You don’t remember falling asleep.

You remember the glow of your laptop. The soft scratch of your pen in the margins of a printed chapter. The way your eyes started skipping lines instead of reading them. And then, nothing.

“Hey.”

The voice is gentle, softly floating through your subconciou. Your brow furrows as you shift, cheek pressed awkwardly against a stack of books. Something warm brushes your shoulder.

“C’mon, baby,” Steve murmurs softly. “You’re gonna wreck your neck like this.”

Your eyes blink open slowly and the world comes back in pieces. Your apartment. Your notes. The yellow lamp casting everything in that same late-night gold. And Steve, crouched slightly beside your chair, one hand resting lightly on the back of it.

You groan quietly, dragging a hand over your face. “What time is it?”

“Too late for you to still be working,” he says.

You squint at your laptop screen.

2:17 AM.

“…that feels personal.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh.

“You said that three hours ago.”

You drop your head back against the chair and stare up at him.

“I’m almost ready,” you insist, voice still thick with sleep.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Your ‘almost ready’ included highlighting the same paragraph six times.”

You frown.

“…it’s a really important paragraph.”

“Mm.”

You sit up a little straighter, pushing your hair back.

“This is my dissertation, Steve.”

“I know.”

“I have to defend this in front of a panel of people who have been doing this longer than I’ve been alive.”

“I know.”

“And they’re going to ask questions and I have to sound like I know what I’m talking about—”

“You do know what you’re talking about.”

You pause because he says it so simply. So certainly, like it isn’t even up for debate.

Steve steps around the chair and leans against the edge of your desk, arms folding loosely across his chest.

“You’ve been working on this for how long?”

“A year and some change,” you mumble.

“Closer to two,” he corrects gently.

You make a face.

“Don’t remind me.”

He smiles a little.

“I’ve watched you build this from scratch,” he continues. “Every late night. Every draft. Every time you thought it wasn’t good enough and then made it better anyway.”

Your fingers fidget with the edge of your notebook.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“That’s just… me. Alone. This is—” you gesture vaguely “—a room full of people judging it.”

Steve tilts his head slightly.

“They’re not there to tear you down.”

“They kind of are.”

“They’re there to see if you can stand behind your work,” he says. “And you can.”

You let out a slow breath.Your eyes drift to the stack of printed pages beside you. Tabs sticking out. Notes scribbled in the margins. Coffee stains you never bothered to clean.

Your entire life distilled into paper.

“I’m scared I’ll freeze,” you admit quietly.

Steve’s expression softens instantly as he reaches out, resting his hand over yours where it sits on the desk.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

You glance up at him and he squeezes your hand once.

“Because you care too much not to show up for it.”

The words settle somewhere deep.

You swallow. “…okay.”

He nods once, satisfied. “Good.”

There’s a beat of quiet.

“Alright,” he says, pushing off the desk. “Let’s run it.”

You groan immediately.

“Steve.”

“Nope. You don’t get to hide behind exhaustion. You said you wanted help.”

“I regret that.”

“Too late.”

You slump in your chair, but there’s a small smile tugging at your mouth now.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Be ruthless.”

His mouth quirks.

“You say that like I’ve ever been anything but gentle with you.”

You shoot him a look.

“You once made me rewrite an entire section because you didn’t like one sentence.”

“I didn’t like the argument.”

“It was one sentence!”

“It was a weak sentence.”

You narrow your eyes but he just smiles.

“Start from your thesis,” he says, softer now. “Pretend I’m on your committee.”

You straighten slowly as something in your chest shifts. Nervousness, yes, but also something steadier underneath it. Because it’s him. Because you’ve done this before—just not like this.

You glance down at your notes then back up at him.

“My dissertation examines the cultural preservation of oral traditions within diasporic communities—”

“Stop.”

You blink.

“What?”

“Look at me when you say it.”

Your stomach flips.

“Steve—”

“You know this,” he says gently. “Don’t read it. Tell me.”

You hesitate, then slowly, you lift your gaze to his.

“My dissertation examines,” you try again, quieter this time, “the cultural preservation of oral traditions within diasporic communities…”

He nods once.

“Better.”

You keep going.

At first, your voice wavers. You stumble over phrasing. Lose your place. Backtrack. But Steve doesn’t interrupt unless he has to. When he does, it’s soft and precise.

“Slow down.”

“Breathe.”

“Say that again, but like you mean it.”

And somewhere between the second explanation and the third question, something clicks. Your shoulders loosen, your voice steadies, you stop looking at your notes and start answering him instead. Not perfectly but honestly, confidently like you actually believe what you're saying.

Steve watches you the whole time, not like a professor, not even like a mentor. Like someone who already knows you can do this.

“Alright,” he says after a while, holding up a hand. “Last question.”

You cross your arms.

“That’s what you said three questions ago.”

“Last one for real.”

You gesture.

“Go.”

He studies you for a second. “Why does this matter?”

You blink. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s the most important one.”

You exhale slowly as your gaze drifts for just a second—past him, past the room. To the years behind you, the work, the doubt. The reason you started this in the first place.

Then you look back at him.

“Because stories disappear,” you say quietly. “And when they do, pieces of people disappear with them. And if no one takes the time to listen… to document them… to protect them—then it’s like those lives never mattered in the first place.”

Your throat tightens slightly.

“But they do,” you finish. “They always did.”

Silence settles as Steve exhales softly.

“That’s your defense,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“That right there.” He gestures lightly toward you. “That’s the answer you lead with if everything else falls apart.”

Your chest rises and falls slowly. “…okay.”

He steps closer again, close enough now that his hand brushes yours before he laces them together.

“You’re ready,” he says.

You shake your head a little.

“I don’t feel ready.”

“You don’t have to feel ready,” he replies. “You just have to walk in there anyway.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh.

“That sounds terrifying.”

“It is.”

You look up at him.

“…will you be there?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. Not in the room, he can’t be, but still.

Steve’s expression softens.

“Right outside,” he says. “Same as always.”

Your chest tightens in that familiar, warm way and you nod.

“Okay.”

There’s a pause. Then his free hand lifts, brushing a loose strand of hair back from your face.

“You should get some sleep.”

“…will you stay?”

The words feel smaller now than they did the first time you asked them, but they mean the same thing.

Steve’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ll stay.”

Something in you settles. You stand slowly, gathering a few papers before giving up halfway through and leaving them where they are.

“Come on,” he murmurs, guiding you gently toward the bedroom with a hand at your back.

You go willingly this time. Mostly because Steve has perfected the art of steering you away from your own thoughts before they can swallow you whole.

The apartment is quiet around you both, softened by late-night stillness and the steady rain outside the windows. By the time you change into one of Steve’s old college shirts and climb into bed beside him, exhaustion has settled heavy into your bones.

But your mind still won’t stop moving. He notices immediately, of course he does.

He’s lying against the headboard with you tucked into his side, one arm around your shoulders while your fingers trace invisible patterns against his chest. The room glows dimly from the bedside lamp, warm enough to make everything feel slower.

Safer.

“You’re thinking again,” he says quietly.

You sigh dramatically against him. “That obvious?”

“Mhm.”

His hand drifts lazily up and down your back.

“You get this little line between your eyebrows,” he murmurs. “Like you’re trying to personally fistfight your own brain.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself.

“I just keep replaying tomorrow,” you admit softly. “What if I freeze during the defense? What if they ask something I don’t know? What if my argument falls apart halfway through and—”

Steve leans down and kisses you mid-sentence. It's soft and brief but warm enough to interrupt the spiral before it fully forms.

When he pulls back, you blink at him.

“Steve—”

Another kiss.

You stare at him afterward, startled into silence.

His mouth twitches slightly. “No dissertation talk in bed.”

Your lips part in disbelief. “You cannot possibly enforce that rule.”

“I absolutely can.”

You narrow your eyes. “That seems unconstitutional.”

“Good thing I’m retired.”

You snort softly, but the anxious energy still buzzes beneath your skin. Steve can feel it too. You know he can by the way his hand settles more firmly at your waist.

“I’m serious,” you whisper after a moment. “What if I’m not ready?”

Steve’s expression softens instantly, but before he answers, he kisses you again. Longer this time, slow enough that your thoughts stumble over themselves trying to keep up.

When he pulls away, your cheeks are warm.

“Steve,” you mumble weakly.

“Nope.” He brushes his nose lightly against yours. “Still dissertation talk.”

You try not to smile. You fail immediately.

“This is manipulation.”

“It’s self-defense.”

You laugh quietly, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he shifts lower into the pillows with you half-sprawled across his chest now. His heartbeat thumps steadily beneath your ear.

“You know,” he says softly into your hair, “I’ve met a lot of brilliant people.”

You glance up slightly.

“And not one of them walked into a room already knowing every answer.” His fingers slide gently through your hair. “Being scared doesn’t mean you aren’t ready.”

Emotion presses unexpectedly against your ribs.

“But what if I disappoint everyone?”

Steve’s entire face softens at that.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

The sadness in his voice hurts worse than if he’d sounded frustrated.

He tilts your chin upward gently.

“You could walk into that room tomorrow and completely bomb the whole thing,” he says carefully, “and I would still come home tomorrow night thinking you’re the smartest person I know.”

Your eyes sting instantly.

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

You stare at him quietly for a moment, heart aching with something too tender to name properly. Then, because your brain refuses to let you rest, you whisper:

“What if I throw up?”

Steve bursts into helpless laughter, real laughter that's warm and surprised and beautiful enough that you start laughing too despite yourself.

“Oh my God,” you groan, hiding your face against his chest. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” he says through another grin. “I’m laughing because that’s your catastrophic scenario?”

“I’m serious!”

“You think distinguished faculty members have never seen a nervous grad student before?”

“I think they’d remember me forever.”

“I think,” he says, pulling you closer beneath the blankets, “you’re spiraling again.”

You mumble something incoherent into his shirt.

“What was that?”

“I said maybe.”

Steve smiles against your forehead before pressing another kiss there. Then another against your temple, then the corner of your mouth. Every touch feels deliberate with him. Never rushed or careless.

“You know what your problem is?” he murmurs sleepily.

“What?”

“You think your worth disappears the second you stop performing perfectly.”

Your throat tightens immediately as Steve’s thumb strokes slowly along your spine.

“But I need you to understand something.” His voice drops quieter now, steadier somehow. “There has never been a moment I was proudest of you because you were impressive.”

You blink up at him.

“The moments I love most,” he says softly, “are the small ones.”

Your chest aches.

“The way you read with your whole face scrunched up.” A kiss against your hairline. “The way you hum when you’re making coffee.” Another kiss. “The way you care so much about people it physically hurts you sometimes.”

You go very still beneath him.

Steve looks down at you with sleepy certainty.

“You could fail every academic thing you ever attempt,” he murmurs, “and you would still be the person I want beside me at the end of every day.”

The room feels impossibly quiet after that, all that echoes around you is the rain tapping softly against the windows, Steve’s heartbeat beneath your ear. His hand warm against your back.

You realize slowly that your thoughts have finally stopped screaming.

“I love you,” slips out before you can stop it.

The words hang there for half a second and you freeze next to him. Then Steve’s entire expression changes. Not shock or surprised, just something unbearably soft.

He kisses you once, deeply enough that it steals the rest of your thoughts clean away.

“I love you too,” he whispers against your lips.

You smile tiredly into the darkness after that, finally letting your eyes drift shut as he pulls the blankets higher around you both. A few minutes pass in comfortable silence. Then, barely awake, you mumble against him.

“But statistically speaking—”

Steve kisses you quiet again immediately. And this time when he pulls back, you’re laughing too hard and too sleepily to continue the sentence.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs warmly.

You do.

There are evenings where your life feels so small it scares you.

Not bad, it's never been bad. Just small in the way routines become invisible after a while, like you’ve repeated the same motions so many times they stop feeling like choices and start feeling like gravity.

Wake up.

Coffee.

Work.

Dinner.

Sleep.

Repeat until the days blur soft around the edges.

The apartment carries those routines now. They’ve soaked into the walls alongside the smell of old books and takeout containers and the lavender detergent Bucky insists smells “like rich people trying to relax.”

You can tell what kind of day it’s been by the position of his shoes near the door. Tonight they’re kicked halfway across the floor, messy and careless, which means he came home distracted. Probably stuck on a line he couldn’t finish.

You glance toward the couch where Bucky is sprawled out beneath the yellow glow of the standing lamp, notebook balanced against his knee, pen tapping absently against his mouth. His hair’s longer now than when you first met him. Softer too. It curls slightly at the ends after showers and falls into his eyes when he reads.

You love him so much sometimes it feels inconvenient.

The realization still catches you off guard even after two years.

You used to count your life in semesters. In deadlines. In surviving until the next thing. Now you count it in quieter ways. How many poems Bucky leaves on the fridge before work, how often he reaches for your hand without looking, how every version of home somehow became him.

You finish wiping down the kitchen counter and glance toward him again.

“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re brooding.”

He gasps softly, offended. “Wow.”

You snort.

The local paper started publishing his poetry six months ago. Every Thursday there’s a tiny column tucked near the back pages beneath community events and weather forecasts.

Byline: James Buchanan Barnes. Poet.

You still keep the first clipping folded in your wallet. He acted embarrassed when you cried over it. But you think some part of him needed proof that his words deserved to take up space in the world.

The same way you still need proof sometimes too.

Your customer service job pays rent. Barely. Your dream job still sits just out of reach somewhere beyond applications and interviews and “we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.”

Some days you feel okay about it, other days it feels like standing still while everyone else keeps moving.

Tonight is one of those nights.

You settle onto the opposite end of the couch with a sigh, curling your legs beneath yourself. Bucky glances over immediately, reading you too easily.

“What’s that face?”

“What face?”

“That one.”

You roll your eyes. “Helpful.”

He studies you for another second before setting the notebook aside completely, and that gets your attention.

“You abandoned the poem?”

“Yeah.”

“That serious?”

“Very.”

You narrow your eyes immediately when he suddenly pushes himself off the couch.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Bucky—”

“Get your shoes on.”

You stare at him. “It’s eight o’clock.”

“Exactly.”

“That means pajamas.”

“That means adventure.”

“You sound like a children’s television host.”

He points toward the bedroom. “Shoes.”

You squint harder. “This feels illegal somehow.”

His mouth twitches.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says softly. “You’ve had that look all week.”

“What look?”

“The one where you disappear into your own head.”

Your chest tightens a little at that.

Being known is still terrifying sometimes, even now. Especially now, because Bucky notices everything. The way your voice changes when rejection emails hit harder than you let on, the way you start apologizing more when you’re feeling uncertain about yourself, the way silence gets heavier around you when you think you’re failing at becoming who you wanted to be.

He notices and worse—or better, he stays. No matter what, no matter how quiet or cold you get. He stays.

You groan dramatically and shove yourself upright. “If I end up murdered, I want it on record that I knew this was a bad idea.”

Bucky grins instantly, bright and boyish.

“That’s the spirit.”

The city at night feels softer than it does during the day. Less demanding.

Streetlights smear gold across wet pavement while music hums low through Bucky’s truck speakers. The windows are cracked just enough for cool air to slip through. You rest your elbow against the door and watch people pass in blurred fragments. A couple arguing outside a laundromat, someone smoking beneath a flickering neon sign, a teenager skateboarding recklessly down the sidewalk.

Entire lives brushing past yours for half a second at a time.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” you ask.

“Nope.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“You already agreed.”

“You manipulated me emotionally.”

“I used my charm.”

You glance at him flatly. “Those are not the same thing.”

“They can be.”

You laugh despite yourself, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe he knew the sound had been missing lately.

He pulls into the parking lot of your favorite pizza place twenty minutes later and you blink at the glowing sign.

“Oh.”

“Told you I had a plan.”

“You brought me here because I looked sad?”

“You looked existential.”

“That’s worse.”

The tiny restaurant is almost empty this late. Same red booths, same sticky tables, same old jukebox in the corner that hasn’t worked properly in years. You and Bucky have been coming here since college back when splitting one pizza felt financially reckless, when loving each other still felt fragile enough to hold carefully.

Now the owner barely asks what you want before shouting your usual order toward the kitchen.

“Y’know,” Bucky says as you slide into the booth, “I think Tony thinks we’re married.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “What?”

“He called you my wife last week.”

“And did you correct him?”

Bucky shrugs, suddenly very interested in the menu he already knows by heart making warmth bloom low in your chest. Dangerous warmth, the kind that makes your brain start building futures out of tiny moments.

You watch him for a second too long.

God.

You still remember what it felt like before this, before certainty. Before waking up beside him became normal. There are nights you still think about those letters, about lonely summer afternoons and folded paper softened by rereading. How strange it is that your whole life can change because someone once wrote, I’m glad there’s someone to do it with.

The pizza arrives steaming and you steal pepperonis off Bucky’s slice while he pretends not to notice.Outside afterward, he buys two cheap beers from the corner store despite your very serious reminder that technically neither of you should be drinking them on a public bridge.

“Live a little,” he says solemnly.

“You sound eighty years old.”

“I’m a poet now. It’s part of the job.”

The bridge overlooks the river cutting through the city. You sit side by side on the railing platform with your feet dangling over the edge, shoulders pressed together beneath the cold night air as cars hum below. The water moves black and silver beneath the lights and for a while neither of you speaks.

You sip your beer slowly as Bucky watches the skyline and somewhere in the quiet, your heartbeat settles back into itself.

“I thought graduating would fix everything,” you admit eventually.

He turns his head slightly.

“I know that sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.”

You pull your sleeves over your hands.

“I just thought… once we got here, things would feel bigger somehow. More important.” You laugh softly at yourself. “Instead I answer customer complaints about expired coupons.”

“You know what I did today?”

“What?”

“I spent forty minutes trying to rhyme something with ‘mercy.’”

Your mouth twitches.

“Did you figure it out?”

“Nope.”

You lean against him more fully.

“I just feel stuck,” you whisper finally.

The words leave your chest with surprising heaviness.

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, then he reaches over and laces your fingers together.

“You remember that first summer?”

You smile faintly. “Obviously.”

“You used to write me these huge paragraphs apologizing for not knowing what you wanted yet.”

Heat creeps into your cheeks. “I was dramatic.”

“You were scared.”

That lands softly in your heart, Bucky rubs his thumb slowly over your knuckles.

“You always think your life has to become something huge immediately or it doesn’t count.” He glances over at you. “But baby… we’re in our twenties”

You groan. “Don’t say the number out loud. It's cursed.”

He laughs quietly.

“You’re allowed to still be figuring things out.”

“I know.”

“No,” he says gently. “I don’t think you do.”

The wind shifts colder around you.

You think about your younger self sometimes. That girl measuring her worth through grades and achievements and survival and how she would not recognize this version of you.

Not because you changed into someone extraordinary but because you finally became someone soft enough to rest.

Your head drops onto Bucky’s shoulder.

“You always know exactly what to say, huh.”

“That’s why they pay me the medium bucks.”

You snort so loudly a couple walking past glances over and Bucky looks deeply pleased with himself.

The drive home feels lighter.

You’re halfway through telling him about an especially ridiculous customer interaction when he suddenly reaches over.

“Cover your eyes.”

You stare at him. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon.”

“You’re driving.”

“I know where we are.”

“That’s statistically how most accidents happen.”

“Baby.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously then sigh dramatically and cover them anyway.

“If I die, Rebecca gets my books.”

“She already steals your books.”

“Exactly. She’ll know what to do.”

Bucky laughs under his breath.

You hear the truck turn twice, then stop.

The engine cuts.

“Okay,” he says carefully. “Don’t open them yet.”

“This is how horror movies start.”

He opens your door before you can complain further and takes your hand. The night air smells different here, cleaner somehow.

You let him guide you carefully forward.

“One sec,” he murmurs.

There’s a door opening, voices, a warm air wrapping around you then Bucky's voice.

“Okay. Open.”

You uncover your eyes and blink.

Animal shelter.

Your brain takes a full second to catch up.

“…Bucky.”

He suddenly looks nervous, actually nervous. Hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets while fluorescent light spills across his face kind of nervous.

“You said the apartment felt too quiet sometimes,” he says quickly. “And I know we talked about maybe getting one eventually and I just thought maybe eventually could be now and—”

“Bucky.”

He stops rambling instantly and your eyes drift past him toward the room behind the front desk.

Cats.

Sleeping in curled shapes beneath blankets, tiny paws pressed against glass while one orange kitten attacks absolutely nothing.

Your chest physically aches.

“You brought me to adopt a cat?”

His shoulders lift slightly. “Maybe.”

Emotion hits you strangely, warm and a little achey. Because suddenly you understand.

This whole night. The pizza place, the bridge, the drive. None of it was really about cheering you up. It was Bucky reminding you that your life is happening right now, not someday when everything finally becomes impressive enough.

Now.

In pizza booths and shared beers and tiny apartments and in shelter cats and late-night drives and poems tucked into newspaper corners.

You look back at him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

His expression softens carefully. “Yeah?”

You step forward and kiss him before he can say anything else, he melts into it instantly. When you pull away, his forehead drops against yours.

“Is that a yes?”

“You knew it was a yes.”

Inside, the shelter is warm and sleepy. A volunteer leads you through rows of cats while Bucky listens with impossible seriousness to every backstory.

Then—

You see her.

A fluffy white cat sprawled dramatically across the top perch of a cat tree.

One green eye cracked open lazily as you approach.

The tag reads: ALPINE — 2 YEARS OLD.

“She looks judgmental,” you whisper.

Bucky immediately falls in love.

“I think she’s perfect.”

Alpine stretches slowly before stepping directly into Bucky’s waiting arms like she’s already decided.

You stare.

“Oh, so she chose immediately.”

Bucky looks unbearably smug as Alpine presses her face into his chest.

“You jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

The adoption paperwork takes almost an hour. By the time you finally carry Alpine into the apartment wrapped in a borrowed shelter blanket, it’s nearly midnight. She immediately jumps onto the couch like he owns the place.

“You fit in disturbingly fast,” you tell her.

Bucky kneels beside the coffee table setting out food bowls with ridiculous concentration and your chest aches again. That same warm ache. You watch him for a long moment in the soft lamp light, his rolled sleeves, the tenderness built into every movement.

This ordinary beautiful life.

You think maybe happiness was never supposed to arrive loudly. Maybe it was always meant to collect slowly in small places until one day you look around and realize you’re surrounded by it.

Bucky glances up and catches you staring.

“What?”

You shake your head softly.

“Nothing.”

But he knows you too well for that as he stands and walks toward you slowly.

“What is it?”

You look past him briefly. At Alpine already asleep upside down on the couch, your cramped apartment, the poems taped to the fridge. At the man who once loved you through ink before he ever touched your hand.

Then back at him.

“I think,” you say quietly, “this might actually be the life I wanted.”

Something shifts in his face and softens, like those words reached somewhere sacred.

He cups your jaw gently.

“Yeah, baby?”

You nod.