains his drink. "The only reason I survived the Power Stone was because my team shared the load—and because of my celestial DNA, without that, I'd be dead. Your girl doesn't have either of those things."

"But she survived."

"She did," Quill leans forward. "Which means her body did something extraordinary. The human body shouldn't be able to process Infinity Stone energy, but if she's alive, if she's still walking around, that means she's adapted somehow."

"Carol said the same thing."

"Carol's right. Your girlfriend is basically a living Infinity Stone battery at this point." Quill pauses. "The question is whether that's killing her or making her stronger."

"It's killing me," Bucky says flatly. "The radiation makes me sick, my body reads it as a threat."

"Because of that knockoff serum running through your veins, it's trying to protect you from what it thinks is a toxin." Quill drums his fingers on the table. "But what if it's not a toxin? What if it's just… power? Raw, uncontrolled, cosmic power that her body doesn't know how to use yet?"

Bucky's mind is racing. "You think she needs to integrate it, not expel it."

"I think she needs to stop fighting it, yeah." Quill meets his eyes. "When I held the Power Stone, I could feel it trying to tear me apart, but the moment I stopped resisting that's when it clicked. I could hold it and channel it. You need to find her and tell her to stop fighting it."

There's a long silence.

"I lost the person I loved most," Quill says finally. "I didn't get a choice, she was just… gone. But you've got a chance. Your girl is out there somewhere, alive. Don't waste it, don't let her think she has to do this alone."

"She left because being near me was killing me."

"So find a way to fix that part," Quill pulls up a holographic display. "I'll give you my genetic profile, the medical scans, all of it. Maybe it'll help."

"Why?" Bucky asks. "You don't know me."

Quill's smile is sad. "Because if I could go back, if I could save Gamora… I'd do anything, absolutely anything." He slides the data chip across the table. "So go save yours."

Bucky takes the chip carefully. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, just—" Quill's voice cracks slightly. "Just get her back. And when you do, don't let go. Not for anything."

"I won't," Bucky promises.

Three hours later, Rocket corners Bucky in the cargo bay.

"So," Rocket says, eyeing Bucky's metal arm with barely concealed interest. "That arm of yours, if you happen to not need it anymore—"

"No."

"I'm just saying—"

"Rocket, I swear—"

"That thing is wasted on you! Do you even know what I could do with tech like that? The upgrades I could—"

"I am Groot," Groot interrupts gently.

"Fine! Fine, I'll stop asking." Rocket huffs. "But when you get yourself killed doing something stupid for your girlfriend, I call dibs."

Despite everything, Bucky almost laughed.

"If I die," he says, "you can have it."

Rocket's eyes light up. "Really?"

"No, not really. Stop asking."

"You're no fun."

But when Bucky lies down that night in the spare quarters they've given him, staring at the ceiling of an alien ship somewhere in deep space, he pulls out the locket and opens it. Stares at your face in the small photograph.