WonhoBigTiddiez

Shane answers immediately, the first ring barely finishing. “Hello?”

“Hi. Hey.”

“Hi, Freddie,” Shane murmurs. And while he sounds distant to you, he can feel instant relief at the sound of your voice in his ears. At the shape of your name in his mouth. “You okay?”

You huff a humorless, guilty laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I mean…I don’t know. Maybe now?”

“Yeah, I understand. Me too,” he says shyly.

You take a seat, letting yourself settle into the conversation. It’s started at least and that’s something. The beginning of starting again…again.

“How’s practice been, how’re you feeling? The season starts next week.”

“It’s fine,” he says, but adds quickly, “Brutal like it always is. You would’ve hated today’s drills.”

Your smile is automatic. “Let me guess— they consisted of you making nearly every goal while simultaneously beating yourself up about it?”

Shane chuckles, shaking his head. “Were you there?”

It feels like breathing, the way you and Shane slip into conversation.

“I wish I was. Shane…I’m sorry I’ve been weird.”

“I know,” he says gently.

Some of the tension in your chest loosens. You had expected him to be angry with the history you two have and Ilya’s calmness.

“I didn’t mean to disappear, it just sort of…”

“Happened, I know.”

“It felt like a lot. At the cottage…everything that happened.”

“Yeah, it did,” he agrees quietly.

You blink. “It felt that way to you too?”

“Yeah. It was good. Really good and sometimes good stuff can be too loud.”

“I didn’t want to mess it up. I thought if I gave it space…if I gave you and Ilya space…”

“Freddie, you couldn’t mess it up. And you haven’t. You don’t get left behind because you need space. That’s not how I work.”

“So it’s okay if I say I miss you?”

“Yes. I miss you too.”

“Do you know…Ilya called me yesterday.”

“I know.”

“Are you mad at him?”

“No. Well, a little. He’s nosy.”

“And you aren’t?”

Shane snorts. “We aren’t talking about me.”

“Not yet. Is he okay? Yesterday he wanted to focus on you but I wonder about him.”

“He misses you. He hasn’t said it to me but I see it in him, I guess the same way he saw it in me.”

“I told him I would call him too.”

“Good, he’ll like that,” Shane says more to himself than to you. “Freddie, you don’t have to leave if it all feels too big. You can just tell me that. We can talk about it.”

“I’m not used to that.”

“I know. I want to change that. Okay?”

“Okay. How's the painting?”

“Still crooked. It didn’t feel right to touch it.”

You can't let yourself think of that too long, pushing the thought away with action. “I’ll call more,” you promise.

“Okay. I’m not going anywhere. Neither is he.”

The two of you talk a little longer about the lighter things; how Shane is feeling about the season and a couple new teammates, how meetings with donors have gone for you, and that you’re thinking of getting a cat. When you hang up, you feel lighter. Hopeful. Like things can maybe be okay again.

—

You poke your head into Sabah and Maeve’s living room, finding them both curled up on the couch.

“Are you guys hungry? I was thinking brunch.”

Sabah raises her eyes from the tablet in her hands, a brow raised. “You seem…better.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You both are always incredibly committed to being obtuse,” Maeve murmurs, eyes still down on her book.

“You’ve been walking around like Eeyore since you got back from the cottage despite saying it was perfect. And then today you pop in like the energizer bunny.”

“I can’t have a good day?”

Sabah’s eyes narrow. “You can have plenty of good days. As long as you’re honest about why they’re good.”

“I talked to Shane and Ilya, yes,” you huff.

“Are you done freaking out about it being perfect?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be done freaking out but, I couldn’t hurt them anymore. Ilya called me and said that Shane wasn’t—“

Sabah sets the tablet down completely, ushering you closer. “Ilya called you?”

You frown, coming to sit in the chair across from them. “Yeah? Why is that a big deal?”

“Honey, it sounds like things are a bit deeper than you anticipated them to be. We know where you stand with Shane but…where do you stand with Ilya?” Maeve asks gently.

Her words call back to the phone call with Ilya.

“I don’t know. He…he’s important to me. Like Shane is important to me.”

“So you’re in love with him too?”

You shake your head so hard that you nearly choke on your spit. “No. No. That’s not— we’re good friends. We both love his husband. That’s what draws us together.”

“But you said you didn’t want to hurt them,” Sabah reminds you.

“I miss him too, I do.”

Sabah leans forward, taking one of your hands. “Freddie. Please. Talk to us— honestly.”

“I know. I know, that’s why I pulled away in the first place. It’s too much isn’t it? To want them both?”

“I think that’s for them to say. But if their behavior is any indicator…”

“Sabah, don’t overwhelm them,” Maeve nudges her wife’s elbow.

“I think they did that themselves.”

“I can hear you guys.”

“Sorry. Look, you love them both. You want them both. As far as it looks from the outside, I think maybe they want that too. Can you handle that?”

“Right now, I don’t think so. But I can’t live without them either.”

Maeve rests her hands on top of yours and Sabah’s. “Then honey, just do your best. Be with them the way you can and make it count.” — EARLY NOVEMBER 2024

Ilya kisses his teeth, skeptical. “You are sure we can stay with you?”

“Of course. I have an extra bedroom and with you guys only being in town for 24 hours it’s the only way we can hang out.”

“I just mean…” Ilya isn’t sure what to say though he knows exactly what he means.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I know. I’m okay. We’re all okay. Don’t you think?”

“I hope.”

“Ouch.”

“I am, what is the word, optimistic?” He assures you. “ But you didn’t see him. I don’t want you to get overwhelmed again and leave.”

“I didn’t leave, it was space. That’s all.”

“Really big, silent space. Unannounced space. Super quiet—“

“Ilya.”

“Freddie.”

You sigh, but you’re smiling. He can hear it. “I’m okay. I promise. I’m excited to see you. Both of you.”

“I’m excited to see you too. Maybe I can finally see your studio in person.”

“Yeah, I would like that.”

“What are you working on now?”

You hesitate for half a second before switching to video.

His face fills your screen, and he looks softer than you expect. He’s at home, hoodie on, curls falling into his eyes. He looks comfortable— domestic. It does something unhelpful to your chest. And he’s looking at you rather intently, a sweet smile spreading across his face.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi. Here, I’ll show you,” you say quickly, flipping the camera toward the canvas to keep your nerves at bay.

“It’s the cottage one,” you explain. “I’ve made some progress since the last call.”

“You have,” he murmurs.

His voice always changes when he looks at your art. It slows down like he’s handling something fragile. You move the camera closer so he can see the new layers; deeper blues, heavier strokes, more shadow than before.

“You are unstuck,” he says after several moments.

“For now.” You flip the camera back to your face. “I have this weird feeling that this is gonna take me years to finish.”

“It is okay to take your time and figure it out.”

“I know, I just—”

“Like to figure it out now,” he finishes gently. “You sound like Shane.” You roll your eyes. “I do not.”

“You do.” He’s smiling now with no reservations. It makes his eyes crease at the corners.

These things about him shouldn’t stand out to you, you shouldn’t be noticing. You definitely shouldn’t notice the way the neckline of his hoodie dips when he shifts, the faint outline of his collarbone visible for a second before he adjusts.

You force your gaze away quickly, ignoring the leading thoughts in your mind. You cling to the helpful ones.

It’s just Ilya. Your…whatever he is. Friend?

“You are staring,” he says mildly.

You blink. “I’m not,” you deny indignantly.

Ilya smirks at you. “You are.”

He doesn’t look away when he says it. He leans a little closer to the camera, studying you in a way that makes your pulse hectic.

Warmth creeps up your neck. “I was looking at the lighting. It’s bad by the way, you look sickly.”

“Ah,” he hums, unconvinced.

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to move out of this. And Ilya? Well he doesn’t want to.

“You look good. Happy,” he’s nearly whispering. Like if he says it any louder something will explode.

He lets the silence stretch a second longer than necessary before glancing away, like he’s giving you space to breathe.

“Are you actually okay?” he asks, voice laced with concern.

Your plan is to give him a polished answer, to play it cool but when you look at him, his eyes are on you again. It almost feels like you get stuck there, in his gaze.

He watches you again like he’s trying to decide if that’s true before you even say it. His eyes flick over your expression, lingering just a second too long at your mouth before he catches himself. “I do not want you to feel trapped,” he says finally.

“I don’t,” you answer quickly. “I want you here. I want to see you.

His mouth curves slightly at that. “That is good,” he says, and something about the way he says it makes it sound like more than logistics.

You realize suddenly that in a few days he’ll be in your kitchen. On your couch. In the hallway outside your bedroom.

His gaze on you in person. You’ve spent hours with him, days and yet your pulse stutters in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety. You ignore it.

“24 hours,” you say lightly. “You’ll barely have time to judge my cleaning skills.”

“I have seen the way you work. I am not expecting perfection,” he teases.

“Hey, that’s rude.”

“It is realistic.”

You laugh, and he watches you when you do. Taking in the warmth, breathing it.

“As long as you don’t ask any more ominous questions this should be a perfect visit.”

“I was not being ominous.”

“You were being dramatic.”

“I learned from Shane.”

At the mention of Shane an image flashes through your mind. The two of them in your space; Ilya is leaning against the kitchen counter, Shane sprawled on your couch. It’s a warm sight. Cozy. And dangerous.

“We’ll see you soon,” Ilya says. He’s still looking at you like he’s memorizing something.

“Yeah. Soon,” you mumble.

When you hang up, you stand in the quiet of your studio a second longer than necessary. You tell yourself the tightness in your chest is just anticipation. You don’t have it in you to investigate if it’s something else.

— LATE NOVEMBER 2024

Ilya arrives at your place just a little before 11 a.m. Shane is already downtown at the arena for a pre-game meeting with the team. Ilya had offered to drop their bags off at your place before the game for convenience, yes but also because he wanted to see you.

You open the door with a shy but welcoming smile. “Hey you.”

“Hi,” he murmurs, stepping inside with more bags than you anticipated.

Ilya can’t describe how good it is to see you. How good it is that you didn’t actually run away from him and Shane. Laying his eyes on you is like basking in sunlight.

You chuckle, raising your brows. “Holy shit, it’s 24 hours Ilya.”

“Whoa whoa. It is Shane. He insists we pack an extra of everything. Yell at him,” he explains as he sets the bags down.

You are no sooner in Ilya’s arms, scooped up into a hug that is as troubling as it is grounding. It confirms that things haven’t changed one bit. Which is good and bad.

“I can take them upstairs for you,” you say, squeezing him once more before you pull back.

He shakes his head. “No, no. I can handle.”

“You’re my guest I couldn’t—“

“I will take them. But, will you get some water?”

“Coming right up.”

Ilya gathers the bags and disappears as you head to your kitchen and fill two glasses with water. You’re not as shaken up as you expected to be, especially after your last video call with him.

“Thank you for water,” he says after completely draining the glass. “I want to get to the arena early. Svetlana is meeting me there.” “The famous Svetlana. I wonder if I’ll ever meet her.”

“I wish you could come today. She would love you.”

“Next time. I’ll clear my schedule, I promise.”

You hadn’t been to one of Shane’s games yet. Something about being there with Ilya felt too heavy. Like it needed avoiding.

“Yes, next time. Freddie, thank you for letting us stay with you.”

“We’ve gone over this. You both are so welcome here.”

“I know. I am still grateful.”

“Me too,” you say easier than you expect.

—

Ilya notices that as the minutes on the gps tick down, Shane grows more antsy, his fingers tapping his knees.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. I feel fine,” Shane murmurs, his gaze still out the window, taking in the lights of New York.

“You are sure?”

“I’m nervous, but I’m okay.”

Ilya gazes at Shane for several moments but decides not to push— they’re almost to you anyway. He simply takes Shane’s hand, squeezing. “Okay, sweetheart.”

They walk up the stairs to your front door hand in hand, Shane is practically glued to Ilya’s side.

Shane is about to knock when Ilya grabs his hand, pulling him closer. “Shane?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you. And Freddie loves you. So everything will be okay. You are safe here.”

Shane exhales, feeling his shoulders releasing. “I know. I love you too.”

It’s November and you want them to feel cozy, at home when they come to your place. That’s why you decide to make chili for dinner. When you hear a knock at the door you take a deep breath and remind yourself that this is what you wanted. You want— no need them in your life.

When you open the door, then tension drains from your body. Because Shane and Ilya standing hand in hand at your doorstep is one of the most peaceful sights you’ve ever seen. It feels like kismet. Wrapped in a honey colored sweater, the aroma of cumin and garlic enveloping you has Ilya feeling a bit undone.

“You look homey,” Ilya comments with warm eyes.

Shane steps in first without a thought, his arms pulling you into a hug that you both relax into. “Hi.”

“Hi Shaney. Shoes off, you know the rules.”

“I taught you the rules,” he says, but he kicks off his shoes, moving further in to hang his coat on the rack.

“Long time no see,” Ilya teases as he hugs you.

You laugh, squeezing him. “It’s been a million years at least.”

While the two of them shower and get in comfy clothes, you ladle chili into bowls accompanied with cornbread and ginger ale of course.

Dinner is easy, with conversation about the bumpy flight here, how Shane played, Ilya’s relationship with the paparazzi as a wag now. It’s all about them and you soak it up, realizing how much you missed this. The three of you. Together. Easy.

There’s a turn once it's time to get cozy.

Ilya sprawls across your couch, his head in Shane’s lap, his feet in yours when he asks. “What is your favorite thing about Ottawa? Besides scenery. And Shane.”

Shane grins knowingly. “I know what it is. You’re gonna think their answer is boring.”

“Ah, yes. They are sometimes like you.”

You tickle Ilya’s foot, rewarded with a breathless giggle from him. “You guys remember that I’m right here.”

“Couldn’t forget, perfect foot stool.”

You roll your eyes, and answer his question. “The OAG.”

“The OAG? What is OAG?” Ilya frowns.

“The Ottawa Art Gallery,” Shane says.

“Shane has never taken me.”

You look at Shane with feigned disgust. “Shaney, you’re practically torturing him.”

“We’ll go when we get home. Merry Christmas.”

Ilya raises his brow skeptically but trains his eyes back on you. “We better. What about Texas?”

“The food obviously, I mean the barbecue I could talk about for hours.”

“And Chicago?” Shane wonders.

“If I choose a person, Sabah. If I choose a place, the lake. A cuisine? Filipino. But you, Ilya. What’s your favorite thing about home? I know there’s a lot not to love…”

Shane gazes down at Ilya, running his hand through Ilya’s curls to soothe.

You notice it immediately and frown. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“No, no. Is okay. You’re right there is not a lot to love. But my mother’s resting place. She is buried with her parents in their own plot. It is sadly beautiful, as beautiful as a grave can be.”

“Irina, right?”

“Yes, Irina.”

The room goes quiet, settling around the name. The lights on your Christmas tree create a warm glow warm against the windows. There’s snow that is starting to fall as if on cue.

You tilt your head. “Do you want to visit her?”

“I did before we went public. But now I am openly with Shane, we are married. Maybe I will get to in the future. Maybe things in Russia will change.”

“I hope so. I’m sure you miss each other.”

Ilya gives you a grateful smile, feeling understood but raw. There are no words he can find.Shane’s fingers move slowly through Ilya’s curls again, absentminded and soothing.

You jump up from the couch. “Okay. That’s enough heavy conversation for one night.”

Ilya groans dramatically, sniffling. “I was having a moment.”

“You can have another one tomorrow,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Right now I’m making tea.”

Shane snorts at the way Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Oh like you guys aren’t going to drink it. Boohoo.”

Shane laughs. “We will absolutely drink it.”

“Peppermint or chamomile?” you ask, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Chamomile,” Ilya says.

“Peppermint,” Shane answers at the same time.

You look back over your shoulder. “Unhelpful.”

Ilya sits up, rubbing his eyes before glancing down the hallway. “I can go see your studio while you make tea, yes?”

“Yeah. It’s the door across from the guest room. Don’t go crazy in there.”

Ilya brightens immediately. “No promises.”

He pushes himself up from the couch and heads down the hall with the easy curiosity of someone who’s been waiting all evening to ask. Shane watches him go before sighs and drags himself up from the couch.

“Need help?” he calls toward the kitchen.

“You offering or complaining?” you ask.

“A little of both.”

“Then yes.”

By the time he steps into the kitchen, you’re already filling the kettle. The small space feels warmer than the living room. Quieter too.

Shane leans against the counter beside you.

For a moment neither of you says anything. Shane just simply watches, and that’s enough for you. Having him here. The kettle fills, the sink runs, the familiar sounds of someone else’s kitchen moving around him.

“You left that open,” Shane says after a second.

You glance over your shoulder. The cabinet above your head hangs halfway open.

“Oh.” You nudge it shut with your elbow. “Hazard of living alone.”

Shane huffs quietly. “You’d drive a coach insane.”

“Good thing you’re not my coach.”

“Same instincts.”

That’s always been true. In a way, Shane had always been your guide. Your protector. Your refuge.

You smile mischievously, setting the kettle on the stove and flicking the burner on. “Besides,” you add, “you’ve seen worse from me.”

Your smile is infectious, and Shane finds himself grinning wide. “That’s very true.”

He continues watching you move around the kitchen like you’ve done it a thousand times—pulling mugs down, reaching for the tea tin, sliding things back where they belong. There’s something settled about it, about being in it with you. It’s as comfortable as the cottage was.

You lean against the counter for a moment, the stillness settling between you again. It doesn’t feel awkward, and is almost interrupted when the kettle finally clicks.

Shane watches as steam curls upward while you pour the water. He reaches for the honey automatically, twisting the lid loose.

When you slide one of the mugs toward him across the counter, your fingers brush.

It’s nothing. Hardly anything. At least it would be for anyone but you and Shane. Because the catching of your fingers has you pausing. Noticing.

Shane’s hand lingers there a second longer than it needs to. And then, as easily and swiftly as scoring a goal on the ice, his thumb drifts across the back of your hand. So soft, full of curiosity despite feeling practiced.

You don’t pull away, eyes looking up at him, finding his gaze trapped on where the two of you meet.

You see the moment Shane realized what he’s doing. He lifts his eyes to yours and something shifts there—something startled and bright and a little too open.

“Shane,” you murmur quietly, as if trying to corral a wild animal.

Then his gaze goes wider, more frantic as it flicks past you and down the hallway. Down the hall and toward the open studio door where Ilya disappeared. Shane inhales sharply, like he’s just surfaced from underwater.

He pulls his hand back and knocks over the honey.

“Shit, fucking, I’m sorry,” he exclaims, bending immediately to pick things up.

“It’s okay,” you assure him.

Shane runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the small kitchen before stopping again.

“Shane, it’s fine.”

Ilya must’ve heard the commotion because he makes his way down the hall, face twisted with concern. “Is everything okay?”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah. Everything’s fine. We should—”

“We should probably go to bed.”

Ilya’s frown deepens into something more like confusion. “What?

You glance over at Shane, feeling calm but the edges are starting to fray. To break into sadness. “Okay,” you say softly.

He nods too quickly, grabbing the mug and heading down the hall. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Goodnight, Ilya.”

Ilya pauses, looking between you and the hall. He wants to know what just happened. But his duty is to Shane. “Goodnight, Freddie.”

—

The guest room door closes behind them and for a moment neither of them speaks. They simply stare at each other, letting the fog turn to whispers. Eventually, Shane sits on the edge of the bed and rubs his face with both hands. Ilya leans against the door, watching.

“You okay?” Ilya asks gently.

Shane exhales a quiet laugh that isn’t very amused. “Yeah. I’m fine. Nothing is wrong?”

Ilya doesn’t move, letting his husband process.

Shane stares down at the floor a moment longer before shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. “That was weird.”

Ilya tilts his head. “What was?”

Shane hesitates, debating whether to explain. Debating on if he actually even knows what the fuck just happened. “Nothing,” he says finally. “Just… weird.”

He stands and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it toward the chair. The movement is a little sharper than usual.

Ilya studies him. “You look like you just saw a ghost,” he says lightly.

The ghost of what you and Shane used to have. The ghost of Shane’s love for you, is what Ilya doesn’t say.

Shane gives him a look. “Don’t start.”

“I am not starting anything,” Ilya says firmly, raising his hands.

Shane sits on the bed again, elbows on his knees.

“I just—” he exhales. “It caught me off guard.”

Ilya nods slowly, that’s enough of an answer for him now. He steps closer and presses a steady hand to the back of Shane’s neck, rubbing there the way he knows helps him settle. Shane leans into it automatically, hungry for Ilya’s comfort and grounding.

“It is okay,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane nods once, squeezing his eyes shut. Like if he shuts down his senses, what Ilya is saying will be true. “Yeah.”

Ilya waits until Shane’s shoulders loosen a little before pulling the blankets back and clambering into bed. He pats the empty space beside him. “Come on. Let’s get some rest.”

Shane slides under the covers without arguing and Ilya switches off the lamp, covering them in darkness. It feels safer here, especially when Ilya wraps his arm around Shane. But after a few minutes, when Shane’s breathing finally evens out, Ilya slips quietly out of bed.

–

The apartment goes quiet after the guest room door closes. You try to give it a minute, hoping that maybe Shane will come out and say everything’s okay. But then two minutes go by, then five…ten. You feel painfully aware of your breath, of the way your skin sits over your bones. The calm that was there when you were in the moment with Shane drains as you get further away from in time. You decide to distract yourself, heading back into the kitchen to rinse the mugs even though they’re already clean enough. You take special care in drying them and placing them back into the cabinet where they belong.

When you turn, Ilya is standing halfway down the hallway. You didn’t hear him come out, his feet light as a cat’s.

“Hi. Did I wake you?” you ask.

He shakes his head, coming closer, boxing you into the kitchen despite leaving plenty of space. “No.”

He leans his against the counter, studying you with that open curiosity of his.

“You are still awake,” he says.

“So are you.”

“Yes,” he agrees easily.

You’re the one to give in to the silence, sighing as you lift yourself up to sit on the counter. “I’m okay,” you say before he can ask.

Ilya smiles a little at that. “I didn’t ask anything.”

You roll your eyes. “You were about to.”

“Maybe.”

You rub your palms against your pajamas. “Did he say anything?”

“Only that he was surprised,” Ilya answers.

You had and hadn’t been. Knowing Shane, loving Shane…you had just accepted it.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you elaborates. You both know exactly what he means anyway.

Ilya crosses the room then, slower this time, settling next to you on the counter. He is close, but not close enough to touch. Just close enough to reach for.

“He will be okay,” he says gently.

“I know,” your voice is steady enough, but your shoulders are still tight.

Ilya notices, leaning over to nudge you. “You too,” he adds.

You huff a quiet laugh, tilting your chin up defiantly. “I’m not the one who panicked.”

“No. But you look like someone who could.”

You look over at him and his blue eyes are warm like the sea. There’s no accusation there. Just that soft honesty he carries around like it’s second nature.

You shake your head. “It was just a moment. And I think I forget sometimes,” you say slowly.

“Forget what?”

You gesture vaguely between the hallway, the kitchen, the living room. “This,” you say. “You two. The way you guys… exist.”

He chuckles softly, “How do we exist?”

“Like you’ve known each other forever. Like everything is easy.” Even as the words come out of your mouth you know they’re not fair. That he and Shane had so much to brave to end up where they were. But you weren’t privy to that. You didn’t get to be there and now…you intrude?

“It is not always easy,” he says.

“I know. I just mean… you guys fit. Like complimentary colors. Like blue and orange…red and green.

“You fit too.”

You look down at your hands, as if you’ll find answers there. You come up with: “Maybe.”

Ilya nods once. He won’t push. Instead, he drapes his arm around your shoulders, simple and grounding.

“You don’t have to figure everything out tonight. None of us do. Let us simply breathe,” he says.

You raise a brow at him, teasing. “You sound like a therapist.”

His eyes narrow. “Maybe I should try new job. Ilya the therapist.”

That makes you laugh, and Ilya can’t help but join in, pulled close to you.

“We should sleep.”

“Yes, we will need it,” he agrees, squeezing you once more before he slides off the counter and starts down the hall. He pauses half way, turning back to look at you. “You are still excited we are here, yes?” “Yes.”

A tender, sweet smile spreads across his face. “Good,” he says.

—

CHRISTMAS 2024

It’s the very beginning of Christmas morning in Ottawa. Shane and Ilya are still at the cottage with plans to pack up all their presents and dishes to head to Shane’s parents for breakfast. That would be great, the beautiful start to another Christmas together if Ilya hadn’t been up nearly all night. He hasn’t been sleeping well since their visit to Freddie.

Shane can tell when he wakes with a start around 3 a.m. that his husband hasn’t gotten sleep.

It isn’t the restless kind of waking. It’s the still kind, where someone is thinking so carefully they barely move.

Shane shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “You’re doing that thing.”

Ilya doesn’t pretend not to understand, blinking sleepily. “What thing?”

“The one where you think you’re subtle.”

A small breath leaves Ilya, the fumes of an almost laugh. But he doesn’t say anything, not for a long while letting the silence settle between them. It feels familiar, like all the moments that passed between them before they were honest about what they meant to each other.

Ilya didn’t want to be there in that silence. He detested it. Had promised himself no more hiding.

So he says, “We need to talk. And I need you to let me finish before you freak out or start that planning thing you and Yuna do. Please, Shane.”

Shane’s stomach drops at the tremor in Ilya’s voice. Because Shane knows that whatever is about to come out of his husband’s mouth is deliberate. It’s the tone that Ilya uses before stepping onto very thin ice. But he loves Ilya. More than anything, more than his fear.

“Okay,” Shane says.

Ilya rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “This stopped being hypothetical a long time ago,” he says.

Shane doesn’t even have to ask what he means or who he’s talking about. He knows. Because it’s been festering inside him too.

Ilya swallows once. “And I cannot keep pretending it is just affection. Or curiosity. Or convenience.”

Shane stays quiet, wanting to let Ilya say all his must. But the air feels heavy and tight all at once.

“I love them. I love Freddie,” Ilya says, keeping his eyes on the ceiling.

It floats out his mouth and into the air, taking its place between them.

“I know,” Shane says softly.

That makes Ilya turn his head. “You know?”

“I’ve known for a while,” Shane admits. “The way you look at them. The way you listen when they talk. I know what it’s like to be loved by you Ilya.”

Ilya wrinkles his nose, nodding before his eyes go back to the ceiling. “I tried not to for a long time.”

“I know.

There’s more silence; this one feels cracked open.

Shane’s fingers tighten slightly around the blanket between them. “Because I love them too,” he says quietly.

“I know. You have loved them since you were 12,” Ilya says sullenly.

He knows it’s not fair for him to feel that way, not when he’s in love with you too. But it’s different when there’s history that deep. Those years feed his worries.

Shane feels his breath shallowing and reaches for Ilya’s hand to be grounded. “I didn’t say anything because I was afraid you’d be upset. Or that you’d think it meant something about us. About what we have.” Ilya studies him carefully, squeezing his hand as if to say ‘keep going’.

“It doesn’t,” Shane adds quickly. “It doesn’t take anything away from you. It doesn’t change how I feel about you. I just—” He exhales shakily. “I didn’t want to risk hurting you by saying it out loud.”

Ilya watches him for a long moment. “You thought I would see it as competition,” he says.

“I couldn’t— I didn’t know what you’d see it as,” Shane admits. “And that scared me more.”

Here they are, in love and married, being brave together in a way that never crossed their minds. Ilya’s mind flashes back to that day at the cottage, the day they came out to Shane’s parents.

“Here is what scares me,” Ilya begins, pausing to gather his strength, his bravery that he so often lends to Shane.

“You have history with them. Memories that existed before me. There are parts of you they knew when you were still becoming yourself,” his voice stays even, but Shane hears the fracture underneath.

“If I step forward,” Ilya continues, “if I say this out loud to them and it goes wrong… I do not just lose a possibility.”

He finally looks at Shane, tears in his eyes threatening to fall. “I feel that somehow I not only lose them, but I lose you.”

“Ilya, you can’t lose me,” he murmurs fiercely, reaching up to cup his husband’s cheek.

He wishes he could say more— that he could say that Ilya wouldn’t lose you. But he’s afraid of that for himself too.

“I’m not afraid of loving them,” Ilya says. “I am afraid of being the one who breaks something sacred.”

“I was scared of that too,” Shane admits. “That you’d feel like you were standing outside something that already belonged to me.”

A small crease forms between Ilya’s brows, and Shane speaks quickly to despell the anxiety taking root any further.

“But it doesn’t. It doesn’t belong to me like that anymore. What I had with them when we were kids—what I have with them now—it’s not the same. And it isn’t something you’re intruding on.”

He raises his other hand, turning Ilya’s head so that he can look him in the eyes. “What you have with them isn’t lesser because it came later. And what the three of us share…I love it. I love you.”

“You say that very confidently.”

“Because it’s true.”

Shane studies his face. The doubt there. The carefulness. “You think I’d choose?” Shane asks, incredulous.

“I think love makes people irrational,” Ilya replies. “Remember when we could not stop fucking each other?”

“Ilya,” Shane scolds, bumping his nose. “Whatever this is, I don't want to explore it unless we do it together.”

The words sit between them, the hesitation around them saying everything. The awareness that once this door opens, it doesn’t close the same way again.

“Together,” Ilya tests the word on his tongue.

“Yes.”

“And if at any point this costs us?”

“We stop,” Shane says with no hesitation.

Ilya searches Shane’s eyes for the cracks in this confidence. For bravado, self-sacrifice, anything reckless.He finds none.

“We go slowly,” Ilya says at last. “Slower than we want.”

A faint, sad smile pulls at Shane’s mouth. “That slow?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Because Freddie does not get half truths. They do not get to be a hope we hold quietly while pretending otherwise.”

“Okay.”

“No secrets,” Ilya continues. “No testing the waters alone. No emotional triangling.”

Shane huffs softly. “You sound like a therapist.”

And you sound like Freddie, Ilya thinks to himself.

Instead, he says, “Yes, because I have very good one. I sound like someone who refuses to lose either of you because of impatience.”

Shane shifts, sliding closer until his forehead rests against Ilya’s. “I don’t want you to ever feel replaceable,” he says.

Ilya sighs, closing his eyes. “That is the part I did not want to admit,” he murmurs begrudgingly. “You and they share a language sometimes. A shorthand. I worried there would be no space left for me.” “There is space because I choose you, every day. That doesn’t change because my heart got bigger.”

Ilya breathes out slowly. “You have a very inconvenient heart,” he mutters.

Shane laughs softly. “Wow, inconvenient. You married it.”

“Yes. I did. Happily.”

They lie there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, the world narrowed down to breath and warmth and possibility.

“We tell them together,” Shane says eventually.

“Yes.”

“And if they don’t want this—”

“Then we accept it. No resentment. No pressure.”

“And if they do?” he asks quietly.

Ilya’s thumb brushes once over Shane’s knuckles.

“Then we build something that does not threaten what we already have. Carefully…what is the word? Intentionally.”

Shane’s chest feels tight in a different way now. Not fear, not on its own at least. It’s joined by hope.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“For loving them,” Shane says softly. “And for trusting me enough to say it.”

Ilya presses a slow kiss to his temple. “Thank you for not hiding from me.”

Shane wraps an arm around him fully now.

“You’re not stepping into something old,” he says. “We’re making something new.”

Ilya finally relaxes into him. “Together,” he repeats the word from earlier.

“Together,” Shane echoes.

“Okay.”

“Should we tell my parents?”

“Oh Christmas fucking morning? Shane. Get the grip.”

“It’s get a grip.”

“Either way, get it. I will go start coffee,” Ilya places a gentle kiss on Shane’s forehead before standing up and heading for the door.

“Ilya?”

“Hmm?”

Shane sits up on his elbows, smiling in awe of his husband. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

“The trilogy,” Shane insists, already pulling it up.

“Commitment,” Ilya mutters. “We will be eighty by end.”

“You say that every time,” Shane replies without looking at him.

You’re only half listening, already smiling.

Ilya disappears halfway through the first film and comes back with contraband—two bags of Doritos, something chocolate, and a sleeve of Oreos that definitely weren’t there yesterday.

Shane looks betrayed. “I told you not to bring that.”

“A dorito isn’t gonna kill you, Shaney.”

“It might.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “You are dramatic.”

“And you eat like a garbage can,” Shane grumbles.

“Chicken breast ends up in garbage cans too,” you tease, plopping down in the center of the couch without thought.

They both look at you at the same time.

There’s no ceremony to it, no discussion. They simply settle in on either side of you. Shane’s thigh warm against yours, Ilya’s shoulder brushing your arm. You’re boxed in without anyone meaning to box you in.

That’s when you notice it— just for a second. The way there’s nowhere to lean that isn’t one of them. But you eventually stop noticing, because it’s so incredibly easy.

Your leg stretches out across Shane’s lap at some point, absentminded. He adjusts automatically, hand resting near your ankle like it belongs there. Ilya hands you a chip without looking away from the screen. Later, when the second movie starts, your head tips to his shoulder. He doesn’t shift. Just angles himself slightly so you fit better.

They argue about Bruce Wayne like it’s personal.

“He is brooding for sport. It makes him cooler,” Ilya insists.

“He’s traumatized,” Shane counters.

“You’re both projecting.”

There are moments you laugh so hard at that your stomach aches. Ilya’s hand comes up reflexively to steady you when you tip forward. Shane’s fingers curl loosely around your calf like he forgot they weren’t already there.

The three of you just get to be.

No one is performing. No one is proving anything. The jokes come easy, low and constant. Shane’s glasses slide down his nose and you push them back up without thinking. Ilya steals the remote and refuses to give it back during the credits. At some point all three of you are half under the same blanket, feet tangled in a way that would be annoying if it were anyone else.

Ilya has understood from the moment he met you what you are to Shane.

He saw it in the way Shane’s voice shifted around you—subtle, but there. Softer at the edges, brighter in the middle.

What he didn’t expect was what you would become to him. You are light. Steady, warm light. The kind that fills a room without demanding it.

By the time the third movie ends, it’s dark outside. The windows reflect the three of you back at yourselves—close, layered together, something that looks almost intentional.

“Dinner?” Shane asks.

“Dinner,” you and Ilya say in unison.

The three of you have made it back to the couch post dinner, you and Ilya with glasses of wine in your hands.

“You’re probably the only person that could get him to drink that,” Shane nods his head towards Ilya’s hand.

You grin, raising your glass dramatically. “Well I do have impeccable taste.”

“And I do not say no to Freddie, the one with good taste. You should try?” Ilya extends his glass.

“You have plenty of time for it to leave your system before you even thinking about the first game,” you reason.

Shane shakes his head. “I’m already thinking about the first game.”

“Second game then,” you counter.

“One sip, and then we have something to show you. Right Ilya?”

Ilya stiffens beside you. “Yes.”

You try to ignore the sudden heaviness in the air. “Is it a dead body? Ilya, did you finally kill Hayden?”

“Hush,” Shane scolds.

Shane does take a sip, his nose wrinkling as he realizes that maybe he does like red wine. Maybe it’s just because you picked it. Because he’s sitting on his couch in his favorite place in the world, with his two favorite people in the world.

“Well?” Ilya asks, brows raised.

“We have more important things to worry about than me liking wine. It’s fine. Good. Come on,” Shane holds out both his hands, which you and Ilya take at the same time.

“Eyes covered, please,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane’s hands come to cover your eyes just as Ilya takes both of your hands, guiding you forward. You trust them both easily, leaning into their touch.

“It took us a long time to decide what to do with it, where to place it,” Ilya says and you could swear you hear some shyness in his tone.

“But, we realized there is no better place than here. By we, I mean Ilya.”

“Yes, give me my credit.”

“Place what where?” You ask once Ilya stops guiding you forward. Instead his hands rise to your shoulder, twisting you this and that way as if it to position you for something.

“It’s best if we show you,” Shane whispers into your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

When his hands drop from your eyes, you snap them open, your gaze wandering around— their bedroom? What could they possibly show you here? Your eyes search, and then they land on the not so hidden treasure. It’s right above their bed in all its saccarhine quiet. The painting they bought from you from the first night.

The painting that holds so much meaning, that is the epitome of you and Shane, of the time you two spent together in this town.

This gesture stuns you into silence. While no true feelings have been declared, the act feels very clear. It says, you belong here. You have space here with us. You’re part of our home.

Shane shifts from foot to foot, nerves growing with every moment that passes. “You don’t like where we placed it?”

Ilya steadies him, rubbing at his back. “Shane, I don’t think that is… they are emotional.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Freddie. We wanted you to know you’re important to us.”

“You are part of our family.”

The word makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. More in a way that feels like too much to hold despite it being exactly what your heart has craved for so long.

You look at the painting again. At the brushstrokes you remember laying down on that first night. At the colors that feel like a younger version of you. It looks different here. It’s settled, like it belongs here in the quiet of their cottage.

“You put it here,” you say softly.

Shane nods, suddenly unsure of himself. “Yeah.”

Ilya’s hands instinctively reaches for you both— one hand tangling with Shane’s, the other resting on your arm with a sweet squeeze.

“It means a lot,” you say, voice thin. “To be here. In your space like this.”

Neither of them interrupt, quiet and listening with intention.

“To feel…chosen,” you add, almost embarrassed by the word.

Shane shifts closer immediately, like the word itself is pulling him. “You are,” he says, insistent like a promise.

Ilya hums in agreement and squeezes your arm again.

You laugh once under your breath, feeling completely overwhelmed. “I just didn’t expect it.”

“We wanted to see it every day,” Shane says. “That’s all.”

You nod. That makes sense. It feels manageable, and not like everything unspoken between the three of you is going to break through the dam.

But the emotion creeps up anyway. You try to blink back your tears, but it’s no use.

Shane opens his arms without a thought and you step into him, easily folded into his arms like the two of you are thirteen again. He is solid, warm. Steady.

Ilya comes in behind you a second later, wrapping you both up. His chin brushes the top of your head. One of his hands rests flat over Shane’s back, the other at your ribs.

There are no words spoken, no pressure placed on any of you. In this moment you let yourself melt into the care. Shane feels the warmest he ever has, wrapped around you while being wrapped in Ilya. And Ilya…well he thought that getting Shane was what all his dreams were made of. Maybe, just maybe you all have one more dream.

The three of you breathing in the same space, dreaming the same dream.

You let yourself lean for a minute longer than you normally would. “Okay,” you murmur finally, swiping at your face. “Okay, I’m okay. I’m alright.”

Shane presses a quick kiss into your hair like it’s nothing. Ilya squeezes once more before letting go.

The painting stays where it is. It rests where it belongs.

—

The airport goodbye is smaller than the gesture in their bedroom. There is no grand speech or gesture. You need room to breathe— Shane and Ilya can see that.

Ilya hugs you first, firm and quick. “Text when you land.”

Shane pulls you in after, slower, one hand cradling the back of your neck. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, holding him tightly.

He leans away to search your face, his gaze steady like he’s memorizing every single detail of you.

“I’m fine,” you insist, squeezing Shane. You glance at Ilya. “I’m good. Thank you both for having me.”

Ilya gives you a look but doesn’t argue. “Call us if you’re not,” he says instead.

“I will,” you say.

“Call us anyway,” Shane calls after you once you start towards security.

You simply wave, giving a heads up. You don’t trust yourself to turn to look at them. So you don’t.

—

The plane feels wrong immediately. It’s too narrow. The people around you are too loud and the lights are too bright.

You try to ignore the pressure building inside you and buckle your seatbelt and stare straight ahead.

Your phone buzzes before you can put it in airplane mode. It’s them.

Shane: Already feels weird without you here.

Ilya: Safe flight. Get some rest.

Your stomach drops as the events from last night echo in your mind.

Family. Ours. Your painting above their bed.

Your hands start to shake and you press them between your knees. What if you can’t be what they think you are? What if you disappoint them? What if you ruin the balance? What if you’re reading too much into this? What if you misunderstood? What if— The cabin doors shut, and your chest tightens with them.

It was so easy there with them, warm and genuine. Certain. But as the plane climbs into the air you feel alone. Like you stepped into something bigger than you understood. Your breathing goes shallow.

You try to ground yourself by focusing on the things around you. The baby blue of the seat in front of you, the hum of the plane’s engine, the condensation on your refreshment cup.

You should text them back when you land, but you know that you can’t. That you won’t. Because with every minute that pass, your heart is moving in the opposite direction.

There is comfort in the distance, sadness in it too. It’s safer though, than letting yourself get some close. Than them seeing you. The second the wheels left the ground, so did you.

—

AUGUST 2024 About a month after you’ve left the phone starts living closer to Shane.

It’s not something he lets himself think about but it is noticeable, to Ilya at least.

It just ends up on his nightstand instead of across the room. Screen facing up instead of down, the volume up instead of on vibrate. At 12:17 a.m., it lights the ceiling blue. Shane’s hand moves before he’s fully awake. He sits up on his elbow, squinting at the screen. It’s just an email, something about team logistics and bonding.

He lets his head fall back into the pillow, sighing in frustration.

Beside him, Ilya shifts. “What? What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Shane turns the phone over but keeps it within reach. His fingers rest on the edge of it for a second longer than necessary before he pulls his hand back.

You used to text late. Are you still up? A thought just hit me. A blurry picture of a canvas at midnight.

Now? There is hardly anything. Shane stares up at the ceiling. Above them, your painting hangs steady in the dark.

MID SEPT 2024

Preseason media day is notoriously loud— it has changed over the years now that Shane and Ilya are married. Even more so now that Ilya’s retired.

Shane answers questions easily. He smiles at the right moments, laughs when expected. This stuff is like breathing. It’s the only way his mind is allowed to be somewhere else. If he isn’t thinking of Ilya, he’s thinking of you. Wonder what’s left in the growing space between you.

Halfway through a sentence, his eyes flick sideways to the table where his phone sits facedown. Once he’s in the car with Ilya he unlocks it before the engine even turns over.

There are no notifications. He opens your message thread anyway— the last message from you is three days old. It’s not at all like you, not warm or cozy or even remotely showing that you’re interested.

Hope practice went well.

It’s not weird for him to initiate contact. The two of you are friends, good friends— best friends.

He types a few different things, a sigh coming as he formulates and deletes and repeats.

How’s the new piece coming?

Delete.

You alive over there?

Delete.

Shane sets the phone in the cupholder and stares out the passenger window. He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him. There’s a weight in the air.

“You could just call,” Ilya says mildly, watching Shane’s jaw set.

“They’re busy,” Shane replies.

“If you say so.”

— MID SEPTEMBER 2024

Ilya tells himself he doesn’t care about response times because he’s not sixteen. You’re not his partner, you are his friend. His family, if what he and Shane said is still true. He feels like it is. With found family though, he feels there is no obligation here, even if it had started to feel like…something.

And yet, he grows frustrated like Shane as time passes.

He sends you a clip from Shane’s practice— a sharp pass he knows you’d dissect frame by frame.

The two of you had started doing that together, breaking down plays like you were studying them.

It had been easy and fun, kept him connected to hockey in a way where he still got to be the expert.

He sends it to you midafternoon. Evening comes, dinner comes, and nightly tea is being made when finally at 9:42 p.m., your reply comes through.

Freddie: nice.

He stares at the word. A word that he has said multiple times when he didn’t understand something or when he just wasn’t interested. There is none of your usual commentary or teasing.

Nice.

He can’t tell who he’s more angry at in this moment. You for pulling away or himself for thinking things could be different.

Ilya: Only nice?

Freddie: sorry, i’m beat. long day with possible sponsors. Ilya: Get some rest.

He locks the phone and sets it face down on the counter, he knows that you won’t reply.

It’s not until later that he lets himself look at your message thread again. It’s the middle of the night and he’s in the living room unable to sleep. It’s not unusual for him to let Shane sleep— he doesn’t want his phone to disturb him.

Ilya scrolls up to May. There are voice memos and paragraphs. Photos of paint on your hands. You laughing at something stupid he said.

He presses play on one of the voice memos without meaning to and your voice fills the room for half a second.He stops it immediately and the silence after? It feels heavier than it should. Like it’s sitting on his chest.

When Ilya slides back into bed beside Shane, it wakes him. “You good?” Shane asks sleepily, rubbing at his eyes.

Ilya nods, bending to kiss Shane on his forehead. “Of course, sweetheart. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t mention that he thought something had been building between the two of you too. Not dramatic or defined, just steadily growing.

He doesn’t mention that he misses it.

OCTOBER 2024

October makes everything sharper, as the space between you, Shane and Ilya grows like a thorn.

The air changes is cooler, the aches in Shane’s body and Ilya’s heart feeling deeper.

Shane is usually steady before a season. He thrives in ritual, is particular about his schedule. Ilya had hopes that as the season grew nearer that Shane would get better. It only gets worse, and while Ilya usually feels comfortable calling things out, this feels different.

It was all his fault, wasn’t it? He had convinced Shane to reconnect with you. Had fallen into rhythm with your friendship and created a rhythm of his own between you.

So all Ilya can do for now is observe. It hurts to see the man he loves acting out of character. Acting broken.

Shane leaves the cabinet doors open after making a smoothie. He forgets to respond to many of Hayden’s texts. Leaves some of his gear at home. Watches a game tape straight through without a single rewind and no notes.

Ilya knows that’s not the man he married. But he can’t say it. Not without admitting that he was hurt too.

One night, Shane stands under the painting again.

He doesn’t turn the lights fully on, letting the colors bathe in the soft light. They look more delicate like this. Ilya watches Shane quietly.

“You think we made it weird?” Shane asks, eyes still on the canvas.

“With what,” Ilya says from the bed, already knowing. Shane rolls his eyes before pointing at the wall.

“We didn’t make anything. We didn’t do anything wrong,” Ilya answers as evenly as he can manage.

Shane nods, but his shoulders stay tight. “It felt fine then,” he says. “It was,” Ilya assures.

“I’m gonna take a shower. I’ll be back soon,” Shane murmurs. He leaves Ilya with a soft peck on the cheek and heads to the bathroom.

Ilya listens closely as the water turns on and soon there’s steam creeping from underneath the bathroom door. He stays still for a couple more minutes before he picks up his phone and starts out of the bedroom, his eyes glazing over the painting before he turns down the hall.

Before he can regret it…he calls you.

—

The phone rings long enough that Ilya almost hangs up. But you finally answer on the fifth ring.

“Hi,” you murmur and he could swear that your voice is almost shy. At least unsure, maybe a little scared.

“Hi,” he says, realizing that his voice mirrors your own. He didn’t prepare for this call, he just knew he had to make it.

There’s a small rustle on your end, like you’re shifting somewhere quieter.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

“Yes,” he answers initially because that is mostly true. “But no,” he adds, exhaling through his nose as he leans against the kitchen counter.

“Is Shane okay?”

“He is…not himself,” he says carefully. “He forgets things. Small things. He leaves cabinets open o-or he doesn’t rewind tape. And his damn phone, I’ve never seen him hate his phone before.”

You swallow loudly the other end, the guilt that you’d been trying to outrun finding root in your belly. “I didn’t mean to—“

“I know. This is not— I do not want you to feel that I am angry with you. But you are not here and Shane cannot ignore that. I cannot either.”

After a moment, you ask quietly, “Is he really that bad?”

“He would say no.”

“And you?”

Ilya considers lying to spare your feelings. He would only do that for Shane before…you have grown to be the exception. “He is quiet. Distracted. Sad.”

You let out a breath that feel like you’ve been holding it for weeks. “I thought giving space would make it easier,” you admit.

“For who?” Ilya asks.

“For everyone.”

He hums faintly. “It has not.”

“And you?” you ask, more carefully this time. “Are you okay?”

He looks down at the floor tile between his feet. “I thought I was,” he says.

That surprises you into silence and for some reason Ilya is feeling brave enough to fill it. Maybe because like with Shane, he knows whatever this is is real.

“I did not expect it to feel like this,” he continues. “I knew he would miss you. I did not expect to not miss you but this...”

“I miss you,” you say.

“I know, I do not doubt that,” he says. “I miss our conversations.”

That makes you huff softly. “The hockey lectures?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation. “You were finally getting better.”

A small crack of something like a laugh escapes you. Ilya smiles, feeling like he’s brushed the edge of normalcy with you.

“How has creating been? Are you doing something new?”

“I…no? Sort of but nothing I really feel connected to. I haven’t finished it, the painting I started while I was there. I haven’t touched it if I’m being honest.

Ilya slides down the counter, sitting crisscrossed on the tile floor. “Tell me.”

“It was inspired by my time there and I— I didn’t know what that time was turning into,” you whisper. “It started as something light. And then it didn’t feel light anymore.”

“It is okay for things to not be light as long as they are honest,” he suggests, but he knows the feeling. He remembers hiding from his feelings for Shane despite it all feeling like a distant memory.

“I was scared if I finished it, it would make everything real.”

“It is already real. This is not a dream, Freddie,” he answers quietly.

“I didn’t pull away because I don’t care. I pulled away because I didn’t know how to care without making it bigger.”

“I am not asking you to make it bigger. Neither is Shane. All I am asking is that you don’t disappear.”

You inhale shakily, and you can feel the tears threatening to fall. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Then call him,” Ilya says.

“What would I even say, Ilya?”

“The truth,” he replies. “That you were confused. That you got scared. That you miss him.”

“And you?” you ask again, softer now. “Do you want me to call for you too?”

His answer is not as quick this time, and your heart rate increased. Because while you and Shane may have history, your care for Ilya has grown into something just as important.

“Yes,” he says. “I do. I don’t like not knowing where I stand. I don’t like…” he trails off unable to find the right words.

That quiet vulnerability is the closest he’s come to naming it.

“I don’t like it either. And I never meant to make you feel like that, Ilya. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I miss the three of us,” you say.

“So do we.”

He lets the we sit there, pulling you both in. Grounding you. Because even though Shane’s not here, you know that this is all true for him too. He misses you. He wants things to go back to how they were.

“Call him tomorrow,” Ilya insists. “Before practice.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats.

“Ilya?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll call you too. Soon.”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Okay.”

lmk if you'd like to be tagged in future updates!

But being the third wheel isn’t a new concept to you, in fact you’ve always thrived there despite wanting to be chosen. To have your own wheel to turn with.

The three of you are on the back deck, and Maeve is at the grill, Sabah is chopping up peaches for a cobbler she’s assembling.

You’re setting the table, your eyes down as you arrange the plates and glasses. “I wanted to tell you a couple months out so we can make sure the scheduler’s clear. 

“Mhmm,” they hum in unison.

“I’m going to Ottawa for a couple days in the summer.”

The knife clatters out of Sabah’s hand and she looks up. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Dear, let them finish. Go on Freddie.”

“They invited me to come stay. It’s just a couple days, they said they have space for me to work if i want to.”

“A lot of they language being thrown around here,” Sabah observed.

“It was a joint offer.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Fine. Ilya and I talk— not as much as Shane and I do. But it’s meaningful. He helped me name a piece.”

“I knew that Russian word didn’t come out of thin air. Freddie, what are you doing? What do you want from this?”

“I’m going to hang out with my friends in a place that was once my home. It’s that simple.”

“And all those feelings for Shane?”

“Are on the back burner. Like they have been for 20 years now.”

“Whatever. You’re in denial.”

“I am not.”

“Ok, hold on my loves. Maybe there’s another question to be asked. Is there anything felt with Ilya? Or is it still just Shane.”

“Ilya and I have chemistry, that’s impossible to deny. But our friendship blossomed because we both love Shane. And I think he’s okay with that.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m making up for lost time. That is why I said yes, to spend time with Shane and to get to know his husband better. If I start having trouble with that you’ll be the first to know, Sabah.”

“And here I thought it would be me since I’m the one being nice to you. Chopped liver over here.”

“You’ll know by proxy.”

“I just…I want you to be careful, Freddie. We love you. I love you so much, you’re my family. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know, but I need you to trust me. One thing that I’m sure of is that Shane and Ilya would never hurt me. If anything, I’ll end up hurting myself.”

“Let’s try to avoid that, yeah? International flights are robbery these days, and I don’t want to go to jail for assault.”

“I’ll be careful.”

—

JULY 2024 - COTTAGE DAY 1

You feel like you’re vibrating. Every fiber of your being feels as if it’s buzzing with anticipation, fear and excitement all at once.

They’re picking you up, which leaves you standing outside in the summer breeze. You’re in a match set of cutoff sweatpants, the matching jacket tied around your waist. Since you woke up to head to the airport this morning you’ve been chewing gum, so much so that you’ve bitten your tongue more times than you can count. 

Every black Range Rover that appears makes your heart go through the roof, until you realize they’re not in it.

That is until they are. Shane is driving, and he pulls right up to you, the smiles on his and Ilya’s faces sweet and contagious. Their obvious happiness that you’re here has your nervousness melting away. 

“Freddie,” Shane murmurs once out of the car, because that’s all he can think of to say. He embraces you immediately and you hug him tightly, hoping his presence will ground you a bit. 

Ilya is next, wrapping his arms around you. “How do you manage to look cozy in summer?”

“It’s my superpower I guess.”

The drive is peaceful and that’s putting it lightly. There is no place for your nerves when there is so much warmth around. The windows are down letting in the fresh air and the sound of wind in the trees. 

Shane is driving, his right hand across the dash to tangle with Ilya’s. You don’t know if you’ve seen him this relaxed before, not even as a child. You can’t even be upset about what that means about your time together. What you want it to mean. 

—

You thought you were in the clear but as soon as you’re on the threshold of the cottage, a knot twists in your stomach.

“It’s beautiful,” you say softly, watching as Shane unlocks the door to let Ilya through with your bag. 

Ilya smiles at you from over his shoulder. “Mr. Real Estate here does have good taste.”

“I don’t know if you know but I had it built.”

“I could’ve guess, it’s all too perfect.”

“Hey I don’t give tours to the disorderly.”

“Mmm, is lie. Freddie, I will take your suitcase to your room but where do you want your art supplies? Living room? Library?”

Ilya’s question has you floating back to when he and Shane asked you to come here. When he claimed that you wouldn’t be a guest, but had space here. With them. 

“Does the library have a view?” 

“Shane says every room has wonderful view.”

“Because it does.”

“Yes, yes, sweetheart I know. Library has better view in my opinion.”

You playfully roll your eyes in Shane’s direction before smiling at Ilya. “Library it is then.”

Ilya grins, winking before he heads down up a flight of stairs and disappears, leaving you and Shane together.

“I planned to make us all lunch, if you’re hungry?”

“Starving actually.”

“You didn’t eat breakfast?”

“Shaney, I packed an hour before I had to be at the airport.”

“Of course you did. Why don’t you let yourself explore. We’ll come get you when it’s ready.”

There’s the need that rises up in you that makes you feel like you should help. You think about what your mom would say, that you have to earn it. You do feel like you have to earn it, especially here, with Shane and Ilya. 

You’re about to open your mouth to ask if he’s sure he doesn’t need help, but then he starts to whistle a tune and turns away to open the fridge. 

The water outside is a deep blue, its richness calling out to you. You’re careful as you make your way down the stone path to the dock, shedding your socks and shoes before sitting crisscross at its end. 

You get lost in the waves, let yourself dip your toes in the refreshing water as you take in the scenery. This is what you missed most after leaving Ottawa, only second to Shane. 

“Is beautiful, yes?”

“Very.”

“The water is nice. Cool but not too cold. We can swim together later if you want.”

“Yeah, I want.”

Ilya’s mouth twitches but he doesn’t comment on your words. Instead he holds out his hand for you, and says, “Ready?”

“Sure.”

Sliding your hand into his is easy. So is the way he pulls you up. 

—

JULY 2024 - COTTAGE DAY 2

You wake earlier than you mean to. Than you want to.

But the light coming through the window is too pretty to ignore. Golden and soft, catching on the dust in the air. For a second, you forget where you are, blinking up at the ceiling. Then it all rushes back in. The water, the quiet, the fact that you’re here with Shane and Ilya.

You slide out of the pillowy soft bed and get ready in the bathroom across the hall, pulling on a sweatshirt and shorts before padding to the kitchen.

Shane is already in the kitchen. His glasses are on, hair still sleep-tousled as he stands in front of the stove like he’s negotiating with it.

“You’re up early,” he says without turning. He knows Ilya, knows he wouldn’t dare be up at this hour with his troubles getting to sleep. 

“So are you.”

“I wake up like I’m late for something,” he admits. “Old habit that’s hard to break even though that’s what this place is for.”

You lean against the counter, watching him crack eggs with careful precision. “Need help?”

Shane almost says no. He wants you to let him take care of you. But he also can imagine the dialogue going through your head. So he says, “Yeah. You want to cut the fruit?”

“Always.”

He slides the cutting board toward you like this has always been the arrangement and you get to work, arranging the fruit on a plate as you cut up each piece. 

The two of you are living in the sounds of the knife, the crackle of oil, the coffee maker thrumming to life when something occurs to you. 

“This feels weirdly normal,” you say, keeping your eyes focused on the task at hand.

It does feel normal, Shane thinks. Like this something he could’ve done with you his entire life. Except he wouldn’t have met Ilya, and Ilya is everything to him.

Shane turns around, leaning against the counter to look at you. He likes the way you’re bathed in the morning sunlight. “Good weird or bad weird?”

“Good,” you reply. “Unfamiliar.”

He nods like he understands exactly what you mean.

“Ilya’s like this too,” he says. “He settles into places fast. I used to think it meant he didn’t care as much.”

You aren’t surprised that you and Ilya have things like this in common. But you are surprised that Shane is verbalizing it. 

“And now?”

“And now I know it’s because he feels safe,” Shane says simply.

You swallow. “That must be nice.”

“It is,” he says. “You don’t seem uncomfortable though,” he adds quickly, brow furrowed. 

“I’m not. I’m just really trying not to mess it up.”

Shane steps forward, leaning across the counter so that he’s closer to you. His gaze is steady, serious. “You don’t have to perform here,” he says. “You never did with me.”

You laugh quietly, trying to bat away the flutters in your stomach. “I did though.”

“Maybe a little,” he concedes. “But you never pretended to be someone else.”

That lands harder than you expect, and it grows impossible to find words. To speak. You nod, giving him a soft smile. 

You finish slicing the fruit, and Shane admires the placement of each place. You create beauty so effortless because it pours out of you. He sets some eggs and toast on a plate, nudges it closer to you 

“Eat,” he says. “Before Ilya wakes up and steals half of it.”

“You always were territorial about breakfast.”

“Only with people I like.”

The words are casual and unloaded, which is exactly why your chest tightens.

—

When finally in it, the lake holds you differently than expected. For some reason, you find yourself fighting its embrace, struggling to relax. You kick once, twice, and then Ilya is there, close enough that you can hear his breath.

“Relax your shoulders,” he says. “You are fighting it.”

You can’t seem him clearly as you float on your back, gazing up at the blinding sun. But you try to fight him too. “I don’t—”

He reaches out, not grabbing, just placing his palm flat against your upper back. Steady. Warm. “Trust me, Freddie.”

I do, you want to say. Or I try to.

Your body loosens in slow increments and Ilya’s hand stays on your back the entire time. He watches the process with curiosity and care, seeing the tension drain from your neck and shoulders. Feeling it leave your spine as you melt into his hand. He likes the feeling of holding you up, of being here.

“There,” he murmurs. “It will not drop you.” 

I will not drop you, he wants to say.

You float with ease, you toes just beneath the water’s surface. And as you let the water and Ilya hold you, the sky starts to blur. The only sound you can hear is the soft splash of water on rocks and Ilya’s steady breath. Those things feel like all you need right now.

“This is why,” Ilya says quietly.

“Why what?” you breathe. 

“Why I come here.” He skates his hand across your back gently now that you dont need any help. He’s not ready to let you go yet. “When my head is loud, I need something bigger to carry me.”

You swallow.

“Its not about forgetting, yes? “It is about being held without needing to explain myself.”

You let the water rock you. Let him.

“I don’t let many people see me like this,” he adds, softer.

“Floating?”

“Needing.”

You turn your head toward him, finally looking at him. His eyes are dark but gentle. Needy. Your heart thuds in your chest.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

He means it.

–

Things eventually lighten, and you Ilya spend most oft the day in the water. Shane comes out and lays on the dock with a book, leaving intermittently when his phone rings. The sun is start to go down when he finally comes out with towels.

“Alright you two, you need to eat.”

“Put we are playing mermaids.”

“How do you– playing mermaids?”

“You expect me to be in water and not teach your husband about playing mermaids.”

“Out. Both of you.”

Ilya gets out first, helping you up. The air is cooler as the sun continues to dip behind the trees. 

“You’re gonna freeze to death,” he scolds.

“I am fine,” you say, teeth chattering.

“Objectively false,” Ilya says, taking a towel from Shane, wrapping a towel around your shoulders and tucking it in without ceremony.

Shane pauses so briefly that neither you or Ilya notice. This is normal, he tells himself. Because here at the cottage, it is. ITs become the place where impossible things happen every single day.

You all make dinner together tonight– roasted veggies and chicken and french bread. The conversation between the three of you is easy, and when it stops and starts again, it all just feels natural. 

Just.

–

JULY 2024 - COTTAGE DAY 3

You’re already working when Ilya finds you. There’s a canvas in front of you propped against the window, your paints laid out on the table beside with care. He observes you, noticing that you’re doing more staring than you are painting.

Your face is twisted into some mixture of feelings. Some he can identify; confusion, uncertainty, frustration. Others evade him.

“What are you thinking?” he asks eventually.

“Fuck,” You jump, not realizing that you’d been being watched.

He gives you an apologetic smile, come to stand so he can look over your shoulder. “I am sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt but also want to help.”

“No its okay. I don’t know yet,” you admit. “It’s just shapes right now.”

“Shapes matter,” he says. “They decide what comes next.”

You glance up at him; he stands with his hands in his pockets, thoughtful. Careful. How you hope to see someone looking at the things you create.

“It feels like I’m trying to catch a feeling before it realizes what I’m doing,” you say. Even as you say, you know that Sabah would lock you in a room for hours to unpack such a statement. 

Ilya nods slowly. “That is how I feel when I cook without recipe.”

You laugh softly.

He leans in closer, his chest brushing your shoulder. He points, careful not to touch. “This line. What if it wants to go further?”

You tilt your head trying to see his perspective. “You think?”

“Maybe. We see without expectations? We can always change.”

That sentiment feels like its needs to be tattooed on you so you don’t forget. You can always change. Its possible to pivot. It can be messy, it doesn’t have to be perfect.

In this moment Ilya gives you the courage to believe that. You adjust  the line, and the dam inside you breaks. Your brain knows where to go next. 

“You’re sure you weren’t an artist in another life?”

“I am artist here. Do you see this?” He smirks, pointing at his body.

The laugh you let out is less reserved than the last. You feel it in your belly, and Ilya loves the way your eyes crinkle in the corners, can’t help but join in. 

“You’re very good at seeing,” you tell him once you’ve steadied yourself.

“So are you,” he replies. “You just doubt it more. Can I stay? I will read.”

“Stay.”

–

Your head felt full of cotton after that exchange with Ilya and its guidance. You had enjoyed yourself, and it felt nice to have company with having to entertain. But it all felt very heady, like territory you couldn’t imagine being ready to handle. 

That’s how you find yourself curled up in one of the couch outside near the firepit. The fresh air helps and you brought your sketchbook to keep your hands and thoughts occupied. You hear the steps first, and by the rhythm know that its Shane joining you. You find only some relief in that. 

Without looking up, you ask, “Will you read to me?”

Instead of replying, Shane obliges. He reads for a while before you realize you have no idea what he’s reading about. Hockey you could guess but you haven’t been listening to the words, simply the soothing cadence of his voice.

Shane peeks at you when your pencil stops, and smiles softly.  “You always did this,” he says without looking up.

“Did what?”

He raises a brow at you playfully. “Didn’t listen.”

You laugh, extending your leg to kick softly at his knee. “I am listening. I wouldn’t say that I’m comprehending. But your voice is nice.”

He hums, pausing before he lowers the book and meets your gaze. His hand wraps gently around your ankle, caressing a curve there. “I missed you. So much,” he says—not softly, not loudly. Just true.

Your breath nearly stops, mouth dry. The words scrape out of your throat, you have to force them out despite them being no less true.  “I missed you, too.”

Shane squeezes your ankle once and then goes back to reading like that was enough. Because he knows it has to be enough.

–

You have long gone to bed and its just Shane and Ilya now.

The kettle clicks off. Shane pours the water, steam curling up into the dim kitchen light, and hands a mug to Ilya before taking one for himself. There’s no conversation yet, just the quiet choreography of something they’ve done every summer. 

Making tea in the softness of the cottage.Together. It never grows old.

They head to their bedroom, hand in hand the familiar creak of the floorboards underfoot. The window is open a few inches, lake air cooling the room.

Shane sits on the edge of the bed, setting his mug on the side table to cool. Ilya settles beside him, back against the headboard, one knee drawn up.

“How was your day?” Shane asks, easy.

“Good,” Ilya says. “I found Freddie in the library. Painting. Well, staring at painting. They were stuck.”

Shane smiles. “Were?”

“Yes. I helped them, I think. They were very afraid to mess up,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around Shane when he comes to lean against him.

“Who isn’t?”

“Yes, true. But they are so good. I did not know they get afraid. They seemed better before I left.”

Shane nods, pleased. “I read to them this afternoon while they were sketching.”

“You do have very soothing voice. Easy to fall asleep to,” Ilya says, yawning playfully.

“Fuck you.”

“After we are done talking about our days,” Ilya teases, dropping a kiss on Shane’s forehead.

A quiet moment falls between them, and they sip their tea together now that its a bit cooler. 

“It feels as nice as I thought it would,” Shane says eventually. “Having them here.”

Ilya nods. “It does.”

Neither of them are surprised it feels this way, and right now there doesn’t feel like there’s anything to do but enjoy it.

“They fit,” Ilya adds, after a beat.

Shane’s mouth finds the crook of Ilya’s neck, laying a kiss there, his way of agreeing.

“I’m glad we invited them,” Shane says.

“So am I,” Ilya replies.

lmk if you'd like to be tagged in future updates!

"Yes, Mama," you had called back, though your attention was already wandering to a butterfly fluttering near the roses.

Your mother and Mrs. Kim were good friends—weekly lunch companions who shared gossip and genuine affection in equal measure. After months of begging, she had finally brought you along to one of their gatherings.

The Kim estate garden had been your wonderland that day, sprawling and mysterious with its winding paths and hidden alcoves. You had been content to explore alone, admiring the flowers and chasing butterflies, when a shadow fell across the bench where you'd settled.

Looking up, you found a boy standing before you—slightly taller than your eight-year-old frame, with serious dark eyes and hair that fell across his forehead. He regarded you with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, as if you were some exotic creature he wasn't quite sure how to approach.

"You're Y/n Ricci," he said, not a question but a statement delivered with the confidence of someone accustomed to being right.

You nodded, sitting up straighter under his scrutiny. "And you're Hongjoong Kim."

He seemed pleased that you knew his name, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "My mother says we're supposed to be friends."

The bluntness of his statement made you consider the proposition seriously. "Do you want to be friends?"

Your directness seemed to catch him off guard. He tilted his head, studying you with those intense eyes. "I don't know. I don't have many friends who are girls."

"I don't have many friends at all," you admitted with the brutal honesty only children possessed. Your half-brother Marco, fifteen and perpetually busy with teenage concerns, was your only consistent companion, and even he often had better things to do than entertain his little sister.

Something in your admission softened Hongjoong's expression, melting the careful reserve he wore like armor. "Do you want to see something cool?" he asked, extending his hand toward you with newfound determination.

You glanced back at your mother, who was deep in animated conversation with Mrs. Kim, before slipping your small hand into Hongjoong's. His fingers closed around yours with gentle possession. "Okay."

He led you away from the main garden, following stone paths that wound deeper into the estate grounds. "We have to be quiet," he whispered conspiratorially, his voice thrilling with shared secrecy. "It's a secret place."

The path curved around a tall hedge, revealing a hidden alcove dominated by the same massive oak tree you now stared at through your bedroom window. Beneath its sprawling canopy sat a wooden platform—not quite a treehouse, but a deliberate structure built for childhood adventures.

"My father had it built for me," Hongjoong had explained, helping you up onto the platform with careful hands. "I come here when I want to be alone."

You had looked around with wide, wonder-filled eyes, taking in the cushions scattered across the wooden surface, the small trunk tucked in one corner, the string of lights wound through the branches above like captured stars.

"It's like a castle," you breathed, genuine awe coloring your voice.

Hongjoong's answering smile transformed his serious face into something bright and open, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "It can be whatever we want it to be," he said, settling cross-legged on a cushion. "Today it's a pirate ship."

"A pirate ship?" you repeated, delighted by the possibility.

He nodded with solemn authority. "I'm the captain, of course."

"What am I?" you asked, dropping onto a cushion across from him, already caught up in the magic of pretend.

Hongjoong considered this with the gravity of someone making a crucial decision. "You can be... first mate."

You frowned slightly, your eight-year-old sense of equality bristling. "Why can't I be captain too?"

"A ship can't have two captains," he explained patiently, as if this were an immutable law of nature. "But the first mate is important. They're the captain's most trusted person."

The prospect of being Hongjoong Kim's "most trusted person" had filled you with warmth, a glow that started in your chest and spread outward like ripples in a pond. You nodded, accepting your role with newfound pride. "Okay. What are we doing, Captain?"

His grin was pure boyish delight as he reached for the trunk. "We're hunting for treasure, of course."

That afternoon had stretched like golden honey, filled with elaborate games of pretend that transformed the platform from pirate ship to desert island to underwater kingdom at Hongjoong's creative direction. You discovered that the serious boy you'd first met possessed a vivid imagination and an infectious enthusiasm for make-believe, delighting in your willingness to follow his lead into whatever adventure he devised.

By the third Wednesday, you and Hongjoong had settled into a comfortable routine. Your mothers would lunch on the veranda while you disappeared into the garden with him, only returning when called for dessert or farewells. Those moments became the highlight of your week, a pocket of pure joy in a life often overshadowed by the weight of your family name.

It was on one such Wednesday that Hongjoong seemed distracted, glancing repeatedly toward the front of the house as you played.

"What's wrong?" you finally asked, setting down the toy boat he'd brought for your latest ocean exploration.

"Nothing," he said quickly. Too quickly.

You crossed your arms, giving him your best stern look—a miniature version of the expression you'd seen your father use when he suspected deception.

Hongjoong sighed, defeated by your persistence. "Fine. Some of my friends are coming over. My mother invited them."

"Oh," you said, disappointment pricking at your chest. You'd grown accustomed to having Hongjoong all to yourself during these precious Wednesday visits. "Should I go back to my mother?"

"No!" The vehemence of his response surprised you both. He looked embarrassed by his own intensity. "I mean, you don't have to. They're just coming to play too."

"Are they nice?" you asked, sudden nervousness fluttering in your stomach. Group dynamics were foreign territory for a sheltered eight-year-old.

Hongjoong considered this with his characteristic seriousness. "Mostly. Wooyoung talks a lot, and Jongho can be grumpy because he's the youngest. But they're my friends."

Before you could voice more questions, the sound of approaching voices reached you—several boys by the sound of it, their chatter growing louder as they navigated the garden paths.

"They're here," Hongjoong announced, a mixture of excitement and something like reluctance coloring his tone. He stood, motioning for you to follow. "Come on, I'll introduce you."

Your first glimpse of the group that would reshape your entire life came as you rounded the hedge—six boys of varying heights and expressions, all regarding you with undisguised curiosity. They stood in a loose semicircle, a collection of young faces that would become as familiar to you as your own reflection.

"Guys, this is Y/n Ricci," Hongjoong said, unmistakable pride threading through his voice as he made the introduction. "Y/n, these are my friends."

The memories flood back in vivid detail—Seonghwa's elegant bow, Yunho's bright declaration that you were prettier than Hongjoong had let on, Yeosang's quiet nod, San's mischievous smile, Mingi's gentle wave, Jongho's serious questions about your family, and finally Wooyoung's dramatic entrance that left you dizzy and giggling despite yourself.

Seven boys who had accepted you into their circle with the easy generosity of childhood. Seven boys who had become your entire world.

Seven boys who had ripped that world apart without explanation.

* * *

A sharp knock at your door jolts you from the painful reverie, anger flaring immediately at the interruption.

"Hongjoong, I swear to God, if this is you I'll stab—" You jerk the door open, words dying in your throat as you find Yeosang standing in the hallway instead of your so-called fiancé.

Of all of them, he's the last one you expected. Yeosang, the quiet observer, the one who spoke least but somehow always saw the most. He stands in your doorway with that same thoughtful expression you remember from childhood, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

"May I come in?" he asks quietly, his voice carrying none of the desperate energy that had characterized Wooyoung's earlier attempt at connection, none of the possessive intensity that radiated from Hongjoong.

You step aside wordlessly, too surprised to maintain your defensive stance. He enters your room with careful steps, taking in the space without judgment—the hastily unpacked suitcase, the formal clothing draped over chairs, the way you've deliberately left everything looking temporary and unwelcoming.

His gaze settles on the window seat where you'd been sitting, noting the indentation in the cushions, the way the curtains are pulled back to frame the view of the garden.

"You were looking at the oak tree," he observes, not a question but a gentle statement.

Your throat constricts unexpectedly. Of course Yeosang would notice. Of course he would understand the significance without needing explanation.

"It looks the same," you say finally, your voice rougher than intended. "Exactly the same."

"Some things don't change," he agrees, moving to stand beside the window but not intruding on your obvious sanctuary. "Even when everything else does."

The comment hangs between you, weighted with meaning. You wait for him to elaborate, to launch into explanations or justifications like you expect the others might. Instead, he simply stands there, a quiet presence that somehow doesn't feel threatening.

Minutes pass in silence. Yeosang has always been comfortable with quiet spaces, never feeling the need to fill them with unnecessary words. It's one of the things you'd loved about him as a child—the way he could sit beside you in companionable silence while you read or drew, offering his presence without demanding anything in return.

"I'm not going to tell you why," he says eventually, his voice barely above a whisper. "You wouldn't believe me if I did. And honestly, our reasons don't matter anymore. What matters is that we hurt you. Deeply. And we knew we were doing it."

The admission hits you like a physical blow. No justifications, no excuses—just acknowledgment of the pain they'd deliberately inflicted. It's both what you've needed to hear and the last thing you expected from any of them.

"You all made your choice," you say flatly, though your voice wavers slightly. "Whatever your reasons were, you chose to make me believe I meant nothing to you."

"Yes," he agrees simply. "We did."

The honest acceptance of culpability is so unexpected that you find yourself sinking onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by your own anger. You'd been prepared for denials, for attempts to minimize what they'd done, for the kind of gaslighting that would let them feel better about their actions.

You hadn't been prepared for acknowledgment.

"I used to wonder," you whisper, the words torn from somewhere deep inside, "what I'd done wrong. I replayed every conversation, every moment, trying to figure out where I'd failed you all."

Yeosang's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "You did nothing wrong."

"Then why—"

"Because we were cowards," he interrupts, the harsh assessment delivered in his characteristically matter-of-fact tone. "Because we made a choice that we thought was right, and we were too proud and too scared to find another way."

You look up at him, searching his face for signs of deception, for the careful manipulation you've learned to expect from men in your world. Instead, you find only quiet regret and a weariness that seems to age him beyond his years.

"Seven years," you say, the number falling between you like a stone into still water. "Seven years of silence."

"Seven years of regret," he counters. "Seven years of knowing we'd broken something precious and being too afraid to try to fix it."

"And now you think you can?" The question comes out sharper than intended, edged with the bitter laughter that's become your default defense. "You think marriage will magically erase what you did?"

"No," Yeosang says with devastating honesty. "I think we're all going to live with the consequences of our choices for the rest of our lives. You, us, our families—everyone."

The brutal assessment should hurt, but instead it's almost a relief. No false promises, no romantic declarations about second chances. Just the harsh reality that some damage can't be undone.

"Then why are you here?" you ask, genuine curiosity coloring your tone. "What's the point of this conversation if nothing can be fixed?"

Yeosang is quiet for a long moment, his gaze returning to the window and the oak tree beyond. "Because you're in pain," he says finally. "And pretending you're not won't help any of us survive the next three months."

Something cracks in your chest at the simple acknowledgment. When was the last time someone had seen your pain without trying to minimize it, excuse it, or make it about themselves?

"I don't know how to forgive you," you admit, the words pulled from the deepest part of your heart. "Any of you. I don't even know if I want to."

"You don't have to," Yeosang replies. "Forgiveness isn't something you owe us. It's something you do for yourself, if and when you're ready."

He moves toward the door, his visit apparently concluded, but pauses with his hand on the handle.

"There's something else you should know," he says without turning around. "Mingi and Wooyoung—they don't show it the way the others do, but they were affected the worst by leaving you."

You frown, confusion replacing the fragile peace his presence had created. "What do you mean?"

"Mingi barely spoke for months afterward. He used to sit in that oak tree for hours, just staring at nothing. And Wooyoung..." Yeosang's voice softens with something that might be pain. "Wooyoung stopped laughing. He just... stopped being himself for a long time."

The information sits heavily in your chest, creating an unwelcome ache. You don't want to care about their pain—don't want to feel anything but anger toward all of them.

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask.

Yeosang finally turns to face you, his expression holding a gravity that reminds you of the serious boy he'd been. "Because I know you want vengeance. I can see it in your eyes, the way you're planning to make us all pay for what we did." His gaze meets yours directly. "Take it out on the rest of us if you need to. Just... not those two. They've suffered enough."

Before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone with the weight of his words and the uncomfortable realization that your carefully constructed hatred might be more complicated than you'd allowed yourself to believe.

You return to the window seat, but the view of the oak tree no longer brings only painful memories. Now it carries the image of a heartbroken Mingi sitting among its branches, and the knowledge that Wooyoung's infectious laughter had died the same day your friendship did.

For the first time since arriving at the compound, you feel something other than anger.

You feel the dangerous, unwelcome stirring of empathy.

And that, perhaps, is the most frightening thing of all.

* * *

You dress with meticulous care the next morning, selecting a crisp white blouse and tailored black slacks that speak of wealth and breeding. Every hair is in place, your makeup flawless, your jewelry understated but expensive. If they want to play games, you'll show them exactly what kind of opponent they're dealing with.

The kitchen is bathed in morning sunlight when you enter, and you're surprised to find only Yeosang sitting at the marble island, fully dressed despite the early hour. He looks up as you approach, and without a word, slides a steaming mug across the counter toward you.

You freeze, staring at the offering. The aroma that rises from the cup is unmistakably your preferred blend—dark roast with a hint of vanilla, two sugars, a splash of cream. Exactly how you take your coffee.

But that's impossible.

"I didn't start drinking coffee until..." you begin, then trail off, the implication hitting you like a physical blow.

"I missed your voice," Yeosang says quietly, his eyes never leaving your face.

The simple statement carries the weight of seven years of silence, of carefully gathered intelligence, of someone who cared enough to learn your habits from a distance. Your hand trembles slightly as you reach for the mug, the warmth seeping through the ceramic a stark contrast to the chill running down your spine.

Before you can process the full implications of his knowledge, the kitchen door swings open and Wooyoung stumbles in, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled and wrong. His hair sticks up at odd angles, his shirt is wrinkled, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of a sleepless night.

"Morning, sunshine!" he tries for his usual bright tone, but it falls flat, hollow. His smile is too wide, too forced, and doesn't reach his eyes. "Beautiful day, isn't it? I was thinking maybe we could—"

"Wooyoung," you interrupt softly.

He stops mid-ramble, blinking at you with something like surprise. You've never been able to stand watching him lie, especially when he's so obviously terrible at it. Even as children, his face was an open book, every emotion written clearly across his features.

"You look like hell," you say bluntly.

His forced smile crumbles. For a moment, he looks so young, so lost, that your chest tightens with unwelcome sympathy. But then he's rebuilding his facade, piece by careful piece.

"I'm fine," he insists, moving to the coffee machine with jerky, too-bright movements. "Just stayed up late working on some... organizational stuff. You know how it is."

You don't respond, but you don't look away either. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken truths.

The kitchen door opens again, admitting Yunho and Mingi. The contrast between them is stark—Yunho's eyes hold a desperate hope that makes your stomach clench, while Mingi looks like a man walking to his execution, resignation written in every line of his body.

"Good morning," Yunho says carefully, his voice carrying none of its usual easy warmth. He's watching you like you might bolt at any moment, or perhaps like he's afraid you might disappear if he blinks.

Mingi says nothing, but his gaze is so intense it feels like a physical touch. He looks at you the way a starving man might look at a feast—with longing so profound it's almost painful to witness.

The dynamic in the room shifts, tension ratcheting higher with each passing second. You sip your coffee, tasting the perfection of it, and try not to think about what it means that Yeosang knows exactly how you take it.

Then Hongjoong walks in.

If the others carry their emotions like open wounds, Hongjoong has locked his away behind a wall of icy composure. He's immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair perfectly styled, his expression giving away nothing. He moves through the kitchen like he owns it—which, you suppose, he does—completely ignoring the charged atmosphere.

It's as if last night never happened. As if you hadn't shattered his carefully constructed dinner party with your fury. As if he hadn't agreed to marry a woman who clearly despises him.

The casual dismissal of your pain, the arrogant assumption that he can simply pretend away your confrontation, sends fire racing through your veins.

Without so much as glancing in your direction, he pours himself a cup of coffee, his movements deliberate and controlled. "Are you done with your temper tantrum, little one?" he asks conversationally, stirring cream into his mug. "Or will we continue this childish behavior until the wedding?"

The words hit like a slap. Temper tantrum. Childish behavior. Little one. As if your seven years of pain, your justified anger, your very reasonable objection to being treated like property is nothing more than a petulant outburst.

Your anger flared white hot, vision narrowing until all you could see was his smug face. Without conscious thought, your hand found the knife lying on the cutting board beside you. In one fluid motion honed from years of your brother’s insistence that a Ricci should always know how to defend themselves—you sent it flying across the kitchen.

The blade embedded itself in the cabinet beside Hongjoong’s head with a solid *thunk*, quivering from the impact.

Hongjoong didn’t even flinch. Doesn't even blink. He simply turns his head to look at the knife, then back at you, his expression shifting into something that might almost be... pride?

He glanced at the knife, then back at you, one eyebrow raised in what appeared to be mild interest. “I suppose that’s a no,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that had once made your heart race and now made you want to throw something else at him.

A slow smirk spreads across his face, transforming his cold features into something dangerously attractive. "Better," he says approvingly, as if you've finally done something worthy of his attention. "But your aim needs work."

The casual dismissal of what should have been a terrifying moment, the way he's almost pleased that you tried to kill him, pushes you beyond rage into something colder and more dangerous.

"Y/n—" Yunho starts, his voice tight with alarm.

Wooyoung let out a nervous laugh. Yeosang sighed deeply, turning a page in his book with deliberate care. Mingi just looked pained, his eyes darting between you and Hongjoong as if watching a car crash in slow motion.

"It's not even eight AM," comes Seonghwa's weary voice from the doorway. He takes in the scene—the knife in the cabinet, your white-knuckled grip on the coffee mug, Hongjoong's satisfied smirk—and sighs like a man carrying the weight of the world. "Could we perhaps save the attempted murder for after breakfast?"

“They’ve been like this since we were twelve,” Yunho pointed out. “Remember when she put hair dye in his shampoo because he said her dress made her look like a cupcake?”

“Or when he hid all her shoes because she called his music taste ‘aggressively mediocre’?” Jongho added, the youngest being the last to join the gathering.

“Or the time they didn’t speak for three weeks because—” Wooyoung began, enthusiasm returning to his voice.

“Enough,” you snapped, slamming your mug down hard enough to slosh coffee onto the counter. “We are not taking a nostalgic stroll down memory lane. We are not friends reminiscing about good times. We are strangers who happen to be trapped in the same house due to circumstances beyond my control.”

The room fell silent, the brief moment of normalcy shattered by your words. You could see them all exchanging glances, some sort of silent communication passing between them that excluded you, another reminder that you’re an outsider now.

Every eye in the room is on you as you straighten, smoothing down your blouse with deliberate calm.

"Enjoy your coffee, gentlemen," you say with poisonous sweetness. "I seem to have lost my appetite."

You walk out with your head high, your steps measured and controlled. But inside, you're screaming.

* * *

You barely leave your room for the next four days.

The isolation isn't complete—you emerge for meals when you're certain the main areas are empty, moving through the house like a ghost. You raid the library for books, creating a small fortress of literature around your bed. Classic novels, poetry, even some of the more academic texts on political theory that line the shelves.

Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Your phone becomes your lifeline to the outside world. Marco calls twice daily, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos of your emotions. You don't tell him about the knife incident, but somehow he seems to sense your escalating desperation.

"How are you holding up, sorellina?" he asks during your afternoon call on day three.

"I threw a knife at Hongjoong's head," you admit, staring at the ceiling from your bed.

A pause. Then: "Did you hit him?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Marco's laughter is warm and understanding. "Next time, aim lower. Harder to duck."

"Noted," you say dryly.

"But seriously, Y/n. Don't let them drive you to actual violence. Prison orange is not your color."

Your other constant contact is Chris—Christopher Bang, heir to another allied family and one of the few people in your world who understands the particular hell of family obligations. His messages are a mixture of sympathy and dark humor that keeps you grounded.

Chris: Heard you moved into the ATEEZ fortress. How’s life treating you?

You: Could be better. Tried to impale hongjoong with a kitchen knife this morning

Chris: Success rate?

You: Disappointingly zero. 

Chris: practice makes perfect. It’s gonna be weird not seeing you around after the wedding. those monthly dinners at Santeros wont be the same

You: What do you mean? We’re not moving to Siberia. It’s just a business arrangement, we can still meet up

The response takes longer than usual to come through.

Chris: Y/n… word came down from the Kim family yesterday. You're officially off limits to all unmarried men in the alliance. No contact, no meetings, nothing.

Your phone slips from your suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the floor as rage unlike anything you’ve ever felt crashes over you in waves. The book falls forgotten as you surge to your feet, your vision going red around the edges.

“KIM HONGJOONG!”

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Taglist: @paramedicnerd004, @miracle-sol  @drinkingrumandcocacola @cksanpurpleluv @everglow98

"Y/n," he said, his voice steady and low. "You've always known this day would come."

"Known? Known?" you spat the word like venom. "I never agreed to be some bargaining chip in your twisted game of power."

He sighed, rising from his leather chair to pour himself another drink from a second decanter—as if he'd anticipated your outburst. Of course he had. Your father always seemed to know what cards would be played before they were even dealt.

"This isn't a game, cara mia. It's survival." He swirled the amber liquid, watching it catch the light. "The Ricci family needs this alliance."

"Then make it with guns and money like you always do," you hissed. "Not with your daughter's life."

"The Kim family has always been our ally. Hongjoong's father and I have been friends since before you were born," he said, his expression softening slightly with nostalgia. "But times are changing. The old alliances need to be... reinforced."

"So call him up for dinner like you used to! Remember those Sunday gatherings with all the families?" Your voice cracked. "You don't need to sell your daughter to maintain a friendship!"

Your father's eyes narrowed. "This isn't just about friendship, Y/n. This is about survival. The Russo family is encroaching on all our territories. Together, our families are stronger."

You laughed bitterly. "So you're afraid of them? The great Don Ricci, trembling before—" You froze mid-sentence, the full implications hitting you. "Wait. Kim? As in Kim Hongjoong? That Hongjoong?"

Your father's eyes met yours, a flicker of understanding passing through them. "Yes. The same boy you used to run around with. You and those eight boys were inseparable once—until they weren't."

The name hit you like a physical blow. You gripped the edge of his desk to steady yourself, memories flooding back in a dizzying rush—laughter shared under summer stars, secrets whispered in the darkness, and then... nothing. Seven years of nothing.

"No," you whispered. "Anyone but him."

Your father watched you carefully, more perceptive than you'd given him credit for. "I thought you'd be pleased. You were close once, all of you. The sons of my most trusted allies." He paused, studying your reaction. 

You turned away, unwilling to let him see the pain in your eyes. "Apparently we weren’t as close as I thought."

"I don’t have the energy for you tonight," he sighed. "This alliance is necessary. The Kim, Park, Jeong, Kang, Choi, Song, and Jung families—we've controlled this city for generations. Now we need to ensure it stays that way for generations to come."

"How considerate of you," you sneered, finding your voice again. "And I suppose Hongjoong has already agreed to this?"

"He has. In fact, it was his father who proposed it."

Something sharp and painful twisted in your chest. So that's how it was. The boy who had once sworn he would always protect you had agreed to make you a prisoner in your own life.

"Did you ever stop to wonder," you asked quietly, dangerously, "why they all disappeared from my life? Why your 'trusted allies' sons suddenly wanted nothing to do with me?"

Your father's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "The world we live in is complicated, Y/n. Boys become men. Priorities shift."

"Bullshit," you spat. "Something happened. Something you're not telling me."

Don Ricci set down his glass with deliberate care. "What I know is that we need this alliance, and Hongjoong is willing. That's all that matters now."

* * *

Across the city, Hongjoong stood at the window of his penthouse office, staring out at the glittering skyline. Behind him, Seonghwa watched his leader carefully, noting the tension in his shoulders.

"You told Don Ricci you'd marry his daughter," Seonghwa said, not a question but a statement.

Hongjoong didn't turn. "I did what was necessary for the family."

"And what about Y/n?" Seonghwa asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Do you think she'll agree?"

A bitter smile crossed Hongjoong's face. "Y/n doesn't have any more choice in this than I do." 

Seonghwa stepped closer, lowering his voice though they were alone. "She doesn't know why we left. What we did to protect her."

"And she never will," Hongjoong said sharply, finally turning to face his consigliere. His eyes were hard, resolved. "That was the agreement. We stay away, she stays safe. And now..."

"Now you're bringing her back into our world," Seonghwa finished for him.

Hongjoong's hand tightened around the tumbler of whiskey he held. "Her father's losing control. The Russo family is closing in. If we don't step in now, she'll be caught in the crossfire regardless."

"Our fathers always intended for the families to unite this way," Seonghwa mused. "It was discussed even when we were children."

"But none of them could have predicted what happened seven years ago," Hongjoong replied grimly.

"And what will you tell her? After seven years of silence?"

Hongjoong downed the rest of his drink in one swift motion. "Nothing. The past stays buried."

"She won't accept that," Seonghwa warned. "You know how she is."

A flash of something—perhaps pain, perhaps fondness—crossed Hongjoong's face. "Yes," he said quietly. "I remember exactly how she is."

* * *

You paced your bedroom like a caged animal, anger burning through your veins. The door was locked—not by your father's order but by your own hand. You needed space to think, to breathe, to process the bomb that had just been dropped on your life.

Hongjoong. After all this time.

You grabbed the nearest object—a porcelain figurine—and hurled it at the wall, taking grim satisfaction in watching it shatter. It didn't help, but at least it was something.

Seven years ago, they had been your everything—Hongjoong and the others. More than friends, they had been your chosen family, your confidants, your safety in a world where your last name made you both royalty and target. The sons of your father's closest allies and business partners, you'd grown up together in the sheltered world of mafia royalty. And then one day, without warning or explanation, they were gone. No calls. No messages. Nothing but cold silence and empty promises.

And now Hongjoong had the audacity to agree to marry you? Like you were nothing more than a business transaction?

You grabbed your phone, scrolling to a number you'd never deleted but never called. Your thumb hovered over it.

A soft knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

"Miss Y/n?" It was Paolo, your father's most trusted bodyguard. "Your father wants you downstairs. The Kim and Park families have arrived to discuss the arrangements."

You froze, your heart stuttering in your chest. "Already? They're here now?"

"Yes, miss. Your father says you have ten minutes to make yourself presentable."

You wanted to scream, to throw something else, to lock yourself in and refuse to come out. But you were a Ricci. And Riccis didn't hide.

"Tell my father I'll be down," you called back, your voice steadier than you felt.

As Paolo's footsteps faded away, you caught your reflection in the mirror. Wild eyes, flushed cheeks, hair tumbling in disarray around your shoulders. You looked dangerous, unhinged.

Perfect.

If Hongjoong thought he could waltz back into your life and claim you like a prize, he was about to learn a painful lesson. You might be forced into this marriage, but you'd be damned if you made it easy for him.

You reached for your closet, pulling out a black dress that hugged every curve, cut just low enough to be a distraction, just high enough to maintain the appearance of respect. You applied your makeup with deliberate precision—red lips, smoky eyes, sharp enough to cut.

Armor, in its own way.

Ten minutes later, you descended the grand staircase of your family home, each step measured and deliberate. You could hear voices from the main drawing room—your father's deep rumble, and then another voice that sent a jolt through your system.

Hongjoong.

You paused outside the door, steadying yourself with one deep breath, and then another. You weren't that heartbroken teenage girl anymore. You were Y/n Ricci, daughter of one of the most feared men in the city. And you were about to face the ghosts of your past.

With one final steadying breath, you pushed open the door and stepped inside, your eyes immediately finding his across the room.

Time seemed to stop as your gaze locked with Hongjoong's for the first time in seven years.

The room fell silent as you stepped inside. 

Five men turned to look at you—your father, his consigliere Antonio, and three figures from your past. Mr. Kim and his son Hongjoong stood near the fireplace, while Seonghwa lingered slightly behind them, ever the faithful shadow.

"Ah, Y/n," your father's voice broke the silence. "Come greet our guests."

You moved forward with practiced grace, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a ticking bomb. Your eyes remained fixed on Hongjoong, cataloging the changes seven years had brought. Gone was the boy with bright eyes and an easy smile. In his place stood a man, sharp-edged and dangerous, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit. His hair, once a wild mop, was now styled with deliberate precision, dark strands falling just above eyes that watched you with maddening impassivity.

"Mr. Kim," you greeted Hongjoong's father first, extending your hand with a polite smile. "It's been too long."

The older man took your hand, his grip firm. 

"Y/n. You've grown into a beautiful young woman." His eyes crinkled with what seemed like genuine warmth. "Your mother would be proud."

You kept your smile in place, though the mention of your mother sent a familiar pang through your chest. "Thank you."

Then you turned to Hongjoong, letting your smile cool several degrees. "Mr. Kim," you said again, the formal address a deliberate reminder of the distance between you now.

Hongjoong stepped forward, taking your offered hand. His touch sent an unwelcome jolt of electricity up your arm—a physical betrayal you refused to acknowledge.

"Miss Ricci," he replied, his voice deeper than you remembered. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Is it?" you asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "I wouldn't have guessed, given the circumstances."

Hongjoong's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—perhaps surprise at your directness. "The circumstances are... complex."

"They always are in our world, aren't they?" You withdrew your hand from his grasp, turning to the third visitor. "Mr. Park. I see you're still following Hongjoong around like a loyal puppy. Some things never change."

Seonghwa's lips twitched slightly—not in anger, but what almost looked like appreciation for your barb. "Miss Ricci. Sharp as ever."

"One of us has to be," you replied coolly.

There was a time when you would have greeted these men differently—when Hongjoong would have been "Joongie" and Seonghwa would have been "Hwa." When you would have thrown your arms around them without hesitation, your laughter filling the room. But that time was long gone, buried under seven years of silence and unanswered questions.

Your father cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should sit and discuss the arrangements."

"An excellent suggestion," Mr. Kim said, gesturing toward the seating area.

You took a seat in a high-backed chair, crossing your legs elegantly as the men arranged themselves on the surrounding sofas. Hongjoong sat directly across from you, his dark eyes never leaving your face.

"As we've discussed," your father began, "the marriage will take place in three months' time. This will give us adequate opportunity to prepare and to announce the union to our associates."

"Three months?" you interjected, your voice carrying a dangerous edge. "How generous of you to give me a whole season to prepare for my own wedding."

Your father shot you a warning look, but Mr. Kim merely chuckled. "Your daughter has your spirit, Don Ricci."

"Sometimes too much of it," your father muttered.

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly. "Three months is standard for arrangements of this nature. It allows for proper preparations while not delaying the benefits of our alliance."

"Benefits," you repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "How romantic. Tell me, Hongjoong, do you always discuss marriage in terms of profit margins and strategic advantages?"

A muscle in Hongjoong's jaw twitched. "In our position, romance is a luxury few can afford."

"And yet here I am, being auctioned off like a prized mare. Quite the luxury indeed."

"Y/n," your father warned.

But Hongjoong raised a hand. "It's alright. Y/n has every right to express her... reservations."

"How magnanimous of you," you said with a saccharine smile. "Granting me permission to have feelings about my own life."

Hongjoong's eyes narrowed slightly, but you caught it—the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of the smile you once knew so well. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but you'd seen it. Somewhere beneath that cold exterior, your words had reached him.

"Perhaps," Seonghwa suggested smoothly, "Miss Ricci would like some time to discuss the arrangement privately with Hongjoong. After all, they will be spending their lives together. Some initial conversation might ease the transition."

Your father nodded. "An excellent idea. Y/n, why don't you show Hongjoong to the garden? Antonio and I have some additional matters to discuss with Mr. Kim and Seonghwa."

It wasn't a request. You stood, smoothing down your dress. "Of course. This way, Mr. Kim."

You led Hongjoong through the double doors and into the hallway, your back straight, your steps measured. Neither of you spoke as you walked through the house and out to the garden—the same garden where you had all played as children, where secrets had been shared and promises made. Promises that had ultimately meant nothing.

Once outside, you turned to face him, crossing your arms. "Well? Shall we discuss flower arrangements and honeymoon destinations? Or would you prefer to skip straight to dividing up territories and body counts?"

Hongjoong didn't rise to the bait. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the evening breeze ruffling his perfectly styled hair. For a moment, in the fading light, he looked almost like the boy you'd known.

"You've changed," he said finally.

"Did you expect me to stay frozen in time?" you asked. "The same naive girl waiting for her friends to return?"

"No," he admitted. "But I didn't expect... this."

"This?"

"This version of you. Cold. Hard." His eyes traveled over you, lingering on your face. "Beautiful in a way that cuts."

You refused to let his words affect you. "We all become what we need to survive. You taught me that lesson quite effectively."

"I suppose I did," he murmured, moving past you to look out at the garden. "Do you remember when we used to sneak out here at night? All of us?"

"I remember a lot of things," you said flatly. "None of them relevant to our current situation."

Hongjoong turned back to you, his expression unreadable. "Is that how you want to play this, Y/n? Pretending the past never happened?"

"Isn't that exactly what you did?" you shot back, unable to keep the edge from your voice. "Seven years, Hongjoong. Seven years without a word. And now you want to reminisce like old friends?"

Something flashed in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret. But it was quickly masked by that infuriating control. "You're right. The past is irrelevant. What matters is our future arrangement."

"Arrangement," you repeated. "Not marriage. Not partnership. Arrangement."

"Would you prefer I lie to you? Dress this up as something it's not?"

"I would prefer not to be traded like a commodity," you snapped. "But since that ship has sailed, I'd at least like to know why you agreed to this. What possible benefit could you gain from marrying someone who clearly despises you?"

Hongjoong stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more complex. "Maybe I enjoy a challenge."

You let out a harsh laugh. "Is that what I am to you? A challenge to be conquered?"

"No," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "You're much more dangerous than that."

Before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with unexpected gentleness. The casual intimacy of the gesture stole the breath from your lungs.

"Our fathers have made their decision," he said quietly. "We can fight it and make ourselves miserable, or we can find a way to make it work."

You stepped back, breaking the spell of his proximity. "And how exactly do you suggest we do that? Start fresh? Pretend you and the others didn't rip my heart out and stomp on it?"

A flash of guilt crossed his features. "I don't expect you to forget. Or forgive. But for both our sakes, we need to find a way forward."

"There is no 'we,' Hongjoong. There's you and your precious family, and there's me, doing what I must to survive—just as I've done since you all abandoned me."

Hongjoong's jaw tightened. "You know nothing about what happened."

"Whose fault is that?" you challenged.

For a moment, it seemed like he might actually tell you something—anything—to explain the past. But then his expression closed off again, the wall between you solidifying.

"Some things are better left buried," he said finally.

You laughed, the sound brittle in the evening air. "How convenient for you."

Hongjoong studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes taking in every detail of your face. "You know, despite everything, that fire in you—it's still there. They couldn't take that away."

"They?"

But he was already turning away. "We should go back inside. They'll be waiting."

As you followed him back toward the house, you couldn't help but wonder who "they" were, and what exactly Hongjoong thought had been taken from you. But one thing was certain—beneath his cold, controlled exterior, the boy you once knew still existed. You'd seen it in that fleeting almost-smile, heard it in the softness that had crept into his voice when he spoke of the past.

And that realization was far more dangerous than his indifference could ever be.

You swallow heavily. “You buying?”

“For someone as pretty as you, absolutely.” His tongue swipes over the point of his teeth. 

You grin and nod, shamelessly leaning into him. “Lead the way, handsome.”

And he did lead the way. Just not to the bar.

He led you to the alley out back, where the line to get into the club stretched to the street. And without a care- or thought for your dignity- in site, he presses you against the cold, chipped bricks. 

His facial hair burns against your face as you suck gently on his tongue, your hands frantically fisting at his hair. He chuckles into the kiss, his large hands pinning you in place by your hips. 

He nips at your bottom lip, rolling it until it stung, then soothed over it with his tongue. He pants softly into your mouth, a hand traveling up to grip your jaw tightly. He angles your head, pressing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. 

“Fuck-” He groans quietly against your lips, his other hand slipping down to grab your ass.

He smells of expensive cologne and lingering smoke. He tastes like fine liquor. 

“Gonna take me somewhere-?” You gasp against him. “Or ‘re you gonna fuck me right here?” 

He laughs, deep in his chest, against your neck, his lips trailing rough kisses down the expanse. “That eager?” He whispers, dragging his teeth along your throat.

“Fuck yes-” You pant, arching up into him.

He snickers quietly as he pulls back, his hand sliding back around your jaw. “I’ll take you somewhere baby,” he swipes his tongue over your sore bottom lip. “I’ll take care of you.”

And that's how you end up in a strange hotel, your hair in this random mans fist, as he fucks you into the mattress. 

You can barely see straight. Your body aches and your thighs are barely holding your weight by now. The man’s strong fingers press bruises into the soft edge of your hip as he drags you back against his cock. 

You choke on a broken wine, your jaw loose as he yanks on your hair.

“Fuck-” he grunts, fucking his cock back into your soaking entrance. “Do that again, sweetheart,” his lip twitches back in a snarl as his muscles clench. 

Your eyes roll back as your trembling hand pushes between your legs to circle your clit. 

“Just like that, baby, doing so good.” He pants, his nails scraping your scalp as he regrips your hair. 

“Oh shit-” You moan, rocking back into him.

He smirks to himself, his large hand swinging back to deliver a quick slap to your ass. You whine, your mouth falling open further. He smacks your ass again, pressing his palm to the red mark that follows.

“That feel good, sweetheart? Huh?” He thrust his hips at a steady pace, deep and hard, punching the air from your lungs. “I asked you a question, baby.” He smacks your ass again.

You nod quickly, your scalp burning as he fists your hair. “S-so fuckin’ good…”

“Yeah? Feels so good gettin’ stuffed full of cock?” He chuckles to himself, his own words making him smile. “Bet it does. Bet you’ve never been fucked like this, huh?”

You shake your head, pushing back against him needily. He pulls you back on his dick, grinding into you slowly. He tugs gently on your hair, and then you feel his breath ghosting across your throat. He presses a soft kiss to the hinge of your jaw. 

“Ever been fucked by someone older?” He whispers, his lips dragging over your shoulder.

Your vision nearly blanks out when he grinds his hips into you again. You gasp when a sharp sting against your ass shocks you back to reality. “No-...” You groan.

“Mm,” he hums, sinking his teeth into the curve of your shoulder. You nearly sob, your fingers circling your clit a little slower. You don’t want this to be over yet. “‘S it feel good?” He whispers, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. “Do boys your age make you feel this good?” His stubble burns where he drags his chin against your cheek.

You shake your head. He softens his hold on your hair to massage your scalp. 

“Does it make you wanna cry?” He whispers, kissing the corner of your lips. He rolls his hips into you a little slower. You choke on a garbled noise.

Your stomach twists almost painfully, something hot and aching spreading through you. 

You nod, blinking through tears to try to ground yourself. 

You can feel him smile against your cheek. He nips your jaw. “I bet.” He snickers, snapping his hips against yours as he pulls back. He curls his fist back around your thick locks of hair. “I won’t stop you, baby,” he groans, his chin dipping to his chest as he stares at himself sinking into you.

“You can cry, sweetheart. Go ahead and cry.”

You can’t remember falling asleep.

The last thing you could recall from the night before was the man spreading you out on your back, softly kissing your cheeks. His tongue dragging over your skin as he licked away your tears. 

You remember his kisses trailing down your stomach, his hand wrapped around your throat. 

You remember him smiling against your inner thigh, before he gently kissed your soaking cunt.

After that, everything was a blur. 

So now, as you stretch slowly beneath the silky sheets, you feel sore and raw. Every part of you feels so deliciously tender. 

Calloused fingers twitch over your stomach. You shiver, glancing down at the thick arms wrapped snug around your waist. You look over your shoulder to find the man sleeping soundly, his face nuzzled into your hair.

You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from grinning like a fool. But you can’t help it. Your whole body still feels loose and raw from the way he picked you apart the night before. 

So you relax into the sheets and trace your nails over his knuckles, forcing yourself to stay quiet. To savor the moment a little longer. 

His body feels warm against yours, heavy and relaxed. You feel his soft lips brush your nape. Your stomach flutters as you tug the thin sheet a little higher over your chest.

Your little savory moment is cut short when he releases a heavy breath against the back of your neck, his arms winding tighter. 

You make a soft noise as his arms press into your stomach.

His chest rumbles in a sleepy chuckle, his lips dragging over your skin. “Morning,” he whispers, his voice all gravel and velvet.

You swallow hard, your mouth now deeply dry. Your confidence now heavily lacking, now that you’re sober.

“Morning,” you mutter.

His hand slides from your stomach to your hip, massaging gently into the muscle. “Feel okay?”

You suppress a shudder, and nod, your eyes glued to the wall across from the bed. “Mhm.”

Something nervous curls in your stomach.

The man makes a rough noise before he starts to turn onto his back- pulling you with him. You shift with him, pressed into his side- almost on top of him. Before you can do much else, the hand not glued to your waist rakes the hair from your face. 

You blink up at him now, blue eyes flickering over your features. 

“Hi,” he whispers, his teeth nipping his lip. 

“Hi,” you groan, dropping your face to his chest. The hand in your hair slips to cradle your nape as he laughs. You can feel the vibrations through his ribs. 

“Where’s all that gusto?” He hums, his nails gently scratching your hip. 

“You fucked it out of me,” you huff.

He makes a surprised noise at that, his palm loosening around your neck. Once he gathers himself, his nails start gently scratching at your scalp. “There it is.”

You sigh against him, and faintly you realize he still smells like cologne and smoke. You swallow, your lips pressed to his chest. “I’m Y/n, by the way,” you slowly lift your head, an embarrassed smile curling at your mouth.

“Bucky,” he mutters, still stroking your scalp. “Nice to meet you, doll.”

“What a meeting,” You snicker, pushing up over him a little further. You drag the sheets with you as you slowly straddle the man. He watches you, his hands falling to your thighs, where they peak beneath the white sheet.

He hums to himself, biting back a smirk as he looks at you fully. He looks sweet, bathed in warmth and sleep. You rest your hands against his chest, your touch trailing as you reach to cup his jaw. On a whim, you lean down and press a soft kiss to his lips. He hums again, his tongue brushing yours. 

“You have pretty eyes,” You whisper against his mouth, feeling his facial hair scrape your face. “So blue.”

He smiles into the next kiss, struggling to keep his teeth out of the mix. “Mhm?” He murmurs, his hands stroking up and down your waist. “Didn’t see much of me last night?”

You shake your head. “It’s hard to see when you’re sobbing.” You snicker. 

He groans softly, his head falling back against the pillows in exasperation. “You can’t say that when you’re on top of me, doll.”

You rake your fingers through his hair, pushing it back. “Oops,” you smirk, your stomach fluttering at how pretty his eyes look with his crows feet. 

His hair is soft beneath your fingers, thick and tangled. Your gaze sweeps over his face, his neck, his chest. Faint freckles mark his warm skin. You wonder faintly if he has any tattoos. 

“Whatcha starin' at?” He chews at his lip, a hand dropping to gently palm your ass over the sheets.

“You’re really fuckin’ attractive.”

He chokes on a laugh, a grin spreading across his face. “Jesus, girl.” He shakes his head at you. He slowly sits up against the headboard, dragging you closer in his lap. “You’re blunt when you’re sober,” he smirks, leaning down to kiss your shoulders.

“Can’t help it,” you mutter, arching your neck to give him space. 

“‘S that right?” He nips gently at your throat. 

“Mhm,” you sigh.

“I’ve got a few new observations too. Wanna hear?” He lifts a brow at you, struggling to suppress his smile. You nod, your hands slide to rest on his shoulders. 

He leans in, his lips pressed to the shell of your ear. “You look good with makeup running down your face.”

You flinch back with an embarrassed gasp, your hands smacking over your face. “You’re kidding-” you groan. “Is it everywhere?”

He snickers heartily, his fingers slowly wrapping around your wrists. You try to keep yourself covered but he easily tugs your hands away. “I’m just teasing, baby,” he chuckles. “You’re fine.”

“Are you?” You lift a suspicious brow at him. 

He shrugs slightly. “Only a little.”

You groan and drop your head onto his shoulder. “Oh god-” you huff. In reality, you shouldn’t feel so bad. You know he seems to like it. But the image of yourself you’ve cooked up in your head looks like a mess. 

And Bucky is by far the hottest man you’ve ever slept with. So being a mess is less than desirable. 

He rubs your back gently, his cheek knocking into the crown of your head. “You’re fine, you’re fine. It’s only a little eyeliner.”

You shake your head in embarrassment, your lips pressed firmly to the thick muscle of his shoulder. 

“You’re not gonna look at me now?”

You shake your head. 

“Mkay,” he hums. You gasp when his fingers slid into your hair, curling around the strands and yanking. He easily pulls you back to look at him, a gentle sting sizzling against your scalp. He tilts his chin up and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your eye. “So pretty.”

Your stomach twists, butterflies knotting inside you. Jesus. You’ve never had a one night stand like this before.

You stare at him, your face aflame. 

“Not gonna hide?”

“No…” you whisper. He easily retracts his hand from your hair.

“Good girl.” He snickers when your eyes bulge. 

“Jesus-” you shake your head at him, wiping your eyes with your finger tips. Before another word can leave your mouth, your phone rings somewhere in the room. Your spine immediately straightens. “That’s mine-” You blurt looking over your shoulder past the bed. 

You awkwardly climb out of Buck’s lap, dragging the sheets with you in search of your phone. You find it by the door, with your heels and purse. 

You have three missed calls from Wanda. 

“Shit…” You mutter, calling her back. It rings once before she’s answering. 

“Y/n? Finally!” Wanda groans.

“Hey, what’s up? Are you okay?”

“Ah- we’re locked out of the house, can you come by and let us in?” She awkwardly mutters.

“What? Both of you? Where did you sleep last night?” You frown.

“We got a cab to Pietro’s, slept there. But we still can’t find our keys.”

“How did both of you lose your keys?” You groaned.

“Nat put hers in my purse, and then I put mine in my purse, but I think I left my purse in the cab.” You could hear her cringing through the phone. “Nat’s gotta get ready for work, so can you please come home and let us in?” 

You stiffen, glancing back at Bucky, who is shameless staring at you from the bed. “I uh- yeah, I’ll be right there. Gimme like-” you glanced at the time. “20-30, okay?”

“Thank you so much- we owe you.”

“Big time,” you hiss, then hang up. You turn back to face Bucky, your fists white knuckled against the sheets. “I have to go.”

“I caught that,” he smiles, lazily rolling out of bed. Your face heats as you watch him find and tug on his boxers. You watch him shamelessly, your gaze traveling down the expanse of muscle beneath his skin. 

He steps into your space, and only now did it really sink in how tall he is. Large hands cup your jaw, pulling you up to kiss him. You sigh against his tongue as he takes the lead, easily molding you beneath his hands. 

You lean your weight into him, your body sagging against his. 

He pulls back with a wet sound, his tongue darting out to lick over your lips. 

“Can I see you again?” You blurt, your eyes fluttering open as he sighs against your skin. 

He smirks, his nose nudging yours. “You wanna see me again?” He teases, stretching it out.

You nod slowly. 

He chuckles, then reaches to snag your phone. “‘F course, sweetheart.” He muttered, already punching his number into your contacts.

You try not to look as light-headed as you feel. You try not to seem as excited as you are. “Thanks,” you mutter when he hands you your phone back. You see he sent himself a text from your number. 

Pretty girl from the bar.

Weirdly enough, the fact that he put a period at the end of the text is what turned you on.

You watch as Bucky quietly searches for his pants. You stand there, wrapped in the sheet, wearing nothing but your fragile dignity. He doesn’t pull his pants on when he finds them, and instead fishes out his wallet. 

Your brows pinch together in confusion. But then he pulls out two twenties and holds them out for you. “Call a cab so it’ll be here when you’re ready.” When you don't move, he smiles softly at you. He pulls your purse from the floor and sticks the money inside. 

“I’m gonna get cleaned up in the bathroom, so you can get changed out here, okay?” He lifts a brow at you as he sets your purse back down.

You nod. “Okay.” You mutter, stunned by his caring actions. 

He shakes his head at you with a chuckle as he gathers his clothes and enters the bathroom. The door closes with a soft click. You release a shocked breath. 

You would have stood there longer, if you didn’t remember that Natasha and Wanda were shivering and waiting for you. You roll your eyes and start gathering your clothes. 

When you’re finally dressed and pulling on your heels, Bucky emerges from the bathroom. He’s holding a damp cloth, folding it up as he approaches you. 

When you look up at him, he gently pinches your chin and starts wiping smeared mascara from your temples. 

You swear you could have blacked out from arousal right then and there.

“Did you call a cab?” He asks, steadily stroking the warm cloth over your eyes. You nod. He smiles and wipes the remaining smudged makeup from your skin. “Good.” He tosses the rag onto the bed. 

When you finally stand, he dips down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You lean into it, your stomach twisting with images of the night before. 

“Get home safe, sweetheart.” He brushes a soft kiss over your lips, then he’s gone.

You: I’m still sore

Bucky: I bet. Did you get home safe?

You: Yup, safe and sound. 

You: When can I see you again?

Bucky: I’ll be busy next week, but after that, when are you free?

You: Any day after that, I’ll make time :)

You: I’ll tell you my work schedule when I get it

Bucky: Can’t wait. I was thinking of your pretty smile the whole way home.

You: That all?

Bucky: And a few other things. 

You: Liiiiike

Bucky: Typing this shit out is a lot harder for someone my age, doll.

You: You act like you’re 60

Right as you send that message, another from him comes through.

Bucky: I was thinking about what you would look like with your mouth full.

Bucky: I’m 40, I’m getting up there.

You: I like where your head's at

You: I can’t wait for next week to be over

Though until this morning, you wouldn’t have meant that. You’re actually really looking forward to the upcoming week. 

To kick off the summer, your dad invited you and your friends to join him and your step-mother for a week on his new boat. It had been a long running tradition in your family to spend a week with your dad as the weather turned scorching. 

He always looked forward to spending time with you, and now he had a shiny new investment to show off to you and his friends.

Free vacation on a boat? Who turns that down?

Natasha was giddily joining you, though Wanda wasn’t gonna be able to make it. She already had a trip planned with her brother to go visit their parents back home. So you and Nat promised to take as many pictures as you could. 

“Are you still texting him?” Nat glanced at you, momentarily taking her eyes off the road.

“Maybe,” you grin, tapping your thumbs against the screen.

“I should have left you behind.” She rolls her eyes. “You better not spend all week drooling over your phone.”

“I won’t, I won’t. I’m just having fun.” You snicker. “He’s so cute with how he texts.”

Nat rolls her eyes. “Don’t start.”

The air feels brisk on your skin, with each brush of the breeze. You can almost taste the salt. Laughter drifts from ahead.

Further down the dock, you see your dad handing his wife a crate of beer. She tucks it under her arm and steps onto the looming, luxurious Yacht. “Dad!” 

He grins when he sees you, waving dramatically. “Hey, hon,” He scoops you into a bear hug. “And Natty,” He yanks Nat into his arms. She chuckles, smiling to herself .

“Hey Mr. L/n,” she pats his back and releases him.

“How was the drive?” He lifts another pack of beer, handing it to his wife. The older woman waves hello and smacks a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Good, Nat drove the whole way,” you bump her shoulder. “I’m just itching to go swimming- when’s take off?” Your father lifts your bags onto the boat, leading the way to the cabins.

“We were just waiting on you two, I’ll let the crew know we’re good to go while ya’ll get settled.” You follow him through the bottom lower deck, into the first of the several lounge areas.

You whistle low, dragging your fingertips along expensive sofas. Nat hides her shock with slightly raised brows. Just past the kitchen is a spiral staircase that leads below deck. 

Your room was larger than you thought it’d be. “Geez…” You huff.

“I would have given ya’ll one of the nicer rooms, but since you’re sharing, I thought you’d be fine with the two twins. ‘S that cool, hon?” Your dad slides your suitcases into the shiny, luxurious room.

“There’s bigger rooms?” Nat gapes. 

“I’ll give you the grand tour after dinner, how’s that?” He grins. “But first, you two get changed, I want you to meet everyone. We’re having drinks on deck one. Bars on deck three.  ‘You girls need anything else?”

“Nah, we’re fine- we’ll meet you up top!” You pull your suitcase on your bed, yanking the zipper open. 

You dad says his goodbyes and slips out of the room. Natasha immediately turns to you with a dropped jaw and widely gesturing hands.

“I mean- come on!” She flops back on her bed. 

“Right?” You laugh, pulling out your bikini and shawl. “The perks of the corporate ladder.” You sigh wistfully.

“Maybe we need to quit our jobs and go for the office life.” Natasha stretches with a groan. 

“You wouldn’t last a day,” you toss your sunscreen at her. 

“Hey,” she catches the bottle and shoots up. “I’ve got a good two weeks in me.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, get dressed. I wanna indulge in the free bar.”

The yacht pulled off from the dock shortly after you boarded. You could feel the initial sway of the water as the mass steadily bobbed. After getting dressed, you and Nat made quick work of exploring the kitchen and luxury lounges. 

On the second deck, you found a built in, fully stocked bar. A young man worked the bar, who you eagerly interrogated about the boat. 

Apparently, there was a crew of 11 people, all who slept in the very bottom ship. There were three chefs, one bartender, and the rest worked on steering and maintaining the boat.

Two of the maintenance crew worked the diving deck, which was stocked with scuba gear and emergency watercrafts.

Natasha moves behind the bar to pick through the liquor while you continue interrogating the young man. You assume your father had just hired him, because he seemed eager and a little nervous.

“Y/n, hon, c’mere!” Your father shouts from the deck below. 

You pull back from the built in bar, plucking a cherry from a small bowl. “I’ll be right back,” you chuckle, leaving Nat to continue mixing your drinks. 

You jog down to the lower deck where your father and his friends are talking over beer. You adjust your sunglasses as you step around the built in couch. 

“I want you to meet everyone- where’s Natty?” Your dad frowns, squinting up at the bar. 

“She’s getting our drinks, she’ll be-...” The words die on your tongue as one of the men by the railing turns back to look at your dad. Then you. 

Cool blue eyes find yours. 

You can see the moment recognition fries his brain. Furrowed brows shoot to his hairline, dark eyelashes flutter as he gapes at you.

“Oh, hon, c’mere,” Your dad shoves you forward. “This is James, he lives a few houses down from me. He’s my running buddy.” He grins ignorantly.

Your tongue feels weighted and dry as you stare up at the man. “Hi.”

“James, this is my daughter, Y/n. She’s here with her friend Natasha,” he points over your shoulder to the red head.

Bucky’s shocked expression shifts back into something resembling calm. “Nice to meet you,” his lips twitch in a soft smile. You glance down at the large hand outstretched towards you.

You visibly shake your head, snapping yourself out of your daze. 

“Yeah, you too-” You loosely shake his hand. You try not to shiver when his callouses brush over your smooth skin. 

Bucky’s lips curve into an amused smile.

“Uh- James, you said?” You blurt, yanking your hand back.

“James, but I go by Bucky.” Bucky straightens, his curious gaze sweeping over you. You stiffen, turning to your dad to avoid the obvious flush that begs to creep up your neck. 

“I prefer James,” your dad shrugs, nudging the man. 

“So…” you swallow, “you’re the James my dad’s been training with?” You knew your father had a friend he worked out with. You knew he had help training for the marathon he ran last spring. But him?

Bucky nods slowly, his blue eyes piercing. “Mhm.”

Your words fizzle out as you stare up at the man. The air feels thin and sharp around you. You feel the weight of your phone in your hand, memories of the texts you shared with him just that morning haunting you.

“And this is Bruce, we work together-” You dads voice cut through the moment as he pulls forward his other friend.

You swallow and take a step back, turning to the other older men introducing themselves to you. You nod along in a daze, not absorbing a single name or relationship. 

“I’m- I’ll be right back, I’m gonna grab Nat so you don't have to repeat all this later.” You awkwardly interrupt your dad. 

Bucky’s gaze burns into the side of your face.

Your dad makes a face and nods, cracking open a beer. “Mkay, be quick!”

You’re already walking away, trying not to shiver under the weight of Bucky watching you. You can feel it. You hear the low rumble of his voice as he says something to your father. 

Your ears start ringing. You nearly slam into Natasha on the way back up the stairs. “Come with me-” You blurt, dragging her with you.

“Hey- don’t make me spill, I just made these.” She hisses.

“I don’t care-” You pull her into the cabin on the second story. You slam the sliding door shut, heaving a rough sigh. “He’s here- and he’s friends with my dad.” You shiver, suspiciously glancing out the window at the deck. 

You look for only a second, but it’s like he can feel you. Blue eyes snap up to the window as he takes a slow swig of beer. You choke down an undignified yelp. 

“Who? What is happening right now?” Nat smack your arm. 

“The older guy from the other night- he’s here.”

Nat stares at you for a long moment, a disbelieving smile spreading across her red lips. “The guy that screwed your brains out?”

You shiver and roll your eyes. “Yes, Nat he’s here- oh my god and he knows my dad-” You huff. 

“He’s actually friends with your dad?” Nat snickers, taking a sip from her cocktail. “That’s rich.”

“I was literally texting him on the drive here-” You take your drink from her. You gather you’ll be needing a lot of those to get through this trip. 

Nat peaks her head through the glass door. She glances back at you with a cheeky look. “Might wanna finish that, looks like he’s coming up.”

Your heart, once again, drops to your ass. You down the rest of your drink, then the rest of Nat's. “Get out, go, go-” You shoo her. She snickers to herself as she slips out. You hear her voice as she says a sly “Excuse me,” on the way down the stairs. 

Oh god.

You barely have a second to collect yourself before he’s standing in front of you. 

The door slides shut with a click. 

Your gaze slides from the floor to his face, shamelessly taking him in. He’s dressed in black swim trunks and a compression t-shirt, accentuating the dips of his muscles.

“Hi,” you gulp.

“Hi,” he tries to suppress the cheeky grin that fights its way onto his face. His sharp gaze trails over your bathing suit, to the cover up that covered nothing, to the tight grip you had on your glass.

“So this is what was keeping you busy for the next week.” You supply helpfully. 

“Mhm,” he takes a careful step closer. You don’t pull back. He slowly pulls the sunglasses from your face and sticks them in your hair. “Your dad, huh? Didn’t see that coming.” He mutters, his fingers brushing a line down your cheek.

You glance out the tinted windows, down where Natasha was socializing with your dad. Nerves and paranoia curl into something painful as it flutters in your stomach.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your breath hitching in your chest when his thumb drags over your lips.

“You’re full of surprises,” he hums, tilting his head down at you. He curls his hand around your jaw, lifting your head fully to look at him. You swallow heavily. “So,” he sighs, his breath ghosting your cheek, “What do you want to do?”

You try to hide the fact that you’re teetering on the edge of breathlessness. You try to seem unaffected. You blink stupidly. “What?”

His fingers twitch against your jaw, pressing softly into your cheeks. His smirk curls deeper. “What do you want to do?” He repeats. 

“Do you want to pretend nothing happened?” His free hand tugs the empty glass from your fingers. He slips it on the table behind you. “We can ignore the other night and play nice for your dad. Or,” His grip tightens slightly against your jaw, his smile deepening. His pretty crows feet curve against his skin. “Or we make good on our plans.”

“Our plans,” you pant, leaning into him subconsciously. “For seeing each other again?”

“Mhm,” he hums, his free hand skating down your naked waist. “I could show you a few of the things I’ve been thinkin’ about.” He drags his rough palm over your hip. He doesn’t even seem to hesitate over his next words. “You ever been fucked on a boat, sweetheart?”

You shiver, your eyes falling shut. You shake your head.

“Words,” he whispers, his nails pressing into your hip. 

“No,” you gasp, swallowing around your tongue. His firm grip on your jaw keeps you from hiding from him. “I haven't.”

“Mm,” he nods in thought. “Wanna try it?”

You nod without thought, blinking back up at him. Your body feels hot. You can feel your pulse in your toes. “Yeah.” You pant.

He smirks, tugging you closer by the jaw. He presses a bruising kiss to your lips, his stubble scraping your face raw. His tongue drags slowly over yours, slow and claiming.

He hums appreciatively, guiding you gently with each slick slide of the kiss. Your wandering hands find his chest, your fingers curling into his tight black shirt.

He snickers into your mouth as you press closer, mocking your desperation. 

A chorus of laughter drifts from outside, shocking you back into the moment. You yank back, he lets you go without a fight. You stumble into the table behind you with a wince. Bucky tilts his head at you, brown hair highlighted with grays falling into his eyes. 

“Careful,” he glances at your hip. But your gaze is stuck on the way his tongue swipes over his slick lips. He leans back against the wall, his arms folded over his chest.

You suck in a shaky breath, steadying yourself. Why can’t you catch your breath? “My dad can’t find out.” You blurt.

He chuckles. “Goes without saying, sweetheart.”

You nod to yourself, wiping a hand down your face. You wince internally, hoping your lips don’t look too puffy. “Okay- okay, um…”

Bucky sees your panic and sighs. He pushes off the wall, stepping back into your space. You curse yourself, still barely holding it together. He pushes thick locks of hair behind your ears, cupping your face. “If you don’t want him to find out, you have to relax,” he mutters.

You nod, your cheeks puffing from his hold. 

He bites back a smile. He pecks your lips, gentler than you were expecting. “C’mon, go get a drink and socialize. I’ll find you later,” he whispers, pulling back with a light smile. “Just relax.”

“Okay,” you nod obediently, taking a deep breath. 

He chuckles and releases you. “You’re cute,” he shakes his head, then slips out the glass doors. You’re left alone, struggling to breathe.

When you rejoin the party, Nat’s telling a story, and has every last one of the men wrapped around her finger. You slide up beside her, dropping onto the heated leather of the couch. 

The sun hangs high in the cloudless sky, beating down on your skin. You’re sweating. But you can’t tell if it's from the literal heat, or from the way you keep glancing back at Bucky- only to find him already looking at you.

He sips slowly on his beer, his palms growing slick against the perspiration. You spot the pink of his tongue as it swipes over the rim.

You snap your gaze back to the center, to where your father is boasting about fishing stories. 

“I’ve been trying to get my girl to come with me, but she just hates her old man,” he huffs, gesturing to you.

“Dad, fishing isn’t exactly up my alley.” You shake your head at him. 

“You go hiking with your mother all the time,” he pouts. 

“Because hiking doesn’t include fish guts, and sitting in silence. Take one of them fishing!” You snicker, tossing your hand at his group of friends. 

“James said he’d fish with me once we park her,” your dad pats the metal backing of the couch.

Your gaze flickers to the mentioned man, who peaked up once hearing his name. “You fish, James?” You watched him over the rim of your glass, sipping on your cocktail.

His lip twitches in amusement. “Mm, not much.” He mutters, shrugging his shoulders lightly. “But I’ll give it a try, since you’re slackin’ on your old man.”

You shake your head, taking a cherry stem between your teeth. “Please tell me you won’t be gutting fish out here,” you turn to your dad.

“We can’t eat it if we don’t prepare it, hon,” Your dad chuckled, setting a hand on his belly.

“The stink of fish guts is exactly what this vacation needs,” your step-mother, Claire, grimaces as she walks up with a bowl of chopped fruit. “I’m with Y/n. If you’re fishing out here, you’re throwing it back.” 

You grin, taking the bowl from the woman. “Thank you very much, Claire.”

“Will you give it a try then?” Bucky’s voice makes you freeze, a thick chunk of watermelon stuffed into your cheek. “Without the stink and death, might as well.”

You chew slowly, your stomach turning as you lock eyes with the man. “I think you can handle it on your own.” You pass the bowl of fruit to Nat. “I’ll sit in the hot tub and watch.”

“Watchin’s no fun.” He sips on his beer. Under the bright rays of sunlight, you can see the speckled gray of his hair a little clearer. 

“I’ll make do.” You shrug, crossing your legs. You don’t miss the way his gaze flickers to the movement. Your stomach twists with something hot.

“I’ll go fishing with you guys,” Bruce, one of your dads other friends, awkwardly chimes in. You could almost laugh at the innocent shift. 

“I’ll go with Y/n and sit back. I’m not one for fishing.” Everett, another friend, makes a sarcastic face before swigging from his beer. 

Natasha sets the bowl of fruit on the couch and tugs you up by the arm. “I’m done with fish talk, come sit with me while I tan.” 

You throw one last look over your shoulder as she drags you off. Blue eyes follow you with each step. You snap your gaze forward, your stomach twisting. “Jesus,” you whisper.

“You two are real subtle, babe.” Nat chuckles, dragging you down onto two soft beach chairs. You scoot your chair closer and cross your arms over your eyes. 

“He’s so hot,” you groan.

“Say it louder, for the crew to hear.” She snickers, laying back with a sigh. 

You bite back a smile, stretching your limbs out to soak in the sun. If you put aside the twisting flurry of arousal and attraction burning in your gut, you felt relaxed.

Beyond relaxed. Out here, the air is crisp and fresh, smelling of salt and sunscreen. On the lower decks, if you leaned close enough over the railing, you could feel the cold water misting your face. 

You’ve been excited for this trip for weeks now, feeling like summer has finally arrived. 

All you wanted to do was swim in the ocean and lounge around with free snacks.

Now, you wanted the same things. Just add screwing the shit out of Bucky to that list, and it’d be perfect.

After you finally get your fill of the sun, you and Nat move down to soak in the hot tub. You have to turn down the temperature so you don't get heat stroke, but god those bubbles feel nice. You sink back into the water and stare up at the clear sky as Nat rambles quietly.

Natasha doesn’t often allow herself to wind down. You were honestly still shocked you got her to join you. 

The jets hum softly beneath you, easing your muscles as the salt-tinged breeze brushes your skin. The day’s heat lingers, but the warm water cocoons you in comfort, making the transition into evening feel effortless.

It’s quiet, but not silent. You hear the soft lapping of waves against the hull, the occasional distant call of seabirds, and maybe the gentle clink of ice in a nearby cocktail glass.

The sun slowly drifts towards the horizon, casting melted colors across the water. Light reflects off the waves, rocking and swaying with each brush of the wind. 

The drive over took you girls longer than you thought it would, so by the time you set out, it was the late afternoon. With only a few hours on the water, dinner time was already around the corner.

“Girls, start drying off, we’re heading in for dinner,” your father shouts up at you from the lower deck. 

Nat rises from the water, playfully splashing you on her way out. “You coming?”

“Mhm, in a minute, I’ll meet you inside.” You hum, your eyes sliding closed. 

“Mkay,” Nat wraps the towel around herself and leaves you to yourself. You can hear your fathers loud, boisterous laughter from inside. You assume he’s getting giddy over dinner. 

You sink deeper into the water, the warmth beckoning you in as the air grows chillier. 

“You planning on skipping dinner?” You jump, water splashing over the edge as you look back. Bucky smiles at you from the steps, that cheeky look on his lips. 

“No, just didn’t wanna get out yet.”

“Mm,” he hums, tilting his chin up to glance at the temperature gauge. 

“Are you not heading in?” You swallow, feeling bare beneath his gaze.

He shrugs. “They’re gonna bring the food outside, to the lounge.” He nods his head to the lower deck. He snags your towel from the nearby chairs and holds it out for you. “C'mon.”

You lift a brow at him. “Bossing me around now?” You huff, but obediently climb out of the water. 

Bucky watches the droplets slide down the valley between your breasts. “‘Mhm,” he hums, a soft sigh leaving his chest when the towel wraps fully around you. “You’re good at listenin’.”

You swallow, your throat feeling dry. “Am I?”

“We’ll find out.” He smirks, gently pushing wet hair from your face. You shiver beneath his touch. 

You glance around you, paranoia mixing with arousal. “Someone could see…” You whisper. 

His smile twists deeper. His palm curls around your nape. Your knees feel like jelly. “I know,” he mutters, slowly guiding you indoors. You pant softly, feeling breathless as he maneuvers you with a possessive grip. 

You follow him into the small sitting area, nothing up there but the bathrooms and a few sofas. A spiral staircase stood between the two restroom doors. 

“Where are we going?” You waver, your breath hitching when his thumb strokes your neck. 

“Right here,” he pushes you out of view of the windows, pressing you to the wall. Your head knocks back against the firm wall, your gaze a little spacey. Bucky’s warm fingers slip beneath your towel, tugging until it falls to the floor. You gasp, your stomach clenching.

He smiles to himself, pleased with how reactive you are. His knuckles trail between your breasts, then brush over your stomach. “What room’s yours?” 

“Huh?” You blink, staring up at him. 

He chuckles, meeting your gaze. “What room’s yours?” He tilts his head, his knuckles brushing the hem of your bathing suit bottoms.

“It’s- It’s the fourth one down, to the left,” you pant. “I’m sharing with Nat.”

He nods slowly, his fingers sliding beneath the ties of your bottoms. You hold your breath. “Mkay,” he mutters, pulling back and releasing the band with a snap. You flinch, your stomach flipping. He snickers at you.

A heat rises up your neck, embarrassed and too flustered to care.

“My room is the first one to the right, when you go down the main steps.” He whispers, the hand on your neck gently massaging your muscles. Your lashes flutter. He leans down, trailing his lips over your throat. 

“Careful,” you swallow, “not to rub off my foundation…”

“Hm?” He mutters, pressing a soft kiss to the hinge of your jaw.

“I’m- I’m wearing makeup on my neck.” He pulls back enough to look at you, his brow quirked. “You left a few marks the other night. I had to cover them up.”

The sly grin that spreads across his face is less than subtle. His thumb presses firmly to your neck, where he still holds your nape. “Might wanna go easy on swimming.”

“Waterproof,” you smirk.

“Gotta love science,” he dips back down to press a lingering kiss to your jaw. “Where?”

Your shaky hand slides between you. You tap the curve of your shoulder. “Here,” you tilt your head back. “Here,” you brush the apple of your throat. “Here,” you trail your fingertips to several places along your collarbones.

His warm breath tickles your throat as he chuckles, finding great amusement in marking you up. “Don’t want daddy to see,” he pulls back, releasing his grip on your nape. 

You roll your eyes, arching into his touch as his fingers press into your side. “Shut up.”

“Do you remember what I said?”

You frown. “What?”

“Where's my room?”

“Oh-” you smack your lips, smiling awkwardly. “Nope.”

“First one to the right when you go down the main steps.” He repeats. “Repeat it back.”

You shiver under his authoritative tone. “First one to the right.” 

“What staircase?” He lifts a brow. 

“Main one, the main stairs.” You swallow. 

He gives you a pleased smile. “Good girl,” he whispers, leaning down to brush his lips over yours. 

You lean into it, but he’s gone too soon. He steps back, leaving you cold and panting. You frown at him as he picks up your towel. “Dinners starting. Don’t wanna keep them waiting.” 

You wrap the towel around yourself and nod, wiping a hand down your flushed face. Before you can get another word out, Bucky’s already leaving the room. 

You stare at him go, trying desperately to catch your breath.

You find yourself at Bucky’s door late into the night. 

Dinner was lengthy, shared over drinks and laughter, and plans for the next day. After the meal was finished, everyone took their desserts- scoops of ice cream- to the deck to stare at the stars. 

Out on the ocean the stars burned brighter. For the first time in your life, you could really count the constellations. 

Your father and his friends poured over generous amounts of beer, listening to music and shouting with laughter.

You and Nat stayed to yourselves, watching and snickering at your dad as he got more and more drunk. 

When the night finally came to an end, you felt more awake than ever. You spent the entire night dodging looks from Bucky- hoping to keep your composure. 

And now, freshly showered and changed, you stood outside his door. Praying he wasn’t asleep.

You knocked gently on the door, your knuckles thudding softly. 

With little to no shame, you leaned in and listened for any signs of life. You waited, barely breathing, but heard nothing. You started to doubt yourself, when you finally caught the sound of the bathroom door clicking.

The door swung open in front of you, revealing Bucky, messily toweling his hair dry. Your gaze travels down his body, to the dark blue boxers being all that clothed him.

A large hand slips around your wrist, tugging you inside. “Standin’ in the hall isn’t exactly secretive,” He chuckles, closing the door behind you.

“Right,” You whisper, peeking around him into his room. You blow out an impressed whistle. “Damn, my dad was serious about the rooms. We got the short end of the stick.” 

You step further into the room, to the full sized bed and spacious bathroom.

Plush cream carpet, smooth cherry wood accented walls, polished marble crowning, warm glowing lights. Three towering windows peaked out to the dark blue ocean. By the doors to the hall and bathroom sat a cushioned sofa, where Bucky’s suitcase lived.

Rough hands settle on your hips, a thumb slipping beneath your shirt. Your stomach tenses as stubble drags over the tender flesh behind your ear. 

“Maybe don’t mention your dad while you’re in here,” he chuckles throatily, the sound vibrating gently into your skull.

You nod shakily, leaning back into his firm chest. “Right,” you whisper. 

His warmth sinks through the thin fabric of your top.

“Did you have fun tonight, baby?” He drags a soft kiss along the side of your neck.

“Mhm, lots.” You sigh, tilting your head back for him. 

“Excited for tomorrow?” He presses his lips beneath the curve of your jaw, inhaling deeply. You shiver, your lashes fluttering closed. “Gonna go swimmin’?”

You nod, rolling your head back against his shoulder. He nuzzles his nose into your hair, smelling your conditioner. “Yeah,” you swallow. “Gonna go diving. What about you? ‘Re you gonna fish with you-know-who?”

He slaps your ass playfully, chuckling into your hair. “Watch it.” You press back into him with a sigh, a smile curling at your lips.

“Oops.” 

His fingers slip beneath your shirt, his palm pressing into you as he brushes your stomach. “Bring up you-know-who again and Imma fuckin’ gag you,” he huffs, dragging his finger tips along the hem of your bra. 

You groan, pushing your hips back against him. “Don’t tempt me.”

He shakes his head at you, pulling his hands from your shirt. He pushes you forward by the hips until you’re in the center of the room. You look back at him with a frown, swaying on your feet unsteadily. 

Bucky sits down on the edge of the bed, his knees spread naturally. “Look at me,” he tilts his head at you.

You turn to face him, but before you can move any further, he shakes his head. 

“I wanna see how good you listen,” he smirks, looking up at you through dark lashes.

You breath hitches in your chest, like your lungs are slowly being pressed down on by something stronger. Something big. “Okay,” you whisper.

He gives you a pleased look. He slides his hand down his thigh. Your gaze drops to his underwear. To the tent, steadily forming.

“Eyes on me sweetheart,” He chuckles, making you jump. Your eyes snap back to his. “Get undressed.”

You shiver, nodding shakily as you yank your top off. You nearly trip over yourself as you tug your pants off, tossing them somewhere across the room. “This too?” You breathlessly gesture at yourself,  your underwear.

“Mm-mm. Not yet.” He smiles. “C’mere,” he holds his hands out to you. 

You step between his spread knees, your hands falling to his shoulders. His rough hands slide down your body, along the dip of your waist, over the curve of your ass. You arch into his touch, a flush rushes up your neck as you stare down at him.

He leans forward, holding your gaze as he presses a gentle kiss to your stomach. His palms curl around the backs of your thighs, his fingers pressing firmly into the soft flesh. He tilts his head up, dragging a soft kiss along the swell of your breasts. 

His hands slide back up, over your shoulders. He pushes the straps back. “Now?” You whisper into the quiet air between you.

He smirks, his stubble casting a dark shadow into his smile lines. He nods, watching with his lip between his teeth as you unlatch the clasp. You drop the flimsy material to the carpet. 

A warm flush burns behind your skin as you inhale a shaky breath, standing before him bare. 

“Hm,” he hums softly, his large hands sliding up your stomach to gently palm your breasts. “So pretty, baby.” He presses a soft kiss to your nipple, his thumb circling the other one.

You shiver, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he swipes his tongue over the soft point. His sharp stubble drags over the tender underside of your breast. “Prettiest.”

You sink your teeth into your tongue, forcing yourself to stay quiet. Something about the quiet way he nips at your chest makes you feel breathless. Embarrassed. 

“Bucky…” You pant, swallowing around your dry tongue. 

“Want somethin’, baby?” he smiles as he rolls your nipple between his teeth. “Speak up.”

You tug gently on his hair. “I don’t know what I want…” 

He lifts his head, a smirk curled deeply on his face. “Yeah,” he whispers, his hand cupping your jaw. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, pulling at it gently. “But you know what to do.”

You nod into his touch, sucking his thumb into your mouth. He makes a pleased sound. You slowly sink to your knees, your tongue swirling around the rough pad of his finger. He presses down on your tongue, watching the way your jaw drops. 

He watches you, something dark in his eyes. Like he was seeing something you couldn’t. “‘S that feel good? Havin’ something in your mouth?”

You nod, your lashes fluttering as you lean into his large hand. “Mhm…”

His smirk twists into a dark grin, something pleased spreading across his face. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, then wipes it on your cheek. He pushes his fingers back into your hair. Your wet lips press together as your struggle for air. You blink up at him, something hot and slick pooling in your stomach.

“Show me you know how to be good.” He whispers, his nails scratching at your scalp. 

You drop your head to his thigh, choking on an aroused gasp. God, you can’t catch your breath. He chuckles at you, gently petting your hair. 

“Too much, baby?” He hums, his lips press together as he coos down at you.

“No- no,” you shake your head, swallowing around the lump in your throat. 

“Then do as you’re told,” the command is firm, but his sweet tone softens the blow. You shiver and nod obediently, fluttering your eyes open from where your cheek is pressed to his thigh. 

You pant softly, your hot breath ghosting over the aching tent in his boxers, inches from your face. You nuzzle forward, dragging your lips over his erection. 

Bucky sighs above you, spurring you on. 

You press a firm kiss to the shaft, his heat radiating through the fabric. You drag your tongue over the wet spot where the cloth stuck to the head. His fingers tighten in your hair. 

“Such a tease,” he chuckles, shaking your head with his firm fist in your hair. 

“Can I?” You whisper, your voice muffled from where you nuzzle into his bulge.

“‘F course, baby. Go ahead.” His thumb traces circles into your scalp. 

Trembling hands slip under the waistband, tugging down until he lifts his hips. Your breath hitches when you free his aching erection, the length bobbing subtly, flushed a warm color. 

You lean forward, sliding your tongue along the thick vein along the underside of his cock. Bucky’s abdomen visibly tenses. He huffs above you, but says nothing. 

You press another soft kiss to his tip, precum staining your lips as you pull back. You glance up at him, cold blue eyes meeting yours. Your lips twitch into a cheeky smile as they wrap around the head. 

His brows twitch together, his jaw clenching tight as he exhales a shuddering breath. 

You suckle gently, your tongue swirling around the head before pressing into his slit. His lashes flutter as he forces himself to keep his eyes on you.

“I was right,” he whispers, using his grip on your hair to guide your head down further. “You look good with your mouth full.”

You hum, hollowing your cheeks on the way down. Bucky’s eyes roll shut, his hips gently rocking into your face. Your throat spasms around him when he presses too far, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

You let your eyes fall closed, relaxing yourself as he guides you. You let him take what he wants. The dull ache in your jaw spreads, the tingle in your scalp burns as he yanks at the strands. 

But you take it. 

A moan falls from Bucky’s lips, the sound rough in his chest. He pants softly, rocking his hips up. 

“Takin’ it so good, baby. Just like I knew you would.” He grunts, his stomach twitching as the muscles flutter. “‘Bet you take everything so well. So good for me.”

You moan around his cock, swallowing as he rolls his hips into your mouth. He chokes on a groan, his hips stuttering until he’s pressed to the back of your throat. Your throat spasms again, a wet sound falling from your lips as you struggle to breathe.

Bucky holds you there, his grip on your hair tugging gently as he forces you to kiss his pelvis. 

He watches you with a satisfied smirk as you struggle, your eyes rolling shut. “‘Look so cute like this,” he hums, tilting his head. “All full and obedient.” 

You choke, your head instinctively pushing back against his hand. Your nails scrape down his inner thighs. You gag quietly, sucking in thin wisps of air around his cock. But you don’t fight him.

Deep down you like it.

Deep down, you burn hot with shame as you press your thighs closer together. 

Bucky finally pulls you back up, until only half his length rests against your tongue. You gasp greedily, your mouth falling open. You swallow around his tip, trying to gather yourself. Bucky rolls his hips, fucking his tongue over the slick expanse of your tongue. 

You blink up at him, tears blurring your vision. 

He grins down at you, his tongue swiping over the points of his teeth.

You watch the muscles in his stomach flutter, twitching as he drags his cock over your tongue. You pant, holding your mouth open for him as he takes what he wants.

You slowly push a trembling hand between your thighs, your fingers pressing against the soaked center of your panties. 

Bucky makes a displeased noise from above you, and then he’s yanking you off his cock, a sharp tingling spreading through your scalp. You hiss, your shoulders bunching up.

“So greedy,” he whispers as he kicks your hand away from your thighs. 

“Please…” You choke, wiping your tear stains on your shoulder. “Please.”

His expression easily morphs back to something pleased. Something dark. “You wanna show me how good you are, don’t you?” You nod eagerly. “Then wait to do as you’re told.” He whispers, nudging your knees apart with his foot.

“Bucky-” you whine, your lashes fluttering shut as he rubs circles into your throbbing scalp. 

“Shh,” he whispers, pulling his hand from your hair. “C’mere.” He gently pats his thigh. You slowly climb into his lap and slide your arms around his shoulders. He strokes a warm hand down your naked back, following the curve. He pinches your chin gently, guiding you to look at him. 

“So pretty,” he mutters.

You huff quietly, leaning in to kiss him. He hums against your lips, stifling a chuckle as you take what you want. His fingers curl around your knees as he lifts you up, but you barely register it. You're too busy rutting your hips against his, sucking softly on his tongue.

He moans into your mouth, his hard cock pressed firmly between your bodies. Your stomach twists as the slick head nudges your stomach. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. “Please just touch me-”

“I am touching you, baby.” He whispers, gently pressing you against the window. You huff quietly as the cold glass shocks your system. “Just relax, okay?” His palm slides down your thigh until he finds your panties. “I’ll make you feel good.” 

You gasp as his fingers press over the soaked fabric sticking to your pussy. He slips his fingers beneath the thin waistband, his callouses rough against your sensitive skin. 

“Yeah?” You gasp, grinding into the heel of his palm as his thumb slides through your folds. “You’re gonna-” you swallow around the choked sound that rises when Bucky pushes a finger inside your slick cunt. “You’re gonna take good care of me?”

“Mhm,” he hums, slipping another thick finger inside. “That’s right. ‘Can’t wait to fuck you to tears.” he whispers, curling his fingers against your fluttering walls. 

You groan, your nails scraping down Bucky’s nape. “Oh god…”

“Shh,” he kisses your cheekbone gently, nudging your head back against the window. “Just look outside, isn’t the water pretty? Hm?”

Your lashes flutter as you press your hips against his, rolling against his aching erection. His fingers twitch inside you as he gasps, slick precum sticking to your stomach. 

“I didn’t say keep your mouth shut, I asked you a question,” he whispers, his stubble burning against your cheek. “Isn’t the water pretty?”

You nod quickly, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “Yes- sorry, yes.” 

He smiles against your jaw, his breath tickling against your flesh. “Good girl.” He pulls his slick hand from your panties and wraps his large fingers around his throbbing erection. You suck in a shaky breath as you look down between you, watching as Bucky pumps his cock.

His flushed tip peaks through his fist, his slit dribbling precum before he swipes his thumb over the head. He squeezes on the upstroke, soft groans tumbling from his lips. 

You watch as Bucky yanks aside your panties, thumbing at your pretty pussy. You gulp, shifting against him as he nudges you with the head of his cock. 

“Greedy little thing,” he chuckles, rolling his hips into yours. You choke on a whine as he slowly fills you, his thick length stretching you open.

At some point, your eyes flutter closed, your body humming with electricity as you slowly sink down on his cock. He groans into your neck, his hands gripping you close. 

Something about the firm snap of his hips against yours, the mind numbing pleasure, the choked sounds Bucky makes, it all swirls together into a mess of ecstasy. 

You lose yourself in the feeling, clinging to Bucky as he fucks you into the window. Outside, the world is silent, gentle waves rocking against the yacht. Outside that room, the world was oblivious to the degrading way Bucky fucked you.

Oblivious to the way you gave yourself over to him. To the humiliating way he whispered in your ear, quietly laughing at every embarrassing sound you made. 

In the back of your mind you knew this was wrong. That this was dangerous. That if your father found out, you would drown in your own shame. 

But you ignored that little voice in your head. Because you didn’t care. You didn’t care about the age gap, or the humiliation, or the danger. You didn’t care because it just felt so fucking good to sink down on Bucky’s cock as he whispered filth in your ear. 

It felt good to pathetically beg for him to take you harder. 

It felt good to let go and sob as he fucked you so hard you saw stars.

Bucky’s rough hands slide over the curve of your ass, his fingers pressing bruises into the tender flesh of your thighs. Your sweaty back presses into the cold window, the chill like heaven on your skin. 

Bucky rolls his hips into yours, each thrust knocking you up the wall. He chuckles into your throat as you whine, his teeth nipping at your jaw. “‘S that feel good, baby?” 

You gasp, his cock punching something tender in your stomach. “Fuck-” you whine. You knock your head back against the window, panting softly. 

Bucky hooks his arms under the crooks of your knees, spreading you open for him to torment. “‘You like gettin fucked like a whore on daddy’s boat?” His tongue swipes over his lips. “Huh? ‘S it make you feel dirty?”

You choke on a sob, your eyes fluttering shut. “Bucky-” you whine. 

He chuckles, dragging his tongue along your throat. “Hm? Tell me, sweetheart.”

You pant softly, sinking down on his cock. Bucky unloops a hand from your leg and slithers between you, his fingers pressing over your lower stomach. Your eyes roll back as Bucky groans into your hair. He slides his palm firmly over your lower stomach, feeling his own cock move inside you.

You roll your head back, your tear stained cheek pressed to the cold glass. Your lashes flutter against the fog your breath casts. Beyond the mind numbing pleasure, you registered the dark roll of the ocean, moonlight reflecting off the surface. 

“You still in there, sweetheart?” He snickers, chewing at your earlobe. You shudder, rolling your hips against his. “Try to focus, baby.” he whispers.

You roll your head back to look at him, your fingers curling in his dark hair. A flush rises up his neck, painting his skin a warm color. His lips part around muffled groans, his brows furrowed. Blue eyes watch you with intensity, almost too much.

You shudder in humiliation, gasping quietly as Bucky pets his fingers down your stomach, his thumb brushing over your clit. “You’re so cute when you’re fucked stupid,” he grins lazily.

He swipes a stray overwhelmed tear from your cheek, then sucks it off his thumb. 

You rock your hips into his, the coil in your stomach twisting tighter. Desperation flares in your chest as your second orgasm draws closer, just within reach. 

“I-I can’t-” you whimper, locking your ankles tighter around his waist.

Bucky coos, his heavy hand petting down the side of your face. “It’s okay baby, it’s okay.” He whispers. He peppers gentle kisses against your lips, his facial hair scratching your soft skin. “You’re okay,” he slowly pumps his cock into your soaked cunt, each roll of his hips rendering himself breathless.

He pants into your mouth, his tongue pressing into yours. 

“You’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart.” He whispers, palming your breast between you. You sob against his lips, pressing closer to him as you whine. He chuckles, dragging a soft kiss against the corner of your lips. “Shh, gotta stay quiet. Don’t want anyone to hear.”

You nod helplessly against him, squirming as he slows his thrusts. “I’ll be quiet, I’ll be good- I promise…” you whisper. 

“That’s right,” he smiles, grinding his cock into your cunt. “Be a good girl for me and keep quiet. Wanna keep you all to myself, can’t have daddy hear his little girl sobbing over my cock.”

You choke on a moan, your stomach clenching at his words. Your walls flutter around him, making his hips stutter. “Jesus-” you gasp, rolling your head back into the window. “Please just fuck me-”

He snickers, his arms curling back under your knees as he pulls you away from the window. “I’ll take care of you, baby.” He carefully lays you back on his bed, then pushes your arms up over your head. “You just need to be a good girl and take it.”

He snaps his hips forward, catching you off guard. You make a punched out noise as he presses your wrists into the blankets and fucks you into the mattress. 

He licks over your lips as you pant, jaw slack. You press your heels into his lower back, pulling him closer.

“That’s it, just take it.”

“Get your ass up, James, we’re going fishing!” The door rattled heavily under the beat of your fathers fist.

You startled awake, your eyes snapping open. Bucky flinched on top of you, his head snapping up from where he was nuzzled into your neck. You twitch, blinking groggily against the sunlight streaming through the window. 

Bucky’s large hands skate down your naked body, his palm resting against your ass. 

The door rattles again, your father knocking repeatedly. “We're in the middle of the ocean, get off your ass!”

“I’m comin’!” Bucky shouts, wiping a hand down his face. “Let me get up, asshole.”

Your father laughs heartily as he walks down the hall. Bucky drops his head back against your chest, his lips grazing your collar bone. He sighs, grumbling as he curls his arms back around your body. You grunt as he pulls you close, rolling almost on top of you. 

You squirm, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Your leg shifts where it's thrown over Bucky’s hip, your arms stretch over his shoulders. 

Bucky yawns as he rubs his face against your shoulder, his stubble stinging your sensitive flesh. “G’morning…”

You swallow, your nails raking down his spine. “Morning, handsome.”

You feel him smile against your neck, a soft chuckle vibrating from his chest to yours. He pushes up, leaning over you with a lazy grin. He strokes your side, his fingers dancing over your breast to slide up your jaw. “Aren’t you pretty,” he hums, leaning down to peck your lips. 

You tilt up into him, your lips dragging over his tenderly. A soft blush flushes your skin, staining you with your own embarrassment. When he pulls back you finally get a good look at him, with his messy bed head and soft blue eyes, crows feet curling at the corners as he smiles. 

Words are lost on you for a moment. 

A knock cuts through the silence again, thumping against the door. “I’m making breakfast, are you coming up? The girls are still asleep, so it’ll just be us and the guys.” Your dad must be making his rounds, waking up his friends, since he circled back. 

You flinch again, cringing quietly. Bucky bites back a smile as he pushes his fingers into your hair, raking back the tangled strands. You involuntarily lean into his hand, purring beneath his firm touch. 

“If you’re not getting up, I’m waking up the girls and you’ll be the only one left out.” Your father grumbles from the hall.

You flinch, your body going rigid. “How am I getting out of here?” You whisper, dragging your nails down his chest.

Bucky winces, his fingers pressing into your nape. “Jesus, man, I’m coming- pull the stick outta your ass,” he shouts over his shoulder, leaning up a little further.

You shamelessly peak down between your bodies, ogling the muscles in his abdomen as they tense.

“Alright, alright, then I’m going up. Wake up the girls when you’re done, okay?”

“Fine,” Bucky responds, listening for footsteps. When he finally turns back, he catches you staring down at him. A sly smirk slips across his lips. “Eyes are up here, doll.”

Your gaze snaps up to his, suppressing a smile with your teeth. “Oops.”

He shakes his head at you with mock exasperation. He clicks his tongue at you. “Nasty girl,” he snickers, diving down to sink his teeth into your shoulder. You giggle, choking on a gasp. 

“Hey- I don’t want to bruise!” You squirm, stifling your laughter in his hair. 

He soothes over the bite with his tongue, licking gently over his teeth marks. “You’re already painting half your body with makeup, what's a few more?”

You tug at his hair. “It makes my life a whole lot harder,” you laugh.

He rolls his eyes playfully, leaning back over you. “Fine, but you should have reminded me last night,” he hums, kissing over your purpling hickeys. “I count two more, today.”

You groan, twisting beneath Bucky. “Jesus- my neck is off limits now.” You huff, covering your face with your hands. 

“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head. “Nope, not happening. I like that part.”

You roll your eyes, grinning to yourself. “Shut up-”

He snickers, shifting between your legs. The sheets fall by your feet as he sits back on his ankles, your thighs spread over his. You shudder, instinctively reaching to cover yourself. Bucky catches your squirming hands, his hand wrapping around your wrists. 

“Ah-ah,” he grins, sliding a palm down your thigh, over your hip bone. “I like lookin’ at you.” He holds your wrists to your lower stomach. “I haven’t gotten to do that enough.” He mutters, his gaze wandering over your exposed body. 

“Bucky-” you pant, your cheeks heated in embarrassment. “We should- we have to go, my dad’s gonna come down to find us-” 

He smiles shamelessly at your subtly squirm. His palm strokes over the notch of your hip, over the dip of your waist, along the underside of your breast. 

“Shouldn’t be mentioning him in here, remember?” He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Especially not when you're naked in my bed.”

You groan, tugging against the hold he has on your wrists. “You brought him up like a thousand times last night-”

He snickers at you, leaning down to lick a kiss into your mouth. You groan, tilting your chin up into him. He smirks, finally releasing your wrists. 

“Alright, fine.” He huffs, pulling back. You swallow a disappointed sigh as he rolls out of bed. You watch him as he finds his suitcase where it's propped on a small sofa. He digs through it until he finds his boxers. 

You sigh as you watch them slide over the curve of his ass, shielding him from your prying gaze. He glances back at you, a grin curling at the corners of his lips. 

“Perv,” he tugs out a shirt and tosses it to you. 

You yank it over your head, shielding yourself. “You’re one to talk.” 

You crawl out of bed, picking your clothes up piece by piece. 

“That’s for sure,” he mutters, staring at you ass as the shirt rides up when you bend.

You straighten quickly, tugging the hem down. “You’re definitely the perv.” You chuckle, moving towards the door. “An old perv.”

He smacks your ass as he follows you to the door, making you jump. “Shut your mouth,” he huffs, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder. You lean back against him, swallowing a sigh. 

He nips at your jaw, his fingers tickling your hip. You roll your head back against his shoulder. “I should go…”

“Mhm, you should.” He whispers, pecking a dark bruise along your neck. 

You clench your teeth and pull out of his grip. “I should,” you blink through your haze. Without looking back, you creak open the door and peek down the hall. “It’s clear,” you whisper, turning back to him. “I’ll see you at breakfast?”

He nods, stroking his knuckles down your cheek. “Mhm, sounds good.” He leans down and kisses you. You sigh against his mouth, rocking on your heels. “I’ll see you then, sweet girl.” He whispers against your lips.

You shiver, pulling back. “Mhm,” you yank the door open and slip into the hall, breathless.

When you finally get back to your room, Natasha is there waiting- already in her bikini and lacy cover-up. When you turn to face her, wearing only Bucky’s shirt and a handful of bruises, she grins.

“You better tell me every last fucking detail.” She drops her phone. “But only after you shower and clean all of him off of you-” she waves a hand at you. 

You choke on a laugh. “For sure,” you drop your clothes. “And trust me-” you glance back at her, a hand on the bathroom doorknob. “There’s a lot of him on me.”

She grimaces, shaking her head at you. “Disgusting, get in there.”

You snicker and shut yourself in the bathroom. You make quick work of your shower after catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror; hair knotted to all hell, neck littered in hickeys and love bites, lips swollen and flushed.

By the time you were clean and dressed in your bathing suit, Natasha was nearly asleep with boredom. And by the time you were finished telling her about your long, long, night of sexual escapades, you were starving. 

“Can-” you spoke through laughter, “can we please go to breakfast now?”

Nat sighs from where she’s spread out on her bed. “Fine- I can imagine you're fucking starved after all-” she gestures between your legs. “That.”

“Jesus,” you roll your eyes, grabbing your bag of sunblock and towels. “Let's go, once we eat we can go swimming.” You bounce your shoulders in excitement.

Natasha follows you into the hall, smacking your ass as you climb the stairs. “You just wanna get out there so you can see him.”

“Shut it, I don’t want anyone to hear you,” you shove her with your bag. She shrugs as she leads you into the first level cabin. 

“Whatever.”

The kitchen smells of bacon and toast when you both finally enter. You find your step-mother smacking a piece of bacon from your dads hand while they quietly bicker about his health.

“Eat some eggs first- you know what the doctor said about your cholesterol.” She huffs, hands on her hips.

Your dad peaks over his wife's shoulder and spots you, relief flooding his expression. “Hon, thank god, come here and let her fret over your health.” He gestures to your step-mom.

You roll your eyes and lean against the counter, plucking the bacon from your dads hand. “Don’t think I’m on your side,” you take a bite. “Eat some fruit or something- did you chop the fruit?” You ask Claire. She nods, turning back to your dad. “See, she even chopped you fruit.” You tsk.

Natasha busies herself with filling glasses with juice and iced coffee. “I don’t think you’re gonna win this one, Mr. L/n.”

You snicker, grabbing your bag to follow Nat. “Just eat your breakfast, dad, then you can go fish, or whatever.”

You step out onto the deck, squinting as the first rays of sunlight hit your skin. The rest of the men stand by the steps leading into the ocean, leaning against the railing as they sip on their coffee.

You snag a large chunk of watermelon off the large table that stretches across the sundeck, littered with plates of food. You pop it in your mouth, humming as the juice spreads over your tongue. 

Your wandering gaze flickers over to where Bucky leans over the railing to get a view of fish swimming past. You look away quickly as your dad steps outside, fishing gear in hand. 

“Can you get my back?” Natasha shakes her sunscreen at you. 

You swallow hard and snag the bottle from her hand. “Turn,” you flick the cap open. 

As the sun climbs higher, you find yourself distracted by the beautiful open ocean.

You laugh over breakfast on the deck- fruit, pastries, and maybe something savory- then both you and Nat stretch out, feeling the warmth of the morning sun sink into your skin. 

As the first sheen of sweat begins to stick to your skin, you drag Nat from her cushioned lounge chair. Your step-mother films you both as you dive off the stern, splashing into icy water. You release an undignified shriek when you pierce the surface, a chill zips down your spine.

Natasha curses, shivering as she rakes her hair back.

You laugh like kids, splashing and floating along the surface- only taking strides back to the stern when the waves pull you out.

The sea is refreshing, cradling you in its endless embrace. Around you, the yacht bobs gently, anchored on open water with no one else in sight. The water is unbelievably clear, glowing turquoise near the surface and fading to a deep sapphire below. Sunlight dances on the waves like scattered glass.

A soft breeze brushes your shoulders, the sun warms your face. Your laughter carries across the water, mixing with the sound of waves against the hull and a distant seagull’s cry.

When you get tired, you lounge on the floating mat tethered to the back of the boat, bobbing gently, talking about anything and everything.

You stare up at the blue, cloudless sky, Natasha's voice mixing with the sounds of waves, and gentle music floating from the deck speakers.

Above you, you hear your father shouting laughter with his friends.

You abandon Natasha on the float as you roll back into the water, finding your own blow up to aid you as you flutter your feet.  

You glance up to find sharp blue eyes tracking you.

Bucky leans against the yacht railing, watching you with a smirk as he sips from his beer. You try not to writhe beneath his weighted gaze. Try to focus on swimming with your friend, enjoying the sun, and snacking on fruit. 

But something about that smirk, those sharp blue eyes, the grays spotting his hair. God, he set you on fire.

Your dad was busy on the other side of the boat, patiently struggling with the fish. He decided to fish at a distance for safety reasons, of course, as you and Nat swam.

But you were more thankful because it gave you the ability to freely stare at Bucky. 

Natasha floats, her chunky sunglasses protecting her eyes. “If something tries to bite me, please stab it.”

“Thanks for the reminder, I’ll just get my harpoon.” You chuckle, leaning over your float as you gently kick your legs. 

“Just put your man on watch,” Nat slides her sunglasses up.

You flinch, sending a splash her way. She snickers quietly, steering her float further out. You glance back up to find Bucky still watching you, his head tilted slightly. 

You can barely remember your original plans for this trip. Probably soaking in the sun, reading on the deck, and dancing to overly loud music before bed. But now, all you want to do is huddle up in Bucky’s room and drool on his cock.

You slowly swim over to the stern, only a few feet away from where Bucky stands. “Gonna get in, or ‘re you just gonna stare?”

He takes a slow swig of his beer. “I’m feelin’ pretty good just staring.”

You bite back a grin. “Creep.”

He lifts a brow, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. “Watch it.”

“Why? Whatcha gonna do?” You rest your head against the gently bobbing deck, salt water sticking to your skin. 

Just as he opens his mouth to respond, your father shouts his name from across the boat. He sighs, shrugging. “Just keep guessing.” He mutters, pushing off the railing.

You huff in disappointment as you're figuratively blue balled by your dad. 

“You’re a dirty freak,” Natasha shouts from where she’s floating. 

You snicker, pushing off from the dock. “Oh, I know.”

The sun has just dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a sky streaked with soft orange and pink. The ship is anchored in calm water, and warm lights glow along the deck. Dinner has just wrapped up- plates pushed aside, half-eaten desserts, and cocktails still in hand. The smell of grilled seafood and lemon lingers in the air.

“Bullshit!” You slap your cards down on the table, groaning loudly. “This game sucks.”

“You need to learn to play poker, hun.” Your dad chuckles, peeking at his cards before picking at his plate.

“Sorry I don’t have thirty years of experience.” You huff, sitting back in your seat. 

Bruce glances over Everett’s shoulder at his cards. “I’m with your kid, pick a new game.” He mutters, squinting at his little deck. Everett elbows the man in the side.

Bucky chuckles at the men as they bicker, his gaze shifting to yours over his cards. 

“I’ve been trying to teach you for years, hon. You never wanna come over for game nights,” your dad complains around his mouthful of food. 

You roll your eyes. “Because your game nights are game nights. I don’t wanna sit there while you and your boys shout at the tv. Besides, I’m usually working.” You laugh, picking a cherry from your cocktail.

“I thought restaurant schedules were flexible!” He crossed his arms. 

You chuckled, sipping from your fruity drink as the gentle breeze rocked through the air. “They are, but you still have to request your days off.”

“You’re a server?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the lighthearted banter, making your stomach drop. He takes a long swig of beer, watching you over the bottle.

You swallow, a flush rising up your neck as you nod. “Mhm, for two years. Nat and I work together.”

“Do you like it?” He tilts his head, his usually intense gaze softer now as he watches you. 

You shrug, your gaze nervously darting away from his. “I do, kinda.” 

“I keep telling her to go back to school, but I think she’s too scared.” Your dad butts in.

You flinch, your wide eyes snapping to your father. “Dad, that is not true-”

“Kinda is,” Natasha mutters from behind you, where she’s picking through dinner in the kitchen.

“Quit eavesdropping and just join the conversation like a normal person, please.” You shout, avoiding Bucky’s gaze as he watches you.

“So you never went to school, or you left school?” Bucky asks, resting his beer bottle against his inner thigh. You intentionally force yourself to not look at the delicious way he man-spreads. 

“I dropped out-” you cringe, blinking up at him. 

“She panicked.”

“Dad-” you groan.

“What? You did- you had a whole thing and dropped out. It’s normal,” he shrugs.

You turn back to Bucky, his patient gaze making you flush. “I didn’t have a whole thing, I just wasn’t sure if I was going down the right path. Now can we stop talking about college? I left so I didn’t have to think about it.”

Bucky smiles gently at the frown that curls at the corner of your lips. “It’s fine,” he chuckles. “There’s nothing wrong with rethinking things.”

You glance back up at him through your lashes, chewing at your cheek. “Yeah?”

He nods silently, tilting his head at you, like he wants to hear more.

“Well-” you swallow, “I like what I’m doing now. So that’s what matters.”

“Hey,” your dad throws up his hands. “I never said that was a bad thing. I just think it’s never too late to go for a degree.” 

You roll your eyes at him, downing the rest of your drink. You couldn’t say his insistence was wrong. He came from an experienced point of view- he spent years on his degree, then climbed the corporate ladder until he got where he was. And where he was, was on his own yacht. 

It wasn’t a bad deal.

It just wasn’t for you.

“Your age is for exploring new things,” Bucky shrugs at you, sipping his drink. 

You lift a subtle brow at him, your stomach turning. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm,” he nods, smothering his smirk. “I tried all sorts of things when I was your age.” He rolls his neck, wincing when it pops. 

Your dad groans, waving his hand at Bucky. “Don’t encourage her- nothing you got up to is something I want her exploring.”

You have to press your lips to a thin line to keep yourself from laughing. Something vaguely smug flashes behind Bucky’s eyes. He tosses his hands up in defense. 

You dad smacks a kiss to the top of your head, his arm looped around Claire's waist. “Goodnight, honey.” He sings, following his wife inside. You wave, watching them go. 

Dinner and games led into drinks, which led to your dad singing on a table. And after an awful three songs, your step mother dragged him off to bed. Everyone retreated inside after that, as the sun sank below the earth, submerging the ocean in a chill.

But you stayed. 

So, curled up on the sofa, you stare out at the sea. It's difficult to tell where the water ends and the sky begins, without the bright sun casting its rays. 

But the cold moon illuminates the night with a silver glow, making the waves sparkle like stars. 

The water is darker than you thought possible- inky, deep, and alive in its own way. Sometimes it’s perfectly still, like black glass. Other times it ripples with silver where the moonlight touches it. Fish darts just below the surface, like shadows scattering.

A gentle breeze rustles your hair, racing shivers down your spine as you pull your knees to your chest. You listen to the soft waves rock against the hull in a gentle rhythm. Like the sea was breathing, beating like a heart.

A thin blanket drops around your shoulders, making you jump. You look to the right to find Bucky rounding the couch, then plop down beside you. 

“Hey,” you pull the blanket around your body, shielding your skin from the chill. 

“Hi,” he smiles, propping his arm up behind you. You blink at him for a nervous moment, feeling at a loss for words every time you’re alone with him. He just sighs, his fingers brushing your cheek to tuck your hair behind your ear. 

You gulp, hugging your knees tighter to your chest. You instinctively glance back to the cabin, where a single light glows in the kitchen. “Someone could see…” You whisper.

“They’re all in bed. Natasha’s the only one roaming the kitchen,” he hums without tearing his gaze from your face. 

“Are you sure?” You glance back up at him, your cheeks dusting a warm pink as his knuckle strokes your jaw. 

“Mhm, I had to help Claire tuck your dad in.” He chuckles softly.

You chew at your lip, nodding faintly. “Ah.”

“Not ready to turn in yet?” he tilts his head at you.

You shrug, looking back out at the water. “Nah, I wanted to look at the stars for a bit. My favorite part of being on a boat is seeing the sky at night.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilts his head back to look up at the moon. “It’s pretty.” He mutters quietly. 

You take a second to stare at his profile, quiet except for the gentle waves. “Mhm.”

“I was lookin’ forward to this trip for the same reason.” He counts the brightest stars. “Sure wasn’t expecting you, though.” He glances at you with a smile.

You huff, looking away from him. “That’s for sure.” You shook your head. “How did you two even meet?”

“I met your dad when I was movin’ into the neighborhood,” he chuckles, his fingers playing with your hair. “He came by and invited me for a barbeque.” You listened silently, shivering when he lightly scratched your scalp. “He started tellin’ me how he wanted to get in shape, so I invited him to join me on my jogs before work. That was about three years ago, now.”

You roll your head to look at him, biting back a smirk. “Speaking of work, my dad lives in a nice ass neighborhood. What do you do?”

“Mechanical engineer,” he hums, his gaze tracing your features.

You gape at him, shaking your head lightly. “Jesus, so you design machines, and stuff?”

“Mechanical systems.” He nods. “Trains, mostly,” his thumb grazes your nape. 

“Damn,” you whisper, self consciousness prickling at your skin. 

“It’s nothin’ special.” He tilts his head at you. “Tell me about you.” His blunt words make you shiver.

“You heard earlier that I’m a server,” you huff, looking out at the water. “There’s not much else I’m doing…”

“I doubt that,” He makes a face, his lips slightly pouty. He leans in, pressing into your space. “Tell me more,” he whispers, brushing his palm over your hair. “I wanna know.”

Your breath hitches in your chest. You glance back at the cabin in paranoia. “Bucky-” He gently pushes you until you rest on your back, your knees bent. 

Bucky leans over you, tenderly brushing the hair from your face. “What?” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “I only know one way to open you up.” He kisses between your breasts, his lips trailing over your bikini top to your stomach. “Tell me more.”

You swallow, your legs making way for his body as he trails down to your hips. “I um-” You stammer, glancing down at him as he unties your bathing suit bottoms. 

“Tell me about college,” he tugs the last tie free, letting your bottoms fall open. You suck in a tight breath, your knees instinctively wanting to close. He nudges them open.

“I dropped out,” you gulp, dropping your head back against the cushions.

“Why?” He presses a soft kiss to your core, his stubble making your shiver. 

“I didn’t know what was doing-” He spreads you open with two fingers. “I didn’t even know if I liked what I was studying anymore-” you gasp when he licks a stripe from your cunt to your clit with the flat of his tongue. “And I was just sick of school…”

“Mhm,” he hums, stroking his tongue through your folds. “So what do you want?” He mutters against you.

“I don’t-” Your lashes flutter as he sucks gently on your clit. “I don’t know-” you gasp. “I like serving, for now…”

“Why do they think you’re scared?” Bucky’s voice is muffled as he kisses your soaked entrance. 

“Because I am- a little…” You try to roll your hips into him, but he keeps you pinned down. This is his game. “I’m scared I’ll choose the wrong path and it’ll be too late. Or that I’ll realize down the line-” His tongue dips into your soaked cunt, fluttering slowly. You groan quietly. “-Realize down the line that I wanna do something else,” you continue breathlessly.

“Mm,” he hums quietly. He releases your clit from his lips, pulling back with a slick pop. “There’s no ‘too late,’ sweetheart. You can always change your mind about things,” he looks up at you, watching your face as he strokes circles over your clit with his thumb. “Use this time to explore different jobs,” he kisses your inner thigh gently. “Then go back to school.”

You nod shakily. “Yeah,” you pant. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking…maybe I’ll just start with taking a few classes…”

“There you go,” he whispers, pressing a wet kiss to your pussy. You pant as he strokes his tongue through your folds, dipping inside your entrance, then humming against your clit.

Your hands find his hair, needily tugging at the strands as he continues his slow pace, and eager interrogation. You answer every small question about yourself, eyes closed and toes curled. You feel him smile against you, like a cheeky bastard.

When your thighs finally twitch around his head, from where he folded your legs over his shoulders, he slides his hand up to cover your mouth. 

You cling to his arm, panting roughly against his palm as he silences you. Your orgasm washes over you silently, sparks flying behind your vision. Bucky guides you through it, sucking on your clit with gentle pressure. 

When you’re finally too sensitive to continue, he presses a soft kiss to your cunt, then pulls back. You’re left gasping for breath, staring at the sparkling sky. 

Bucky chuckles to himself as he sits up, carefully tying your bottoms back up. He leans back against the couch, rolling his neck as he drags your legs to rest over his lap. You shiver when you hear the man lick his lips.

“This is fucking crazy…” You huff, a lazy grin on your lips. 

“I know,” he chuckles, tracing slow lines along your knee.

You swallow around your heavy tongue. “Think it’s a bad idea?”

He shrugs, his thumb rubbing over an old scar on your thigh. “I don’t really care.”

“Me neither...” You snicker.

From the moment you roll out of bed, the day starts bathed in warmth. It feels like summer as a child, unhurried, with excitement hanging around every corner.

Natasha left you at breakfast, reading on the bridge-deck with her headphones in. You didn’t mind, though, since your dad made it clear he wanted to spend the day with you.

So as the sun climbs higher in the sky, your dad drags two paddle boards down from their mounts, and begs you to follow him into the water. 

You launch from the stern with a splash of enthusiasm, your bodies slick with sunscreen as you straddle the boards. The boards glide easily over the surface, and soon it’s just the two of you, standing tall, paddles dipping rhythmically into the sea.

You paddle side by side, sometimes drifting apart, then regrouping. There's light conversation and long stretches of companionable silence- just the sound of the paddles in the water and the occasional seabird overhead. 

At one point your dad loses balance and topples into the depths. He doesn’t allow you to laugh for long, though, when he tips your board and forces you to fall in after him.

Later, you both take a break, lying flat on your boards, drifting under the sun, arms trailing in the cool water. You talk about old vacations, future plans, and share quiet thoughts that only seem to come out when the world slows down.

Eventually, you head back toward the yacht, feeling sun-warmed and a little tired in the best way. Bruce helps your dad load the boards back onto the ship while you go to find Nat for food.

Cold drinks and a light dinner wait on the deck- fresh fruit, grilled skewers, and icy bubbling drinks.

When you finally sink into a seat on the bridge deck, a towel hugging your body, your stomach is rolling with hunger. Loud voices chatter over one another as everyone joins the table. 

You feel a warm tingle at the base of your spine when Bucky pulls out the seat beside you. He’s distracted in bickering conversation with Bruce, throwing sarcastic remarks back and forth.

You can’t even tell if he meant to sit beside you. 

“Honestly, the best part of this trip is the food- our kitchen back home still smells like charcoal from the last time Y/n tried to cook.” Natasha snickers, loading up her plate.

“Okay-” You roll your eyes. “I burnt something one time and you won’t let it go.”

“I don’t know, I’m with Natty on this one,” your father grins, biting grilled shrimp from his skewer. “Remember when you torched Claire's new pans when you visited for thanksgiving last year?”

Your eyes bulge from your head. “That wasn’t even me!” You argue, looking at your stepmother. “And I apologized for that-”

Your words die on your tongue as Bucky’s deep laughter drifts beside you. The low timber of the sound makes your skin feel heated. 

“Sure it wasn’t you, man?” Everett squints from the end of the table. “You always find someone else to blame when your barbeques go awry.”

Your father scoffs dramatically. You tune out of the conversation as you watch Bucky take a long swig from his beer in your peripheral. Natasha watches you two with a smug look. You suck in a sharp breath, steadying yourself. 

“I’m telling you, dad’s the one that ruined those pans.” You force a laugh, stifling a shiver as Bucky lowers his drink to the table, the back of his hand nudging yours.

“Maybe the both of you can’t cook.” Bucky suggests, looking to Claire for evidence. She nods with a cheeky smile.

You barely hear it. Bucky presses his glass bottle against your knuckles. You swallow, your stomach turning as you slip your fingers around the glass. The perspiration feels slick against your palm. 

You watch your father bicker with his friends as you carefully pull Bucky’s beer from his hand. You take a slow swig, your stomach turning at the absurdity of how dangerous this feels.

You swallow the cold liquid, your tongue swiping over the rim when you spill a drop. Bucky’s knee presses to yours beneath the table, the pressure steady and heavy. 

Your free hand slips beneath the table to tug at his swim trunks, as a warning or plea, you don’t know. He doesn't retract his knee. In fact, he presses closer, sitting up a little further in his seat to pick at some fruit. 

“If I can’t cook, it’s because of dad.” You chime in finally, setting the beer back on the glossed table.

Bucky easily plays nonchalant, barely acknowledging your fingers' gentle trail along his thigh. 

Your father rolls his eyes with a groan, waving his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah.”

You chuckle, finally dragging food onto your plate. You withdraw your hand and let your towel drop behind you, salt still scenting your skin. 

As dinner continues, the sun finally dips just below the horizon, casting a warm afterglow across the deck. Lanterns and soft string lights flicker to life above the dining table, and a gentle breeze carries the scent of the sea mixed with grilled herbs and citrus.

Everyone’s gathered around the table on the aft deck- sun-kissed and slightly salty from the day’s swimming and laughter.

As cool air settles over the ocean, your father suggests settling in for a movie in the lounge. A murmur of agreement spreads through the table, and soon everyone’s rising. You take one last long sip from your fruity drink and stand. 

“I’m gonna use the bathroom, but I’ll meet you in there,” you mutter to Nat, letting her take your towel as she heads inside. 

The nearest bathroom is on the upper deck, so you jog upstairs and go about your business. After drying your hands, you barely crack the door open before someone’s pushing inside.

“What-” You stumble back, your words fizzling to silence once Bucky clicks the door shut behind him. “Oh-” you whisper, gasping quietly as his hands slide down your waist.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he mutters, lifting you onto the polished counter. Your knees fall open on instinct as he steps into your space. Your head spins from his sudden actions. “Did ya have fun today?” He leans in, carefully pushing your wet hair back.

“Uh-” You gasp, barely able to catch your breath as Bucky drags a soft kiss over your lips. You sigh into him, squirming beneath needy hands. “I did-” you roll your head back against the mirror, your fingers pressing into the firm muscle of his shoulders. 

He smiles, dragging his knuckles down your waist. “Mhm?” He drags you closer to the edge of the counter, pulling your body against his. You groan as Bucky presses his hips forward, the tent in his shorts dragging over your inner thigh.

“Jesus-” You whine, submitting to the rough kiss he plants on your lips. 

You barely saw him throughout the day, busy swimming and indulging in the open waters. You could barely catch your breath enough to ask what had gotten him so worked up.

You pant into Bucky’s mouth, sucking his tongue into yours. Your wandering hands slide down his stomach. You slip a hand into his trunks. 

“Fuck-” he groans, his forehead knocking to yours as you wrap your fingers around his erection. 

“Yeah?” You swallow, swiping a drop of precum from his flushed tip. 

He rolls his hips into your hand, pressing bruising kisses to your lips. “C’mon,” he pants, urging you to continue. 

You greedily fist his cock, squeezing on the upstroke, his slick head leaking against your palm. He moans against your lips, dragging you closer to the edge of the counter. You swallow his choked sounds as you stroke his throbbing length. 

He huffs, dropping his head to your shoulder. “That’s it,” he groans, his fists white knuckling the counter. “Just like that-”

“Yeah?” You whisper, your warm breath fanning his flushed ear. You pull your hand out for a second, spit in your palm, then slip back into his pants. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder to muffle his aroused whine, his cock twitching as his abs flutter. 

Your spit slicked palm slides back over his erection, your thumb digging gently into his slit. 

“Fuck-” he groans, his hips twitching into your fist. “We don’t have much time-” 

“I know,” you gasp, fisting the swollen head of his cock. “I’ve got you, James.” You whisper, biting back a laugh when Bucky chokes.

“Shit-” he presses his nails into your hip.

He lifts his head, moaning into your mouth as he smothers you in a kiss. You nip gently at his lip, stroking your tongue over his. He swallows a choked whine as you roll your thumb over his tip. You pump his cock in quick strokes, maintaining a steady pace as his length twitches.

His stomach clenches as the coil twists tight. He groans against your tongue as he spills over your knuckles, rutting his hips into your fist. You continue to slowly stroke his twitching cock, spreading his cum over the length. 

He sighs in contentment, his lashes fluttering as you guide him into familiar overstimulation. He whines against your lips, his breath hitching as he rides the wave into pain.

You only release him when his hips instinctually twitch back. 

You pull your hand from his pants, your searching gaze finding his. He blinks up at you, licking over his lips as he leans back enough to see you. 

“‘Did so good,” he whispers, dragging his knuckles down your cheek. You smile pleasantly, leaning back against the mirror. 

“Yeah?” You wipe your hand off on the embroidered towel hanging from the wall. 

“Mhm,” he pecks your jaw gently. He pulls back after a second of peppering kisses along your neck. You watch him yank the small towel down to clean himself up. “Thank you,” he whispers against your lips, dropping a gentle kiss to them.

You shiver, arching into him needly. “No problem…”

He drops the hand towel into the trash by the toilet. His calloused fingers slide around your waist, his arms locking around your back. You stare up at him silently for a moment, your urgency dying as you settle in his hold.

“What got you so worked up?” You whisper, your cheeks dusting pink as he strokes your spine with practiced ease. As if this was normal. As if this was something he could get used to.

“You look good walking away,” he mutters with a smirk. 

You roll your eyes, dropping your head to his shoulder in embarrassment. “There's no way we’re not getting caught…”

“Not with that attitude,” he chuckles, lifting you off the counter. He sets you back on the ground, slowly releasing you. You sigh, pulling back from him. With only a hint of shame, you turn your back to him and wash your hands again.

He watches you fondly in the mirror, though you don’t notice, too busy trying to hide your face. 

“You go out first,” he tells you, nodding to the door. 

You slip out of the bathroom and make your way unsteadily towards the lounge. Everyone seems to still be settling in when you get there, arguing over snacks and movie choices. 

You sink onto a sofa beside Nat, curling beneath the blanket. Natasha stares holes into the side of your head, a sly smirk twitching at her lip. 

“Are you serious?” She whispers into your hair. 

You roll your lip between your teeth, watching as Bucky enters the room silently. He glances at you once before settling beside Bruce on the sofa parallel to yours. 

“Don’t.” You huff, embarrassed by your own depraved actions.

“Jesus, you’re barely gonna be walking by the time we dock.” She whispers, nudging you roughly.

You whip your head to the side, wordlessly telling her to shut up. She snickers at you as the movie begins.

The next night you find yourself back at Bucky’s door. 

After a long day of lazing in the sun, you feel bone tired and relaxed. But that didn’t stop the itch beneath your skin, like a craving. You felt his eyes on you throughout the day, careful and watching. You felt the weight, the unspoken words. 

You watched him from the sun deck, where you lounged with a sunscreen stained book, as he dived off the stern of the ship. You watched the muscles ripple in his back as he took long strokes.

You watched the water drip and collect in the dips of his muscles, streaking down his chest. You couldn’t help but feel like a dirty voyeur. But every time he looked up and caught your gaze, you knew he thrived beneath your watchful eye.

So now you stand in the hall, knocking gently at his door.

And when he finally opens the door and pulls you inside, you know you’re in for it.

“Fuck-” you sob, your spine arching off the bed as you writhe in overstimulation. You yank helplessly at dark locks of hair, your thighs twitching around Bucky’s head. “I can’t- I can’t…” You gasp, tears sliding down your cheeks.

You don’t know how much time has passed. It doesn’t matter. You’re lost in him.  

Bucky groans throatily between your legs, his tongue lazily stroking over your clit. His rough hands press gently over your lower stomach, his large arms locked around your thighs. 

Your nails drag roughly over his scalp. Your feet kick helplessly over the man's shoulders. “Please-” you tremble, your hips squirming against the sheets.

Bucky laughs at you, making you sob harder, as he sucks softly on your clit. 

Your eyes roll back as he drags another torturous orgasm out of you. Your toes curl so tight your leg starts to cramp. You nearly choke as your lungs refuse to expand, too breathless, too lost. “Bucky please-”

Bucky finally pulls back with a slick pop, his hot breath coasting over your sensitive core as he catches his breath. “Keep still, sweetheart.” 

You shudder, your eyes rolling open as you blink down at him. Your whole body tremors beneath his touch, goosebumps trailing over your skin. “Bucky-” you pant, your fingers tight around locks of his hair. 

He chuckles at your loss of words, his lips dragging carefully over your inner thigh. “You’re doin’ such a good job, baby.” He whispers, his tongue soothing over old bitemarks. 

You shake your head helplessly, letting it roll back against the pillows. “I can’t take any more…” Your voice is raw and dry, rough from smothering your own moans for the past several hours. 

“Mm,” he hums, gently kissing your cunt. “I think you can.”

You sob, your thighs clenching in an attempt to close around his head. He pets a large hand over your stomach, the touch traveling down your hip and thigh. 

His finger taps your hip, wordlessly telling you to look at him. You blink through tears, staring down at him. “Do you need to stop?” His warm blue eyes stare straight through you. “‘F it’s too much, we can stop, doll.”

You groan throatily at his easy care, at the way he so sweetly takes care of you. You let his words sink in, but you already know your answer. 

You shake your head. 

“Words, sweetheart.” He whispers.

Your stomach flutters painfully. “I’m okay,” your voice cracks.

Bucky smiles up at you, his large palm stroking over your stomach in appreciation. “That’s my girl,” he kisses your thigh. 

You choke on an overwhelmed sob, your trembling hands tightening in his hair. 

He taps your thigh slowly. “Open,” his tone is soothing, but carries a commanding undertone. You slowly let your thighs loosen up from where they clench around his shoulders. “Keep your eyes on me, okay?”

You nod, shakily wiping tears from your cheek. 

“Words, baby.”

“Okay,” you choke.

Bucky smirks and lowers his head once more, his tongue making slow work of circling your cunt, before dipping inside. You make a broken sound as your walls flutter around him, your stomach clenching pitifully.

Your vision blurs as you obediently watch him, tears slipping down your cheeks when he looks up to meet your gaze. He smirks against your pussy, his lips wrapping around your clit to gently suck.

Your spine arches as your body begs for reprieve, but you know there’s no end in sight. 

Bucky’s determined to drag you through orgasm after orgasm, his tongue dragging lazily through your sensitive folds. 

He seems at home, happily indulging in you, listening to your broken sounds. He grinds his aching cock into the mattress, his hips rolling in slow circles as rolls his tongue over your cunt.

You lose yourself in the feeling, your heels dig into his back, his lips drag sloppy kisses over your core. 

You’ve never felt this way before. So worshiped. So devoured. You’ve never felt so helpless to pleasure.

But Bucky makes you feel it. He guides you through it. He takes you apart, piece by piece, until there's nothing left. Nothing but your stuttering breath and trembling body.

And to your deep shock, he seems just as lost as you. His fingers press bruises into your skin as he clings to you. Rough, throaty sounds rumble in his chest, spilling out between slow licks. His stubble scrapes deliciously against your sensitive flesh, sharp and slick at the same time. 

You watch him through blurry vision, your jaw loose as you whimper. You know you need to be quiet. You know you have to keep this secret. But you just can’t.

You’re aching, trembling, and so deeply overwhelmed.

It’s the kind of sensitivity that hurts and throbs but you just can’t stop.

Even when your body is screaming at you that you can’t go on. You make room for it, because you’ve never felt anything like this. 

You’ve never felt so fucking alive. 

As Bucky guides you through another quivering orgasm, you start to see stars spot your vision. Bucky finally pulls back with a slick smack of his lips- the sound makes tears slide down your cheeks. From humiliation or arousal, you don’t know. 

Bucky slowly climbs up your body, caging you in. You shudder when he leans down, dragging his tongue over your cheek to lick up your tears. You let him, your eyes rolling back as you sigh.

“You did so well, sweet girl,” he whispers, peppering gentle kisses to the curve of your cheek bone. His strong hands stroke up your outer thighs in a comforting motion. “You always take it so well for me, don’t you?”

You whine, tilting your head up to kiss him. He smiled against your lips, pulling back just slightly.

“I asked you something,” he whispers.

You shiver and nod your head. “Yeah- yes…” your voice cracks, dry and rough.

He grins, finally capturing your lips in a messy kiss. You moan quietly, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

Bucky presses his hips forward, his cock dragging over your slick center. You gasp, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. “If you’re too tired, I can take care of myself,” he mutters, his knuckles tracing lines down your jaw. 

You blink, dumbfounded. “That was all foreplay?” 

Bucky snickers silently at the look on your face. “Mhm,” he pecks a kiss to your drying tear streaks. “Why don’t you just lay back and watch? Hm? I don’t wanna overwork you,” his pecks your jaw.

You shake your head stubbornly, your tongue swiping over your dry lips. He pulls back to look at you, brow raised. “I-I want to.” You pant, sucking in thin gasps. Your trembling legs slowly wrap around his waist, your ankles locking. “I wanna take care of you too.”

Bucky groans shamelessly, his head dropping to your shoulder. You stroke your nails down his spine, trying to gather yourself. You feel like jelly. You feel broken. You feel healed. 

You feel so good, you could pass out.

Cold blue moonlight streams from the window, flickering against the black ocean. Bucky plants a soft kiss on your shoulder, and when he raises his head, the light makes his eyes shine silver.

“Okay,” he whispers, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Just lay back, baby,” his lips curl in a familiar smile. “I’ll make you feel good.”

And he makes good on his promise.

He always does. 

When he finally sinks into you, his hips pressed to yours, you struggle to breathe. You barely hold back overwhelmed tears as he gently grinds into you. 

Bucky holds you close, almost intimately, as his arms wrap around you. He pins you in place, his hands petting you as he silently rolls his hips into yours. 

You make a punch out little sound when his cock pulls out, then sinks back in. Bucky shushes you, cooing as he pets your hair. 

After that, everything becomes fuzzy. Blurry. A mess of tears and choked off moans, and delicious pleasure. 

The next morning, Bucky wakes first. 

He curls deeper around your body, clinging to your warmth as the pesky sunlight blinds him. He sighs heavily into your shoulder, already feeling the ache from last night sinking into his bones. 

He buries his face a little deeper in your hair, smelling the salt that lingers. 

He can’t help but smile to himself when you huff in your sleep. 

Bucky eventually pulls back and rolls out of bed, stretching out his sore muscles. He tugs the sheets back over you, where you’re curled up in his bed. 

When he checks the time, it’s nearly 11am. 

He rakes his hair back and tugs something on. He’s quiet as he gets ready, letting you sleep. When he steps into the hall, he can already smell breakfast.

Climbing up to the deck, barefoot and still a little groggy, he’s met with a breeze that smells of salt and coffee. The sky is wide and impossibly blue, the ocean calm, stretching out like a silk sheet all around him. Someone’s already laid out breakfast on the table under the shade of the upper deck. 

The food has lost its warmth by now, but he still builds up a hefty plate. 

The coffee is strong and earthy, still steaming in its carafe, and someone’s poured fresh orange juice into thick glasses beaded with condensation.

The others are lounging nearby, barefoot, sun-kissed, quiet in that contented, slow-morning kind of way. A few pages of a discarded book flutter in the breeze. The water laps gently at the hull.

“Finally, you’re up-” your father huffs as he approaches Bucky, his hands waving. “The girls are still asleep,” he complains, “but I want to go diving.”

Bucky squints up at him, chuckling as he sips on his warm coffee. “Better ask Everette. I’m goin’ back to bed,” he mutters, already turning his back.

Your father groans at him, shaking his fist. “You have the entire ocean around you, and you’re choosing to sleep.”

“Mhm,” Bucky grins, already moving down the steps. “What can I say, these are nice beds.” He grins.

He listens to your father grumble behind him as he descends the stairs. He knows your dad’s a little right, that he’s wasting time indoors when he could be swimming. 

But he’d rather go back to his room, where he’ll find you bathed in the warmth of his sheets. 

He slips back into the room, shutting the door with a soft click. He finds you still out cold, curled around a pillow, your hair scattered and knotted. He sets the plate of foot on the nightstand, then crouches at your bedside. 

He tilts his head at you, his fingers carefully brushing locks of tangled hair from your face. Your brows pinch together as you huff, pressing your face into the pillow. He carefully strokes your cheek, his thumb tapping against your chin.

Your eyes twitch open, squinting up at him.

“Morning,” he whispers. 

He watches the moment recognition sparks, the moment your cheeks dust a soft pink. “Hey,” you swallow, your voice coming out rough. 

“Brought breakfast,” he nods to the plate. “You hungry?” 

You nod, the sheets ruffle against your cheek. Bucky’s lips twitch in a fond smile. He pulls his hand back and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. You roll back to make room for him, dragging the sheets with you.

You groan quietly, your body aching as you stretch. “Fuck…”

“Sore?” He smirks, grabbing his coffee. 

You roll your eyes, pushing up to sit. Your lower back twinges, making you shiver. “You’re too smug,” you croak. Bucky holds his mug out to you, letting you take it. You take a slow sip, sighing as the warm liquid soothes its way down your throat.

Bucky shrugs, taking a dramatic bite of bacon. “Maybe.”

You chuckle, leaning closer to pick at the plate. “What time is it?” You pop a chunk of scrambled egg in your mouth.

Bucky glanced down at his phone. “11:27pm.” He reads. “Your friend’s still asleep, your dad thinks you're still passed out with her.”

You nod, stealing the bacon from his fingers. “She’s probably up, just covering for me. My dad won’t try to go and wake me up if he thinks she’s sleeping too.”

Bucky hums in understanding, tugging his mug of coffee from where it sat between your knees. “How sweet,” he smiles.

You lower your head, hiding your blush as you chew a square of fruit. “Mhm.”

Bucky watches you with a tilted head, aware of the effect he has on you. “Do you feel okay? Anything hurt?” His kind blue eyes trail down your body, still mostly hidden by the sheet.

“I’m fine,” you shake your head. “Sore, definitely, but fine.” You huff, rolling your shoulders. “The good kind of sore.”

He smiles, his crows feet curling at the corners of his eyes. “Mkay,” he mutters, reaching out to tuck your knotted hair behind your ear. 

You gulp, your gaze flickering back down to the plate. Oddly enough, the sex is what comes easy to you. All the parts in between, the care, the conversations, the sweet way he handles you, that's what makes you nervous. What catches you off guard.

You still have no idea what you're doing.

“Is my dad expecting you- I don’t want him to-”

“It’s fine, I told him I was going back to bed.” He cuts you off, easily shrugging. He pushes the coffee back into your hand as he lifts off the bed. “We have time.”

You watch him move over to his pile of clothes on the small sofa. He pulls out a black shirt and tosses it to the mattress. He turns his back, as if wordlessly telling you to put it on. You obey, your stomach twisting in knots as you tug it over your head. When you pop your head through, you find your panties dangling from Bucky’s fingers.

Your face heats as you snatch them quickly. He snickers, his head still turned. 

“So you’re making excuses to spend more time with me?” You attempt to tease him. 

“Mhm,” Bucky turns back to face you, flopping onto the bed once you’re dressed. “Absolutely.”

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” You groan, wrapping your arms around your body. “I don’t think my body can take any more.”

He grins, the grays in his facial hair shadowed by his smile lines. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll leave you be.” He picks a chunk of watermelon from the plate. “For now.”

You use the mug of coffee to hide your blushing grin. “I think I’ve gotten laid more in this past week than I have in my entire life.”

Bucky laughs, wiping a hand down his face. “Jesus,” he groans, his free hand dropping to your bare ankle. “I’ll take that as a good thing.”

“Oh, for sure.” You lift a brow at him. “Not to feed your ego, or anything, but I don’t regret a thing.”

His cheeky grin softens slightly. “Good.”

You stare at him for a moment, your stomach fluttering with nervous butterflies. “So…” you clear your throat. “Two more days until we dock.” You roll your cheek between your teeth. “What now?”

Bucky rolls his head to the side, his knuckles sweeping up and down your bare leg. “Well, we have options.”

“Do tell,” you sip at the coffee. 

Bucky rudely plucks the mug from your hand and sets it on the nightstand. You frown softly, your gaze finding his. He leans closer, looming into your space. “We could keep seeing each other,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over yours in a gentle kiss. 

You smile into it, a giddy feeling swirling in your veins. 

He slowly pulls back, his fingertips tracing a slow line down your cheek. “Or we could go our separate ways.” He hums, bright blue eyes flickering to yours. “What do you want?”

You gulp, your fists curling in the large shirt you wore. “Do you want to keep seeing me?”

He smiles, sweet and warm. “Of course I do, doll.” His words make you want to slap your hands over your face and giggle like a schoolgirl. 

“Yeah?”

His lip rolls between his teeth, failing to suppress his smile. “Mhm.”

“Me too,” you confess, subconsciously leaning forward. 

“Good,” he cups your cheek in his large hand. He pulls you into him, capturing your lips in a soft, but possessive kiss. You sigh into him, allowing him to guide you with a hand on your neck. 

He pulls back slowly, leaving only a few inches between you. 

“When we get home, I wanna take you out.” He mutters, his calloused fingers dragging down your jaw. You shiver. “For real.”

“Really?” You whisper, disbelief and nerves mixing together in your stomach.

“Oh yeah,” he nods. “‘Wanna see you all dressed up. Take you to dinner.” He kisses your jaw. “Fuck you in my bed,” his warm breath ghosts over your skin. 

You swallow, your lashes fluttering shut. “Okay…”

He smiles, pecking your lips. “Okay.”

So for the first time in your life, you found yourself wishing for vacation to be over.

A/N: Hi....ahaha...just utter filth. I hope you guys like it, I had a lot of fun writing this version of Bucky. I love older man Bucky. Anyways, requests are always open. Comment and let me know what you think!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT IN ANYWAY.

The instincts hammered against his skull with primitive intensity, drowning out the rational voice that whispered this was wrong, that she deserved better, that he was making a mistake. His alpha saw only a threat to pack stability, an omega refusing to submit to proper authority, a challenge that needed to be answered with dominance.

"So that's it?" Y/n's voice cut through his thoughts like glass. "My job, my career, everything I've worked for—it all just ends so I can be a good little omega who stays home and pleases her alphas?"

The words hit his alpha like physical blows. His mate was rejecting her role, rejecting the protection he was trying to provide, rejecting the very foundation of what their bond should be. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong, dangerous.

Make her understand. Make her submit. Make her safe.

"That's not—" Yunho started to say, but Hongjoong's alpha was already moving, already responding to the perceived challenge with the blunt force of absolute authority.

"Isn't it?" Y/n demanded, her voice rising with each word. "You just dismissed my work like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing beyond being your mate."

The accusation sent another wave of primitive fury through his system. Didn't she understand? Couldn't she see that he was trying to protect her, that everything he'd said came from a place of desperate love and fear for her safety? His alpha interpreted her continued resistance as a direct threat to pack order, to her own wellbeing, to everything he was supposed to protect.

She's not listening. She's not understanding. Make her understand.

"Yes," he heard himself say, the word torn from his throat by instincts he couldn't control. "That's what an omega is. That's what being mated means."

Even as the words left his mouth, some small part of his rational mind recoiled in horror. That wasn't what he meant. That wasn't how he saw her. But his alpha was driving now, responding to challenge with dominance, to resistance with force.

The devastated look that crossed Y/n's face should have been enough to snap him back to his senses. The way her eyes filled with tears, the way her shoulders sagged as if he'd physically struck her—it should have broken through the alpha haze and reminded him that this was his mate, his beloved omega, not an enemy to be conquered.

Instead, his alpha interpreted her pain as submission beginning, as the first crack in her resistance that could be widened into complete compliance.

Almost there. Push harder. Make her see.

"What you want isn't always what's best for the pack," he continued, his alpha driving him forward even as his heart screamed in protest. "As pack leader, it's my responsibility to—"

"To what? Control me?" she snapped, and his alpha roared at the continued defiance.

Still fighting. Still resisting. More force needed.

"To keep you safe!" he shot back, the words carrying all the desperation and fear that had been building since the radio station incident. His alpha had latched onto that memory—the moment when he'd failed to protect her, when she'd been vulnerable and helpless and he'd been powerless to stop it.

Every nightmare that had plagued him since then came flooding back: what if the next alpha was stronger? What if next time they weren't there to intervene? What if his omega was hurt because he'd failed in his most basic duty as her alpha?

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," Y/n said through gritted teeth, and his alpha snarled at what it perceived as dangerous delusion.

No. She isn't. She proved she isn't. Make her remember.

"Like you handled yourself at the radio station?" The words were out before his rational mind could stop them, cruel and calculated to wound. "Because that worked out so well."

The silence that followed was deafening. Hongjoong watched in growing horror as the light died in Y/n's eyes, as her defiance crumbled into devastation. His alpha had achieved its goal—she was no longer fighting him.

But the victory felt like ashes in his mouth.

What have I done?

His rational mind came crashing back like a tidal wave, bringing with it the full weight of what he'd just said. He'd used her trauma as a weapon. He'd taken her most vulnerable moment—the moment when she'd needed his comfort and protection most—and thrown it in her face to win an argument.

The part of him that loved her, that cherished her strength and independence and fierce spirit, recoiled in absolute horror at what his alpha had made him do.

"You're right," Y/n said quietly, her voice broken and small. "I couldn't handle myself. I froze up like a helpless omega and needed my big strong alphas to rescue me."

Each word was a knife to his heart. This wasn't what he'd wanted. He'd never wanted to make her feel helpless, never wanted to diminish her strength or make her doubt herself. He loved her precisely because she was strong, because she was capable, because she challenged him and made him better.

But his alpha had seen her strength as a threat to be neutralized rather than a gift to be cherished.

"Y/n, I didn't mean—" he started desperately, but she was already backing toward the door, tears streaming down her face.

"No, you meant it," she said with heartbreaking certainty. "You all think I'm just some weak omega who needs to be managed and protected and kept at home where I can't embarrass myself or endanger the pack."

The accusation hit him like a physical blow because in that moment, driven by his alpha's protective instincts, that was exactly what he'd thought. Not about her worth as a person—never that—but about the danger she might face, the threats he couldn't control, the fear that consumed him every time she left his sight.

His alpha had taken that fear and twisted it into something ugly, something that sought to control rather than protect, that demanded submission rather than partnership.

He watched helplessly as she walked away, every instinct screaming at him to go after her, to fix this, to make it right. But how could he? What words could possibly undo the damage he'd just done?

When the door closed behind her, the silence that remained was crushing. He could feel the weight of seven disappointed gazes, could sense the barely contained anger radiating from his packmates.

"Well," Wooyoung said into the silence, his voice flat and disappointed. "That was possibly the worst thing you could have said."

The understatement hit him like a slap. Hongjoong's legs gave out, and he sank back into his chair, the full magnitude of what he'd done finally crushing down on him.

"I know," he whispered, his voice broken.

"Do you?" Seonghwa asked coldly. "Because what you just did was cruel. Unnecessarily cruel."

Cruel. The word echoed in his mind, true and terrible. He'd been cruel to the woman he loved more than life itself. He'd used her pain against her, had weaponized her trauma to force her compliance.

"She was challenging my authority—" he started weakly, but even as he said it, he knew how pathetic it sounded.

"She was defending her right to exist as more than just our omega," Yeosang interrupted, his usually calm voice sharp with anger. "And you threw her trauma back at her for daring to want agency in her own life."

Agency. The word cut deep because it highlighted everything his alpha had tried to take from her. Her right to choose, to decide her own path, to be more than just his mate. His alpha had seen those things as threats, but his heart knew they were what made her extraordinary.

"I didn't mean..." he trailed off, knowing there was no excuse for what he'd said. Intent didn't matter when the impact was so devastating.

"You meant to hurt her," San said quietly. "To shut her down. To make her feel small so she'd stop fighting you."

The truth of it hit him like a physical blow. In that moment, driven by primitive instincts and fear, he had wanted to make her stop fighting him. He'd wanted her to submit, to accept his protection, to let him keep her safe even if it meant crushing her spirit in the process.

The realization made him sick.

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what you did," Jongho cut him off, his young voice carrying more authority than usual. "You used her pain as a weapon."

Hongjoong looked around at the faces of his packmates—disappointed, angry, some barely containing their own rage at how he'd treated their mate. These alphas who looked to him for leadership, who trusted him to protect what was precious to them, and he'd just destroyed the most important thing in all their lives.

"Go after her," Yunho said firmly.

The command should have triggered his alpha's territorial response—no one gave orders to the pack leader. Instead, he felt only a desperate gratitude that someone was telling him what to do, because his own judgment had proved so catastrophically wrong.

"She won't want to see me," he replied, his voice hollow with the certainty of it.

"No," Seonghwa agreed coldly. "She probably won't. But you're going to try anyway, because that's what you do when you hurt someone you love. You try to fix it."

Fix it. As if what he'd done could be repaired with apologies and good intentions. As if calling someone weak and helpless and crazy could be undone with the right combination of words.

But what choice did he have? He'd broken something precious, and even if it couldn't be fully repaired, he had to try.

---

The walk to the guesthouse felt like a march to his own execution. Each step brought him closer to facing the consequences of his actions, to seeing the pain he'd caused reflected in the eyes of the woman he loved.

His alpha, finally quiet after its destructive rampage, cowered in the back of his mind like a chastened animal. The instincts that had driven him to such cruelty now whispered only regret and desperate need for his mate's forgiveness.

But when he reached the guesthouse and stepped inside, the first thing that hit him was the absence. The complete lack of your scent in the air, replaced by the sterile neutrality of the blocker you'd put back on.

His alpha whined in distress, a sound he couldn't suppress as he realized you'd rejected even the most basic connection between them. After hours of being surrounded by your natural jasmine and vanilla, the sudden return to nothingness felt like a physical blow.

It was a rejection. A statement. A clear message that whatever bond had existed between you was something you no longer wanted him to have access to.

"Y/n?" he called softly, though he already knew what he would find.

The sight of you packing, methodically folding your belongings into the same suitcases you'd arrived with, was like a knife to his heart. You moved with mechanical precision, as if emotions had been stripped away entirely, leaving only the practical task of escape.

"What are you doing?" he asked, though the answer was obvious and terrifying.

"Packing," you replied without looking up. "If I'm such a burden to the pack, such a problem that needs constant managing, then clearly the solution is for me to leave."

No.The thought screamed through every fiber of his being. This wasn't what he'd wanted. This wasn't protection—this was loss, abandonment, the destruction of everything that mattered.

"You're not a burden," he said desperately, stepping into the room. "That's not what I meant—"

"Isn't it?" you asked, finally looking at him with eyes that were red from crying but completely devoid of warmth.

The absence of any feeling in your gaze was worse than anger would have been. Anger meant you still cared enough to fight. This cold emptiness meant something inside you had simply given up.

"You made it very clear that you think I'm incapable of taking care of myself. That I'm too weak, too helpless to exist in your world without constant protection."

The words echoed his alpha's fears back at him, twisted and ugly in a way that made him see how wrong he'd been. Yes, he was terrified of losing you. Yes, the radio station incident had triggered every protective instinct he possessed. But somehow that fear had morphed into something possessive and controlling, something that sought to diminish rather than support.

"I was trying to protect you—"

"You were trying to control me," you corrected, turning back to your packing. "There's a difference."

Control. The word hit him like a slap because it was true. His alpha had taken legitimate protective instincts and perverted them into something that sought to own rather than cherish, to possess rather than support.

When Wooyoung and San arrived, their presence only made his failure more apparent. Three alphas watching their mate pack to leave because their leader had driven her away with his cruelty and control.

"This is ridiculous," he found himself saying, his alpha stirring again as panic set in. "You're being irrational. It's just your omega instincts and your heat making you act crazy. You'll feel differently tomorrow—"

The words were out before he could stop them, his alpha's last desperate attempt to regain control by dismissing her pain as biology rather than acknowledging it as a reasonable response to his actions.

"Did you just..." you said, your voice dangerously quiet, "call me crazy? Did you just dismiss my completely rational response to your cruelty as omega hysteria?"

What have I done?

The realization hit him like a freight train. He'd done it again. In his desperation to make you stay, to fix the damage he'd caused, he'd just made everything worse. He'd dismissed your completely valid feelings as hormonal instability, had reduced your pain to omega biology rather than acknowledging his own failures.

His alpha had learned nothing. Had taken no responsibility. Had sought only to regain control rather than to understand, to heal, to do better.

"GET OUT!" you screamed, your voice carrying such authority that all three alphas actually took a step back. "GET OUT OF MY SPACE RIGHT NOW!"

Your eyes blazed purple fire, your omega nature fully emerged and absolutely furious. The force of your command, backed by the mate bonds and your own considerable will, sent shame coursing through him so intensely it was almost physical.

His omega was so angry with him that she was using her own authority to drive him away. The bond that should have been their greatest connection had become something she wielded as a weapon against him.

As he found himself backing toward the door, compelled by your command and his own crushing guilt, Hongjoong finally understood the magnitude of what he'd lost.

He'd thought he was protecting you. He'd thought his control came from love, his dominance from care. But love without respect wasn't love at all—it was possession. Care without trust wasn't care—it was control.

And now he'd lost the most precious thing in his life because he'd been too afraid, too alpha, too controlling to love you the way you deserved.

As the door closed behind them, leaving you alone with your packing and your pain, Hongjoong stood in the living room of the guesthouse and felt something break inside his chest.

His alpha, finally understanding the consequences of its actions, curled up in shame and regret. His heart, shattered by the loss of your warmth and love, ached with every beat.

And his mind, finally clear of the protective instincts that had driven him to such cruelty, could only replay the devastation in your eyes and wonder if there was any way to earn back what he'd thrown away.

Intent didn't matter when the impact was so devastating. Love didn't excuse control. Protection didn't justify possession.

He'd learned these lessons too late, and now the woman he loved more than life itself was packing to leave him because he'd failed to love her the way she deserved.

The way she'd always deserved.

Fix it, his heart whispered desperately. Find a way to fix it.

But as he listened to the sounds of you moving around the bedroom, gathering the pieces of the life you'd built here to take somewhere else, somewhere away from him, Hongjoong wasn't sure there was anything left to fix.

He'd broken something that might be beyond repair.

And the most devastating part was that he had no one to blame but himself.

Next>>

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