I Read Stuff.

“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!

She heard him dust his boots heavily on the porch, then the door opened, and he stepped inside, bringing the cold air and the smell of pine and sweat with him. His eyes found her immediately, still standing by the stove where she'd been keeping the stew warm.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

She felt her face heat under his gaze, and her hands tightened on the wooden spoon she was holding.

"You're home," she managed, and immediately felt foolish. Of course he was home. She could see him standing right there.

But his expression softened slightly, and he set down his lunch pail by the door.

"I am," The words came out rough. Like he'd been working hard. Or thinking hard. Or both.

He shrugged out of his coat, hung it on the peg, and crossed the small space between them in a few strides.

She tensed with anticipation, expecting him to reach for her, to pull her close the way he had last night. But he stopped just in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and his hand came up to cup her face instead.

Gentle. Almost careful.

"Feelin’ alright?" he asked quietly.

The question caught her off guard. She'd expected... well, she wasn't sure what she'd expected. But not that.

"I'm fine," she said honestly.

His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, and something flickered in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or concern.

"Any discomfort?"

She shook her head.

He studied her face for another moment, like he was checking for signs she might be lying to spare his feelings. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, almost chaste- before stepping back.

"Smells good," he said, nodding toward the stove. "What is it?"

"Stew," she answered still processing the gentleness of that kiss. "It's been ready for a while. I was just keeping it warm."

"Sounds good." He moved past her toward the washbasin, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm starvin’."

She turned back to the stove, ladling stew into bowls, and tried to ignore the way her heart was still racing.

It was so stupid that the fact that he was careful and gentle with her still affected her, but she was still getting used to it. To matter. To have a voice. To like and dislike things and be checked on. To be cherished.

“Do you want to wash after you are done?” she heard herself ask without thinking.

He paused, his hands stilling in the basin where he'd been splashing water on his face. Then he straightened, reaching for the towel she kept hanging nearby, and turned to look at her.

"After dinner?" he repeated, like he was making sure he'd heard her right.

She nodded, focusing very hard on ladling the stew into the second bowl. "I could heat water for the tub. If you'd like."

There was a pause, just long enough that she glanced up to see if something was wrong.

He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something between surprised and... pleased, maybe.

"Yeah," he said finally, his voice a little rougher. "That'd be good."

She nodded and carried the bowls to the table, setting them down with hands that were steadier than she felt.

Offering to heat his bathwater wasn't scandalous. It was a perfectly normal thing for a wife to do for her husband after a long day of work.

Except they both knew what had happened the last time she'd helped him bathe.

When she'd washed his back with careful hands. When he'd been sitting in the tub and she'd been close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. When the air between them had been charged with something unspoken and inevitable.

And now -after last night- there was nothing unspoken left.

She sat down across from him at the table, smoothing her skirt unnecessarily, and picked up her spoon.

He did the same, taking a bite of the stew and making a low sound of approval.

"This is good," he said. "Real good."

"Thank you."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted with awareness. Of each other. Of what had happened. Of what would happen again.

Eventually, he cleared his throat.

"Had a hell of a time concentratin' today," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.

She looked up. "Oh?"

"Yeah." He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Miller nearly had to pull me out of the way of a fallin' log. And Davidson caught me splittin' the same piece of wood three times without realizin' it."

Her eyebrows rose. "That doesn't sound like you."

"It ain't." He finally looked at her then, and there was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip. "Kept thinkin' about last night."

Heat flooded her face instantly.

"About you," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "About comin' home to you."

She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if she was supposed to say anything.

But he didn't seem to expect a response. Just went back to his stew, though she could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw worked as he chewed.

Like he was holding himself back from saying -or doing- something more.

They finished the meal in that same charged silence, and when he pushed his bowl away, she stood to clear the table.

His hand slowly caught her wrist as she reached for his bowl.

She looked at him, her pulse jumping.

"I meant what I said," he said quietly. "About givin' you time. Few days, at least."

She swallowed. "I know."

"But… that ain't mean I don't wanna touch you." His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist, a slow movement that made her skin tingle. "If that's alright."

She thought about the way he'd looked at her when he came home. The careful way he'd touched her face. The kiss to her forehead that had been almost reverent.

She thought about the fact that she'd spent the entire day thinking about him too. About last night. About the future.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His expression changed -something dark and satisfied crossing his face- and he released her wrist.

"Go on then," he said. "Heat the water. I'll clear the table."

"You just got home," she said, already moving toward the stove to check the water she'd kept simmering. " I'll handle it."

"If I help, you can get started sooner," he countered, already standing and reaching for his bowl. "And honestly, the idea of a bath sounds real good right now."

She couldn't argue with that logic.

They worked in tandem, her hauling the tub from its spot in the corner while he carried the first pot of hot water, both of them moving anticipating each other's movements.

By the time the tub was half-full, she'd settled onto the chair nearby the fire, waiting as he added the last pot of cold water to temper the heat.

He straightened, testing the temperature with his hand, then started unbuttoning his shirt.

She didn't look away.

There'd been a time when they'd given each other privacy for this. When she would've turned the chair to face the wall, or busied herself with some task on the other side of the room.

But that time had passed.

Now she watched as he shrugged out of his shirt, the firelight playing across his shoulders, highlighting the old scars she'd traced with her fingers more times than she could count. And the new ones, faint red lines down his back where her nails had raked him last night.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, catching her staring, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Ain't fair, you know," he said, reaching for his belt. "You gettin' to look while I can't."

"I'm not the one getting in the bath," she deadpaned.

"True." He unfastened his belt, pushed his trousers down, and stepped out of them. Then his drawers followed, and he was bare, crossing the short distance to the tub without a hint of self-consciousness.

She'd seen him naked before. Many times, especially over the past two months. But there was something different about watching him now, in the firelight, knowing what it felt like to have that body covering hers. Inside hers.

He stepped into the tub with a low groan of relief, sinking down into the water until it lapped at his chest.

"Christ, that's good," he muttered, his head falling back against the rim.

She stood, collecting his discarded clothes and adding them to the basket near the door, very aware of his eyes tracking her movements.

When she turned back, he was watching her with an expression that made her stomach flip.

"You gonna help me?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Help you?"

"Yeah." He shifted in the tub, settling deeper. "I'm real tired. And last time you helped -when I had that cut on my hand- it was..." He paused, and she could see he was fighting a smile. "Real helpful."

She crossed her arms, trying to hide a smile. "You seem perfectly capable of washing yourself."

"Do I?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "Because I'm rememberin' how good it felt when you did it. Your hands in my hair. On my back."

Heat crept up her neck at the memory. At the intimacy of it, of touching him like that, tending to him.

"That was different," she said. "You were actually injured."

"I'm injured now," he said, deadpan. "Emotionally. From workin' all day thinkin' about my wife and not bein' able to do anythin' about it."

Despite herself, she felt her lips twitch.

"That's not a real injury."

"Feels real to me." He held her gaze, and the playfulness faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. More intent. "Come here."

It wasn't quite a command. More like an invitation. A request.

She crossed to the tub without hesitation and knelt beside it. His eyes tracked her movements, and when she reached for the soap, his hand caught her wrist.

Gently. Like he'd done at the dinner table.

"I promised I'd give you time," he said quietly. "And I meant it. But I want to touch you. Want you to touch me. That alright?"

She looked at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the tension in his jaw, at the way he was holding himself still despite clearly wanting more.

He was asking. Checking. Making sure she was comfortable.

Just like he had last night.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His grip on her wrist loosened, and he released her with what looked like effort.

"Good." he said, his voice rough.

----

She worked the soap between her hands until it lathered, then pressed her palms to his back. He made a low sound -half groan, half sigh- and let his head fall forward, giving her access.

She started at his shoulders, working the soap across the muscles, feeling the tension there start to ease under her touch. Then down his spine, she let her thumbs press on either side, the way she'd discovered he liked weeks ago and felt him exhale slowly, deeply.

Her hands knew this body now. Knew the old scars, the puckered one on his left shoulder blade, the long raised line that ran from shoulder to spine. Knew the new marks too, the faint red scratches she'd left last night, already fading but still visible in the firelight.

Evidence of what they'd done. What they'd become to each other.

"Lean forward," she said quietly.

He did, bracing his forearms on his knees, and she reached for the cup sitting beside the tub.

She poured water over his head slowly, watching it darken his hair from brown to almost black, watching it run in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. Then she set the cup aside and worked the soap through the wet strands.

Her fingers found his scalp, and she began to massage in slow, deliberate circles.

The sound he made was involuntary. Deep and rough and so unguarded that it sent a flutter through her stomach.

"That's..." He trailed off, seeming to lose the words.

"Good?" she offered, her fingers still working, applying gentle pressure as she moved across his scalp.

"Yeah." His voice had gone thick. "Real good."

She took her time with it. Working the soap through every strand, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made his breathing deepen. She'd done this once before when he'd injured his hand, but that had been different. An assistance.

This was something else.

When she was satisfied, she rinsed his hair carefully, filling the cup again and again, pouring the water slowly so the soap wouldn't run into his eyes. Making sure to get every bit of lather out, combing through the strands with her fingers.

She set the cup aside and sat back slightly, her hands stilling.

He started to reach for the soap, but she picked it up first.

His hand stilled in mid-air, suspended between them.

"I can-" he started, his voice careful.

"I know you can," she said simply.

She dampened and worked more soap in her hands until they had a lot of lather, and waited.

For a moment, he just looked at her. She could see him processing what she was offering. What she was saying without words.

That she wasn't finished. That she wanted to keep touching him.

Then, slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement might break whatever spell this was, he settled back against the tub. His arms came to rest along the rim, palms up, open.

Giving her access.

She brought the cloth to his chest, and his breathing changed immediately, deeper, more controlled, as she began to work the soap across his skin.

She started at his collarbone, tracing the hard line of it from shoulder to shoulder. Then down, over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand, strong and steady but faster than normal.

He was affected by this. By her touch.

She moved her hand in slow, careful circles. Across to his left side, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each breath. Then back to center and across to the right. Thorough. Methodical.

But not impersonal.

She was hyperaware of every point of contact. Of the way his skin felt warm and slick from the water. The way his muscles tensed slightly when she touched certain spots. Of the way he was watching her through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight.

His eyes had closed at some point, but she could see his hands gripping the edge of the tub, knuckles pale. He was holding himself very still. Letting her work. Not reaching for her even though she could see he wanted to.

She moved lower.

Over his stomach, feeling the muscle shift under her touch. Her hand traced the line where his torso met his hips, where the hair grew thicker, and she felt him tense.

His eyes opened.

She met his gaze -steady, deliberate- and brought her hand beneath the water.

Down, over his hip. Along his thigh.

And then, because there was no reason not to, because this was part of washing him, just like everything else, she brought it between his legs.

His breath caught audibly when her fingers made contact.

She worked carefully, the same way she'd washed the rest of him. Trying to be practical about it, though there was nothing clinical about the way her own heart was racing now. About the way her face felt warm despite the cool air in the cabin.

She felt him harden under her touch, the change immediate and undeniable, but kept her movements steady. Thorough. Washing him the way he'd need to be washed, trying not to think about the fact that she was touching him there.

When she shifted slightly to reach more thoroughly, his hips shifted forward involuntarily,  a sharp, sudden movement that made the water slosh slightly in the tub.

Chasing the contact.

He caught himself immediately, forced his hips back down, and she heard him exhale through clenched teeth.

"Can't help it, sweetheart," he said, his voice wrecked. Strained. "You touch me like that, I-"

He cut himself off, gripping the tub harder, his whole body gone rigid with the effort of not moving. Of not reaching for her. Of not asking for more than she was offering.

"I know," she said quietly, and meant it.

She could see what this was doing to him. Could see it written in every line of his body, the tension, the restraint, the way he was barely holding himself together.

But he wasn't asking her to stop, or to do more. He was just letting her touch him, letting her explore. Letting her learn him at her own pace.

She finished washing him, moving the cloth down his thighs, along his calves, even taking each foot in turn and working the soap carefully between his toes.

When she was done, she rinsed her hands and rested it in her thighs, very aware that her sleeves were damp from the water. That her face was heated. That her breathing wasn't entirely steady.

And he was sitting there in the cooling water, his eyes on her, his chest rising and falling with breaths that were deeper than they should be.

Then he exhaled slowly and opened his eyes fully.

"Thank you," he said.

She nodded, not trusting her own voice, and stood.

"I'll get you a towel," she managed.

She crossed to the chest where they kept the linens, taking perhaps a moment longer than necessary to find one. Using the time to steady herself. To slow her breathing.

Behind her, she heard him shift in the water. Heard the quiet splash and the sound of water streaming off his body as he stood.

When she turned back, towel in hand, he was standing in the tub, water sluicing off his skin in rivulets that caught the firelight.

She could see all of him.

His broad shoulders. His chest. His stomach. The dark hair that trailed down from his navel. His thighs, thick with muscle.

And between them, the evidence of exactly how much her touch had affected him.

Still hard. Still wanting.

She felt her face heat again, felt that now-familiar flutter low in her belly, but she didn't look away, didn't drop her gaze or pretend she hadn't seen.

Just held out the towel.

He stepped out of the tub carefully, water dripping onto the floor, and reached for it.

But instead of taking the towel immediately, his hand caught hers.

Gently. The way he'd done at the dinner table earlier.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Slowly. His lips were warm and soft against her skin.

His eyes held hers the entire time.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he said quietly, his voice still rough with want. With restraint. "You know that?"

She didn't know what to say to that.

Didn't know if there was anything she could say that would adequately express what she was feeling, the strange mix of power and vulnerability, of curiosity and nervousness, of wanting to touch him more and being afraid of what might happen if she did.

So she just stood there, her hand still caught in his, her heart pounding.

Then he released her and took the towel, wrapping it around his waist with movements that were just slightly less controlled than usual and walked to the bed.

"Come here," he said quietly.

She complied, and he reached for her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him. For a moment, they just sat there. Close but not touching beyond where his hand still held hers.

Then he brought their joined hands to his lap and traced his thumb across her knuckles.

"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly. "Wash me like that."

"I know."

"But you did anyway."

She nodded.

"Why?"

The question was gentle, curious. Not demanding. She considered it for a moment, then chose to be honest.

"Because I wanted to," she said finally. Simply. “Wanted to help you, and… wanted to touch you.”

His thumb stilled on her hand.

"You wanted to," he repeated, like he was testing the words.

"Yes."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You tell me, sweetheart. Am I pushin' too hard? Askin' for too much?"

She looked at him, at the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he was watching her like her answer actually mattered, and felt something warm settle in her chest.

"No," she said firmly. "You're not."

"You'd tell me if I was?"

"I would."

He studied her face for another moment, then nodded, seeming satisfied.

"Good," he said. "Because the last thing I want is for you to feel like you have to... like any of this is somethin' you're doin' out of duty."

"It's not," she said quietly. "I promise."

He swallowed, and she watched his throat work with the motion. Then he shifted slightly on the bed, his thighs separating just enough that the towel around his waist loosened, falling open slightly.

The evidence of his arousal was impossible to miss.

His hand tightened on hers for a moment, then released.

"Then," he said, his voice rough. "Would you be willin' to... help me with my situation?"

Her eyes flicked down, then back to his face.

She'd done this before. Multiple times, actually, in the weeks leading up to last night. He'd touched her, and both had discovered what she liked, what made her gasp and arch into his hand. And she'd explored him in return, learned the weight of him in her palm, the rhythm he preferred, the signs that told her he was close.

It had been part of learning each other. Part of him making sure she was comfortable with intimacy before they took that final step.

But somehow this time felt different. Maybe because now she knew what it felt like to have him inside her. Knew what he sounded like when he lost control completely.

"Alright," she said quietly.

His eyes darkened, and she saw relief and want on them.

She moved to stand between his knees, and he reached for the towel, pulling it away completely and tossing it aside. Then his hands came to rest lightly on her hips.

"You don't have to," he said, even though she'd already agreed. "If you're too tired, or if-"

"Bucky," she interrupted gently. "I said alright."

He exhaled slowly, and his grip on her hips tightened slightly.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."

She started to reach for him, but the angle was awkward; she'd have to bend forward, lean down, and her back would start protesting within minutes.

He seemed to realize it at the same time she did.

"Here," he said, releasing her hips. "Get the stool. You'll be more comfortable."

She retrieved the small wooden stool they kept by a corner and positioned it between his knees. When she sat, his hands settled on her thighs this time, palms warm even through her skirts.

She wrapped her hand around him, and he made a sound -low and rough- that sent heat pooling down her belly.

"Christ," he muttered, his head falling back slightly. "Your hand’s so warm..."

She knew what he liked. Had learned it over the course of multiple evenings spent exploring each other, his patient instructions guiding her until she understood the pressure he needed, the rhythm that worked.

So she started the way she always did, slow and firm, her hand moving from base to tip and back again in long, steady strokes.

His hips shifted forward slightly, following the movement, and his hands tightened on her thighs.

"That's good," he said, his voice strained. "That's real good, sweetheart."

She kept the rhythm steady, watching his face. Watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing went ragged, the way his eyes drifted closed.

His hands slid higher on her thighs, gripping through her skirts like he needed something to hold onto.

"Tighter," he said after a moment. "Can you- yeah, like that."

She adjusted her grip, and he groaned.

"Faster?"

"Not yet," he said, his voice tight. "Want it to last."

So she kept the pace slow. Deliberate. Let him feel every stroke.

One of his hands left her thigh and came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a gesture that was tender despite the explicit nature of what she was doing to him.

"You're so good to me," he said quietly, his eyes opening to meet hers. "So damn good."

She felt her face heat at the words, at the sincerity in them.

His hand slid from her face down to her neck, then lower, curving around her waist. His other hand stayed on her thigh, grounding, possessive in a way that made her stomach flutter.

"Okay," he said after another minute, his breathing harsher now. "Okay, faster now."

She increased the pace, her wrist working in the rhythm she knew he needed, and felt him tense beneath her touch.

"God, yes," he muttered. "Just like that, sweet girl. Don't stop."

His hips started moving in small thrusts, matching her rhythm, and she could feel him getting closer. Could see it in the way his whole body tensed, in the way his fingers dug into her waist, in the way his breathing had turned ragged and uneven.

"Darlin’," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm gonna-”

He was trying to warn her. Trying to give her time to move her hand and let him take over, grab the towel, to do whatever she needed to do.

But she didn't pull away.

Just kept moving her hand, moving, steady and sure, the way he needed.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His eyes locked on hers, and something in his expression shifted. Went dark, intense and full of want.

"Fuck," he breathed, and then his whole body went rigid.

She felt him pulse in her hand, felt the warmth spill over her fingers as he spent, his hips jerking forward with each wave. He made a sound -low and broken- and his hand came up to cover hers, holding her in place while he rode it out.

When it was over, he slumped forward slightly, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his breathing ragged against her neck.

They stayed like that for a moment, her hand still wrapped around him, his face buried in the curve of her neck, both of them catching their breath.

Then he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes still dark but softer now.

"Sorry," he said, his voice rough. "Should've grabbed the towel, I just-"

"It's fine," she said.

He reached for the towel anyway, gently taking her hand and cleaning it carefully. When he was done, he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. Slow and deep and grateful.

When he pulled back, he was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"You should get into your nightgown," he said finally. "Get comfortable."

She nodded and stood, retrieving her nightgown from beneath her pillow where she'd tucked it that morning. She crossed to the corner near the dresser where a small peg rack hung on the wall, beginning to unbutton her dress.

----

Behind her, she heard him move, the creak of the bed as he stood, his footsteps crossing to the water bucket. The sound of him drinking deeply, then setting the dipper back with a soft clatter.

Then she heard him chewing biscuits.

She rolled her eyes. They'd just eaten. The man had put away two full bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread less than an hour ago.

More drinking. Another swallow. Then silence.

She'd worked her dress off and draped it over the peg, then the petticoat, the corset. Her fingers moved to the ties of her drawers when she heard his footsteps again.

But they weren't heading back to the bed.

They were coming toward her.

She stilled, her hands on the waistband of her drawers, and then she felt him behind her. Close. Not touching yet, but close enough that she could feel his body heat.

His hands settled on her bare skin, one at the small of her back, the other at her shoulder blade, and began to stroke her naked skin in slow strokes. She shivered despite the warmth of the cabin.

"Wanna touch you now," he said quietly, his voice rough and low near her ear. "Is that alright?"

She almost chuckled. So that's why he'd told her to change.

She finished pushing her drawers down her hips and stepped out of them, straightening fully. His hands were still on her back, waiting for her answer.

"More than alright," she said.

She heard the shift in his breathing. Felt one hand slide around to her hip, holding her in place.

"Yeah?" His other hand moved up to her shoulder, his thumb stroking along her collarbone. "You sure?"

She hesitated, feeling heat creep up her neck. Then, because he'd been honest with her earlier about being distracted at work, she made herself say it.

"You're not the only one who spent today thinking about last night, Bucky," she admitted quietly. "I was... distracted too."

His hand on her hip tightened, and she felt him step closer. Close enough that his chest was nearly pressed against her back.

"That right?" he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

She nodded.

His hand slid from her hip upward, gliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. His palm was warm and calloused against her soft skin, and when his thumb found her nipple and began circling the areola in slow, deliberate strokes, she couldn't quite suppress the small sound that escaped her lips.

"What were you thinkin' about?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear now. "Specifically."

His thumb continued its maddening circles, not quite touching where she was starting to want him to touch, just tracing around and around until she felt her nipple tighten in response.

She swallowed, trying to find words while his hands were on her like this.

"About..." She paused, her breath catching when his thumb finally brushed directly over the peaked bud. "About how it felt. What you did."

"What I did," he repeated, his voice a low rumble against her back. His thumb rolled over her nipple again, more deliberately this time, and his other hand slid from her shoulder down to join the first, cupping her other breast. "Gonna need you to be more specific than that, sweetheart."

Both hands now, both thumbs working in tandem, and she had to brace one hand against the wall to steady herself.

"When you..." She took a shaky breath. "When you touched me. Before. And during."

"Durin’," he said, and there was something almost predatory in his tone now. Pleased. "You mean when I was inside you?"

"Yes," she managed.

His hands stilled for a moment, and then he turned her around to face him.

She found herself looking up at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the focus written across every line of his face.

"And what exactly were you thinkin' about that?" he asked, one hand coming up to cup her face while the other settled at her waist. "That… you wanted me to do it again?"

The directness of the question should have embarrassed her. Would have embarrassed her, even just yesterday.

But there was something about the way he was looking at her. The way his thumb was stroking along her cheekbone. The way he was asking instead of assuming.

"Eventually," she said honestly. "When... when it doesn't hurt anymore."

Something flickered in his expression, that guilt again, brief but unmistakable.

"It's gonna be a lot better next time," he said quietly.

"I know."

"When we do it again," he continued, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, "it's gonna feel good. Real good. I'm gonna make sure of it."

She believed him. Because he'd already shown her what good felt like, with his hands, with his mouth, with the patient way he'd learned what made her gasp and arch into his touch.

"But right now," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I just wanna make you feel good. Can I do that?"

"Yes," she said.

His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Good," he said. "Now come here."

He guided her backward toward the bed, and she went willingly, her heart already racing in anticipation of what came next.

He stood in front of her for a moment, just looking. His eyes traced over her, bare and exposed in the firelight, and she fought the urge to cover herself.

She'd been naked in front of him many times before. But it still made her feel vulnerable in a way she couldn't quite explain.

"Lie back," he said quietly.

She did, scooting further onto the bed and settling against the pillows. He followed, moving onto the bed with her, bracing himself on one arm beside her while his other hand came to rest on her stomach.

"You're tense," he observed, his palm warm against her skin.

"I'm not-"

"You are." His hand moved in a slow circle, soothing. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm just gonna make you feel good. That's all."

She took a breath and tried to let the tension ease out of her shoulders.

His hand moved from her stomach upward, sliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. The touch was gentle at first, exploratory, almost.

"I didn't pay enough attention to these last night," he said, almost to himself. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she felt it tighten in response. "Was too focused on gettin' inside you."

His hand shifted, and he cupped her other breast, giving it the same careful attention, testing its weight.

"But I got time now," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "And I'm gonna take it."

He lowered his head, and she felt his breath ghost across her skin a moment before his mouth closed over her nipple. The sensation made her gasp, wet heat and gentle suction that sent a jolt of feeling straight between her thighs.

His tongue slowly circled the peaked bud, and then he sucked again, harder this time, and her hands flew to his shoulders without conscious thought.

"Bucky-"

He hummed against her skin, and his hand came up to tend to her other breast while his mouth stayed busy.

His fingers found her nipple and pressed firmly under it, making her arch slightly into the touch. Then he pulled gently, tugging just enough that the sensation rode the line between pleasure and something more intense.

She whined  -helpless and uncontrolled- and felt him smile against her breast. He switched sides then, his mouth moving to the breast his hand had been tending while his fingers took over where his mouth had been.

The pattern repeated, his tongue circling and flicking, his lips suckling, his teeth grazing so lightly she barely felt it. And his hand, always his hand, pressing and tugging and coaxing her body to respond.

She could feel herself getting restless beneath him. Could feel heat building low in her belly, her thighs shifting against each other, seeking friction that wasn't there.

"Easy," he murmured against her skin. "Not rushin' this."

His mouth stayed on her breast, working her nipple with single-minded focus until it was hard and sensitive and slick from his attention. Then he moved to the other side again, giving it the same thorough treatment until both peaks were tight and aching and she was breathing harder than she meant to.

When he finally pulled back, she looked down to find him watching her with dark, intent eyes. Her breasts felt hot from his attention, her nipples darker and visibly wet, and she felt heat flood her face at the sight.

"Look at you," he said quietly, his hand coming up to cup one breast again, his thumb brushing over the sensitized peak and making her shiver. "So responsive. My wife."

He leaned down and pressed one more kiss to each nipple -soft, almost reverent- and then his hand began to move lower.

Down her stomach. Over her hip. Along her inner thigh.

"Now," he said, his voice rough with want, "let me take care of the rest of you."

His hand moved higher on her thigh, and she felt her legs part without him having to ask.

"That's it," he murmured, his palm warm against her inner thigh. "Just like that, sweetheart."

But then his other hand joined the first, and he pressed gently, urging her to open wider, spread more. She expected him to lower his head. To put his mouth on her the way he'd done before, the way that had made her forget her own name.

But he didn't.

Instead, he just... looked.

His thumbs traced along her soft curls, and then he gently parted her. Spreading her open. Exposing her completely to his gaze.

She felt her whole body tense with something that went beyond nervousness into outright mortification. It was one thing to let him touch her. To let him use his mouth on her. She'd gotten used to that over the past weeks, had learned to relax into the pleasure of it.

But this was different.

This was him looking at the most intimate part of her body with the focus he usually reserved for checking a piece of wood for flaws.

"Bucky," she managed, her voice thin. "What are you-"

She tried to close her legs, instinct taking over, but his hands stayed firm on her thighs.

"Wanna look at my wife proper," he said quietly, his eyes still fixed between her legs. "Wanna see if… if you're hurt. From last night."

The admission made her relax a little. He was just checking on her, making sure he hadn't done more damage than he'd realized.

"What's bothering me is inside," she said quietly. "I don't think you can see it."

He looked up at her then, and she saw something flicker across his face. Maybe the realization that he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.

"Right," he said after a moment. "Yeah, that makes sense."

He seemed almost sheepish about it, and despite her discomfort, she felt a small flicker of affection.

Then his thumbs moved again, stroking gently along either side of her entrance.

"I'm not gonna use my fingers today," he said, lowering his head. "Just want to make you feel good. That alright?"

"Yes," she managed.

And then his mouth was on her.

The first touch of his tongue made her gasp, a broad, flat stroke that started low and dragged upward with deliberate slowness.

He did it again. And again. Long, slow licks that covered every inch of her, and made her remember with what made her twitch, what made her breathing hitch, what made her hands fly to his hair without meaning to.

His tongue circled her entrance gently, and she tensed slightly at the sensation.

He must have felt it, because he moved away immediately. Shifted his focus higher, to the small bundle of nerves that made her fall apart when he paid it the right kind of attention.

He settled there now, his tongue working in slow, deliberate circles while his hands held her thighs open. Keeping her spread for him. Keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

"Bucky," she breathed, and she felt him hum against her in response.

His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, holding her down. Not rough, but firm, keeping her still while he worked.

His tongue flicked faster now, more focused, and she felt that familiar tension start to build low in her belly. The sensation coiled tighter and tighter with each pass of his tongue.

She was dimly aware that her fingers had tightened in his hair. That she was making sounds she couldn't quite control. And he just kept going. Patiently. Thoroughly.

Like he had all the time in the world and was determined to use every second of it, making her feel good.

She gasped hard when he started to suck gently, his lips closing around that sensitive spot and creating pressure that made her vision blur, her hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth.

"Let go, sweetheart. I got you." He murmured against her skin.

His tongue returned to its work -circling, flicking, pressing- and she felt the tension reach a breaking point.

And then it snapped.

The pleasure hit her in waves, rolling through her body in pulses that made her arch off the bed despite his hands holding her hips. Made her cry out -his name, maybe, or just an incoherent sound- while he kept his mouth on her, working her through it with gentle, steady strokes.

When the waves finally subsided, she collapsed back against the pillows, boneless and breathing hard. He pressed one last soft kiss to her entrance, then another to her inner thigh, before pulling back.

She looked down to find him watching her with an expression of deep satisfaction.

"Good?" he asked, his voice rough.

She could only nod, still trying to catch her breath.

He moved up the bed, settling beside her and pulling her against his chest. His hand stroked lazily up and down her back while her breathing slowly returned to normal.

"You did good," he murmured into her hair. "Real good for me."

She made a sound that might have been agreement or just exhaustion, and felt him chuckle quietly. They lay like that for a while, the cabin quiet except for the crackling fire and their breathing.

Eventually, he stirred.

"Should get you into that nightgown," he said. "Before you fall asleep like this and wake up freezing."

She made a noise of protest, but he was already moving, retrieving the nightgown from where it had fallen to the floor and helping her sit up enough to pull it over her head.

Once she was covered, he settled back down beside her, pulling the blankets up over both of them and tucking her against his side. She felt his fingers trace idle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing deep and even. The warmth of his body, the weight of the quilts, the dying fire, it all started to pull her toward sleep.

She was just beginning to drift when his voice rumbled quietly through his chest.

.

"Been thinkin'," he murmured against her hair. "Tomorrow's Sunday. We could head into town if you want."

She stirred slightly, her hand settling on his chest. "Oh. Is the reverend coming?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"He ain’t. That's exactly why we're goin'."

She lifted her head enough to swat his arm lightly. He didn't even flinch, just kept that amused expression on his face.

"The boys at camp were sayin' that with winter comin' on, a lot of the commercial traffic's gonna die off," he explained. "So the shopkeepers and folks in town decided to open on Sundays for the next few weeks. Give the logging crews and the miners from up the mountain a chance to stock up on what they need before things get real bad."

"That's very convenient," she said.

"It is," he agreed. "They're clearly doin' it to make money, not charity, but it works out for us."

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Is there something you need?"

"Few things," he said. "Root cellar could be fuller."

She tensed slightly against him, and he felt it immediately.

"Ain’t your fault," he said before she could apologize. "You came from the city. You got no idea what winter's like out here. How much we need to have stored up."

His hand stroked along her back, soothing.

"Plus," he added, "I've been eatin' more since you got here. Means we're goin' through supplies faster."

She relaxed slightly at that, settling back against him.

"So, provisions," he continued. "Anything that'll keep. And..." He paused. "You're gonna need warmer clothes."

"I have-"

"Not warm enough," he interrupted gently. "What you brought from back East ain't gonna cut it when it really starts snowin'. We're gonna be inside most of the time, sure, but there'll be moments we need to go out. Tendin' to the horse, clearin' snow, fetchin' firewood. And even inside..." He pulled her a little closer. "There's gonna be times when the fire alone ain't enough. You're gonna need layers. Real warm ones."

She was quiet for a moment, processing that.

"I feel silly. Didn't realize it would be that cold," she said finally.

"It gets real cold," he confirmed. "We'll keep the fire goin' day and night, but the cabin’s living space ain’t precisely small. Heat doesn't reach everywhere equally."

He felt her shiver slightly at the thought, and he tightened his arm around her.

"We'll manage," he said. "Just need to be prepared. That's all."

"Alright," she said quietly. "Then we'll go to town tomorrow."

"Also," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice, "wanna show you off a little before we get snowed in."

She snorted against his chest. "Show me off?"

"It's true," he said, unrepentant. His hand slid from her back down to her hip, then lower, giving her rear a gentle squeeze through the nightgown. "We haven't been able to go into town together much. Just that first time, and Thanksgiving. Want folks to see us together proper."

"Oh, Bucky…"

"Want 'em to see you on my arm," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "Want 'em to see that you're mine and I'm yours."

She felt giddy at the quiet possessiveness in his voice. The pride.

"And," he added, "thought I might take you for a drink at the saloon. If you're amenable."

She lifted her head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?"

His eyes gleamed in the low firelight, and his mouth curved into something wicked.

"Hm, are you concerned?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Or are you askin' me to?"

She felt heat flood through her body, -embarrassment and something else entirely- and she buried her face back in his chest.

"That's not- I didn't mean-"

She could feel him laughing, the vibrations rumbling through his chest beneath her cheek.

"If that's what you want," he said, clearly enjoying himself, "I'll let you drink all you want. That way you can tell me again how handsome I am and how you can't stop lookin' at me."

She made a strangled sound and covered her face with her hands, even though he couldn't see her anyway with her face pressed against his chest.

"Oh my god," she mumbled into her palms.

His laughter softened, and she felt his hand come up to gently pull her hands away from her face.

"Hey," he said, his voice losing that teasing edge. "Look at me."

She lifted her head reluctantly, expecting to see him still grinning at her expense.

But his expression had changed. Still warm, but serious now.

"I was glad to hear that, darling," he said quietly. "Real glad. It’s nice to know it ain’t only me who's smitten with you. That you feel somethin' for me too."

"You made it easy," she maintained his gaze. "To care about you. You are patient with me. Kind. You never made me feel like I was a burden or an obligation, even though that's exactly what I was at first."

His hand cupped her face more fully. "You were never a burden."

"I was," she insisted. "I showed up unannounced, caused a scandal, forced you into a marriage you didn't want-"

He huffed.

“I put a sign, woman. I was pretty much interested in gettin’ married”

“But we didn’t get to court properly, you didn’t know where you were getting into-”

“I think things turned out pretty well.” he interrupted gently, his thumb stroking along her jaw.

She huffed. "You can't possibly have known that when you agreed to marry me. I could have been awful. Lazy, or mean, or-"

"You ain't."

"But you didn't know that."

“No," he said finally. "I didn't know. But I had a feelin'."

She waited, feeling the warmth of his palm on her skin, grounding her.

"When you were standin' there in that room," he continued, his voice low and thoughtful, "lookin' terrified and tryin' so hard not to show it... and then you looked at me with those eyes of yours and said yes anyway." He paused, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. "I thought, this woman's got courage and sense. And I liked that."

She felt something flutter in her chest, but forced herself to speak.

"That's not much to base a marriage on," she mumbled.

"Maybe not," he agreed. "But then you didn't flinch when I was sick. Didn't complain when you had to live in a place that ain't nowhere near what you deserved.” His hand pressed against her heart. "And every day, you gave me more reasons. The way you hum when you're concentratin'. Mendin' my shirts even though you hate sewin'. How you look at me like..." He trailed off, and she saw something flicker in his expression, raw and unguarded.

"Like what?" she whispered.

His jaw worked for a moment, and she could see him gathering courage for whatever he was about to say.

"Like I'm worth somethin'," he said finally, his voice rough. "Like I'm more than just a logger with a cabin and a horse. Like you see me.”

She pushed herself up slightly, needing him to see her face, to understand that she meant every word.

"You are worth something," she said firmly, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. "You're worth everything, Bucky. You're the most attentive, kindest man I've ever known. You're honest, and hardworking, and you-" Her voice caught slightly. "You made me feel safe when I had nowhere to go. You made me feel wanted when my whole life I'd been treated like a burden."

His expression had gone very still, his eyes locked on hers.

"You took care of me when you were sick yourself," she continued, her thumb stroking over his heart. "You taught me things without making me feel stupid for not knowing them. You listen to me. You make me laugh. You-"

"And good lookin'?" he interjected, and she could see the corner of his mouth twitching even as his eyes remained suspiciously bright.

She huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, and swatted his chest lightly.

"Yes, damn you," she said, "And ridiculously handsome. Unfairly so. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

His grin was crooked and devastating. "Just checkin’."

But then his hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb catching the tear that had slipped down her cheek, and his expression turned serious again.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For seein' all that. For sayin' it."

She leaned into his touch. "It's the truth."

"I gambled followin' my gut," he said quietly, his eyes holding her gaze. "And every single day since, you've proven me right. You're everythin' I didn't know I needed, darlin’. And-" He paused, and she saw his throat work. "And I'm in love with you."

She couldn't speak for a moment, couldn't do anything but stare at him as the words hugged her, warm and solid and real.

And then it hit her, not like something new, but like something she'd known all along and only now had a name for. The way her heart lifted when she heard his footsteps on the porch. The way she'd started thinking of this cabin as home not because of the place, but because he was in it. The way even now, with her body still tender and her heart wide open and vulnerable, she felt safe.

"I love you too," she replied, and her voice came out steadier than she expected, considering her emotion. "I think- I think I have for a while now.”

His eyes searched hers for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made her stomach flip.

"Do you, now?" he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

She nodded, unable to look away from him.

He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough, his hand still pressed over her heart like he could feel it beating just for him. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing a little harder.

He shifted slightly, just enough to tilt his head, and she felt him smile against her temple before he pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering. Then another at her cheekbone. Her jaw. Like he was mapping her with his mouth, taking his time, savoring.

She closed her eyes and just felt it -felt him- until her breathing evened out and matched his.

"So," he said after a moment, his voice warm with contentment. "Tomorrow. Town, supplies, that drink at the saloon, and whatever else you want."

"Just… being together sounds perfect," she said softly.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his arms coming around her securely.

The fire had burned down to embers, and outside, she could hear the wind moving through the pines and the distant call of an owl. But inside, wrapped in Bucky's warmth with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, everything felt exactly as it should be.

She let her eyes drift closed, a smile on her lips, and let herself fall into sleep knowing that tomorrow -and every day after- she'd wake up exactly where she belonged.

"Figures?" she repeated.

"Moves. Dosido, allemande, swing… You ain’t need to worry about the names. Just watch what everyone else does and follow my lead when we're together."

They reached the lines, and he positioned her across from him in the women's row. The space between them was maybe six feet, close enough that she could see the way his eyes tracked her, the slight curve of his mouth.

Around them, other couples were settling into place. She recognized Nell and Tom a few positions down, Sarah and her husband closer to the front. Even some of the older couples had joined, Carl and Agnes Hayes among them.

A man with a fiddle stood near the corner. Someone else, one of the loggers she didn't know by name, called out, "Everyone ready?"

A chorus of affirmatives rose from the group.

"Alright then," the caller said, raising his voice to carry over the chatter. "We'll start with an easy one for the newcomers. 'Petronella'. Everyone knows it?"

Most people nodded or called out agreement. She stayed quiet, her heart beating faster.

The fiddle started, a lively, bouncing tune that made her want to tap her foot even before anyone moved.

"Forward and back!" the caller shouted.

The lines surged toward each other, then retreated. She followed a half-beat late, watching the women around her.

"Forward and back again!"

This time she moved with them, stepping forward until she was close enough to see the amusement in Bucky's eyes, then back again.

"Dosido your partner!"

She hesitated -what the hell was a dosido?- but Bucky was already moving toward her. He circled around her right side, his shoulder passing close to hers, then around her back. She turned instinctively, following the motion, and ended up facing him again from the same spot.

"Good," he said, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.

"Right-hand star!" the caller shouted.

The couples moved into groups of four, her and Bucky with the pair beside them. Everyone extended their right hands to the center, forming a star shape, and began walking in a circle.

She focused on keeping her footing, on not stepping on anyone's skirts or boots, on trying to anticipate what came next.

The figures kept coming: swing your partner, promenade, ladies chain. She stumbled more than once, turned the wrong direction during an allemande, and completely missed a move she didn't catch the name of.

But Bucky was always there. Guiding her with a hand at her waist, a look, a subtle gesture. And when she got it wrong, he just grinned and pulled her back into position.

Around them, people were laughing. Not at her, she realized, but just... enjoying themselves. The music, the movement, the chaos of so many bodies trying to stay in sync.

And she was laughing too.

Eventually, the caller shouted, "Swing your neighbor!"

Before she could process what that meant, Tom Johnson was there, catching her hand and spinning her in a quick circle. She caught a glimpse of Nell being spun by the man on her other side, laughing at something he'd said.

And then she was back in line, slightly breathless, and Tom was grinning at her before returning to his own partner.

The music kept going, relentless and cheerful.

"Down the line!"

The top couple -the pair at the head of the formation- joined hands and skipped down between the two rows while everyone else clapped. When they reached the bottom, they formed an arch with their arms, and the next couple ducked under and repeated the pattern.

She watched, trying to memorize the sequence, and realized with growing certainty that eventually, it would be her and Bucky's turn.

"Progression!" the caller shouted.

The lines changed. She moved up one position, and suddenly the couple she was facing wasn't Bucky anymore; it was a man she didn't know, one of the other loggers, with a weathered face and a friendly gap-toothed smile.

Her stomach dropped.

It was irrational. She knew it was irrational.

"Forward and back!"

She moved automatically, but her eyes searched for Bucky. Found him one position down, now facing a woman she recognized from the food tables. Younger, maybe her age, with dark hair and a bright smile.

He caught her gaze for a brief second and gave her a small nod.

You're fine. Keep going.

She forced herself to look away, to focus on her own partner.

"Dosido your partner!"

She circled the stranger, keeping her expression neutral, trying not to think about how different it felt to move around someone who wasn't Bucky.

The man was polite. His hands, when they touched hers during the star, were dry and work-roughened, impersonal. He smelled like tobacco and woodsmoke.

Not Bucky.

The figures continued, right hand star, left hand star, swing your partner.

When the stranger's hand settled at her waist for the swing, it felt all wrong. Too light. Too careful. As if she were made of glass instead of flesh and bone.

The stranger spun her competently, released her right on time, and she ended up back in her spot in line.

She counted the steps in her head, willing the progression to come faster.

Around her, people were laughing, enjoying themselves. The music played on, relentless and cheerful.

She didn't look down the line. Didn't want to see Bucky's hands on that woman's waist, even in something as innocent as contradance.

One more figure, she told herself. Maybe two.

"Dosido your corner!"

She circled the woman beside her -Sarah, she realized- and Sarah gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. Did it show on her face? How much she wanted to be back across from her own husband?

"Progression!"

The lines shifted again, and she was back across from Bucky.

His eyes found hers instantly, and something in his expression, maybe the flatness of his stare, suggested he hadn't enjoyed the last progression any more than she had.

"Miss me?" he asked, just loud enough for her to hear as they stepped forward and back.

"Terribly," she said, and she meant it more than he probably realized.

His expression changed, something possessive and serious flickered across his face before smoothing into a grin. But she'd seen it. That flash of... what? Satisfaction? Relief?

"Good," he said, and there was an edge to his voice that made her stomach flip.

"Swing your partner!"

He caught her around the waist and spun her, and the difference was immediate.

Faster than the stranger had moved her. Closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through all the layers of fabric between them. His hand at her waist was firm and sure, pulling her into the turn with confidence that made her head spin.

She laughed as the room blurred around them.

This. This was right.

His hand, and the way he moved her, like he knew exactly how her body would respond. When they stopped, she was dizzy. Not from the spinning… or not just from the spinning.

She wanted to say something, but the music was already moving into the next figure, and the caller's voice rose above the noise.

"Down the line!"

Bucky squeezed her hand once before they separated to let the top couple skip through.

But she felt that squeeze all the way through the rest of the dance.

----

The contradance ran several more rounds until the fiddle player finally lowered his instrument with a flourish as the last notes faded. The room erupted in applause and laughter, people fanning themselves, reaching for water, catching their breath.

She was breathing hard, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cold outside. Her face felt warm. From the exertion, from the punch still in her system, from the way Bucky had been looking at her every time they'd come back together in the line.

"Well done," he said, appearing at her elbow with a cup of water. "For someone who ain't know what a dosido was an hour ago."

She took the water gratefully, drinking half of it in one go. "I stepped on at least three people's feet."

"Maybe four," he corrected, grinning. "But who's countin’?"

She swatted his arm lightly, and he caught her hand, holding it for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go.

She felt that small touch like a spark.

Around them, people were milling about, some heading outside for air, others clustering near the drink table. The fiddle player was conferring with someone about the next set.

Then a voice rose from near the front of the room. Clear, refined, and just a touch condescending.

"Perhaps we might try something a bit more... refined? A waltz, maybe?"

She turned to see the mayor's wife standing with the banker's wife, both of them looking perfectly composed despite the heat of the room. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in their fine dresses.

There was a beat of silence.

Then someone -one of the loggers- let out a low whistle. "Ooh, fancy."

Laughter rippled through the crowd, but it wasn't mean-spirited. More like amusement at the incongruity of it, waltzing in a frontier town hall after contradance.

"I think that's a fine idea," Agnes Hayes said, her tone diplomatic but with a hint of mischief. "If the fiddle player knows one."

The fiddle player shrugged. "I know a few."

"Well then," Carl Hayes said, offering his arm to Agnes with exaggerated formality. "Shall we, my dear?"

More laughter. But people were starting to pair off, couples moving back toward the cleared space. The atmosphere had changed, less raucous, more curious. Like they were all in on the joke but willing to play along.

Bucky turned to her. "You know how to waltz?"

"I do," she said. "Do you?"

"Enough to get by." He held out his hand. "Come on."

She took it, and he led her back onto the floor.

The space felt different now. More intimate, even with all the other couples gathering around them.

The fiddle started a slower, lilting melody.

Bucky's hand pressed at her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder. Their other hands joined, held at a proper height.

Appropriate. Exactly the way she'd been taught.

But it didn't feel proper.

Not when it was him.

"Ready?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, and then they were moving.

It was completely different from the contradance.

No shouted instructions. No changing partners every few bars. No chaos of bodies moving in patterns around them.

Just the two of them, turning in slow circles, her skirts brushing against his legs with each step. She'd forgotten what this felt like. The waltz. One-two-three, one-two-three, the rhythm so ingrained she didn't have to think about it.

But she'd never done it like this.

Back home, the few times she'd danced at all with instructors, they had kept her at arm's length. Maintained the proper distance. Looked over her shoulder or past her, never quite meeting her gaze.

Because looking at her meant seeing her eyes. Meant acknowledging the girl with the devil's mark.

But Bucky was looking right at her.

His hand at her waist was warm and solid. Not tentative or careful like the lessons. Not performatively correct like the rare partner who'd been obligated to dance with her.

The room moved around them. Other couples turning, the fiddle playing, voices low, and occasional laughter.

But it all felt distant. Muffled, like there was a bubble around just the two of them.

"You've done this a lot?" she asked quietly.

"Once or twice." His hand at her waist pressed slightly more firmly, guiding her through a turn. "You're good at this."

"I had lessons," she admitted. "My parents thought it was important."

"For findin’ a husband?" There was no judgment in his voice, just curiosity.

She felt something twist in her chest.

"For being... acceptable. Refined." She met his eyes, saw him watching her carefully. "They thought if I could dance well enough, carry myself properly, be accomplished in all the right ways, maybe someone would overlook... the rest."

She didn't need to specify what "the rest" was.

"Not that it mattered much in the end," she added, trying to keep her voice light.

His expression changed, a shadow passing over his face. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly at her waist.

"Their loss," he said, and there was an edge to his voice.

Like she was something worth having. Worth wanting.

"Hey," he said quietly, and she realized she'd missed a step.

She forced herself to focus. One-two-three. Follow his lead. Don't think about-

"You alright?" he asked.

"Yes," she managed. "Just... thank you. For saying that."

"It's true," he said simply. "Anyone who couldn't see that you were worth knowin’ was a damn fool."

She blinked hard, once, and concentrated very carefully on the next turn.

Around them, other couples were dancing. Some with skill, others fumbling through the steps. Carl and Agnes were surprisingly graceful. Tom and Nell were arguing quietly about whose fault it was that they kept going off-count, but both were smiling.

And somewhere in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Mary Collins watching them with a certain assessment that made her want to stand up straighter. Made her hyperaware of every imperfection, the way her hair was probably coming loose from its pins, the fact that her dress, while nice, was nothing compared to what some of the wealthier women wore.

Her shoulders tensed.

"Don't," Bucky said quietly.

She looked up at him. "Don't what?"

"Worry about what she thinks."

His thumb brushed against her waist. Just once, barely perceptible through all the layers of fabric and boning. But she felt it. Felt the deliberate pressure of it, the casual possessiveness.

"You're doin’ fine," he continued, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"I wasn't-"

"You were." He turned them smoothly, and she had to focus to keep the count, to not stumble when her heart had just kicked up for reasons that had nothing to do with the dance. "And for the record, you look better in that dress than she does in hers. Even with the torture device underneath."

A surprised laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "Bucky."

"What? It's true." His eyes held hers, steady and warm. "You think I ain’t noticed you could barely breathe at lunch?"

"It's not that bad."

"It's ridiculous," he said flatly. "But you look beautiful anyway."

Beautiful.

He'd said it out loud, where anyone could hear.

Her foot faltered -just barely- and she felt herself lose the rhythm.

His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her back into the count without missing a beat.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

She forced herself to keep moving, to keep her feet following the pattern even though her mind had gone completely blank.

When was the last time someone had called her that? Had anyone ever called her that?

Her mother had called her ‘handsome’ once. A diplomatic word. A word that meant ‘presentable enough.’

Her brother had never commented on her appearance at all, except to remind her to keep her hair neat, her posture straight, her expression neutral. "Don't draw attention," he'd said.

And the men back home -the few who'd been forced into her company at social gatherings- had looked everywhere but at her face.

But Bucky was looking.

And he'd called her beautiful.

"Thank you," she managed.

The music swelled, and he turned them again, the movement bringing her marginally closer. Still proper, still acceptable by any standard.

But it felt intimate anyway.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice low, meant only for her.

Then, after a pause, quieter still: "Though if I'm bein’ honest, watchin’ you dance with others earlier made me want to end the whole damn thing."

Her eyes snapped to his.

He was watching her with a mix of amusement and frustration and something darker.

"Jealous?" she asked, testing the word.

His jaw worked for a moment, like he was deciding whether to admit it.

"Concerned," he said finally. Then, with a slight grimace, "And yeah. Maybe a little jealous."

The admission chased away the last remnants of nervousness about being here, about being watched, about what people thought.

"It's just contradance," she said, but she was smiling now. "Everyone dances with everyone."

"I know that." His hand flexed slightly at her waist. "Didn't make it easier to watch."

She wanted to say something. What, she wasn't sure. Something about how wrong it had felt to dance with anyone else. How she'd counted every second until the progression brought her back to him.

But the words stuck in her throat.

The music began to wind down, and when it ended, they stood there for a moment, still holding each other, neither quite ready to let go.

His hand was still at her waist. Hers still on his shoulder.

She could feel his breath, see the rise and fall of his chest, and the way he was looking at her.

Then someone started clapping, and the spell broke.

He stepped back, releasing her waist but keeping hold of her hand as they moved off the floor with the other couples.

But his thumb traced a small circle against her palm before he let go.

"Ready to head home?" he asked quietly.

She glanced around the room, at the people still laughing and talking, at the fiddle player tuning up for another set, at the warmth and noise and life of it all.

Then she looked back at him.

"Yes," she said. "I'm ready."

----

They made their way toward the door, weaving through clusters of people still talking, laughing, showing no signs of slowing down. The fiddle had started up again -another contradance by the sound of it- and she could hear the caller's voice rising over the music.

Near the food tables, she spotted Nell and Sarah gathering their empty dishes. They didn’t waltz, it seemed.

"We're heading out," she said, catching Nell's attention.

"Already?" Nell glanced toward the dance floor, then back at her with a knowing look. "Party's still going."

"Bucky has work tomorrow," she said. "He could use the extra rest."

Nell's eyebrow rose slightly, but she didn't push. "Of course."

"Actually," Sarah said, "we were just saying we should all meet up in town sometime. Make a day of it, errands and such."

"That sounds lovely," she said, genuinely pleased at the idea. "When were you thinking?"

"Maybe Thursday?" Nell suggested. "We could do our shopping, then grab something at the ‘hotel’ dining room. They've got decent coffee."

"Thursday works," she agreed. "I'll be there."

"Good." Nell squeezed her arm briefly. "It was nice having you here today. Really."

"Thank you," she said. "For everything."

Nell just smiled, and the meaning was clear: don't mention it.

They said their goodbyes, collected their now-empty crate and clothes from where they'd left them, and headed outside.

The afternoon air was cold, the sun already low on the horizon. Late November meant the days were short, and they'd be racing the sunset to get home before full dark.

She pulled her winter cloak around herself while Bucky shrugged into his coat.

The street was quieter now than it'd been at midday, most people still inside the hall. A few men stood outside the saloon, smoking and talking in low voices.

Bucky helped her up onto the wagon seat, his hand steady at her elbow even though she didn't really need the assistance. Her legs were tired from dancing, but she was steady enough.

He swung up beside her and gathered the reins, clicking his tongue to get the horse moving.

----

The sun was low, maybe two hours of good light left. They'd make it home before full dark if they kept a decent pace. No reason to rush…

Except he wanted to.

Had wanted to since the moment she'd pinned that brooch to her dress this morning and smiled at him like he'd given her something precious instead of a piece of cheap white copper from a camp peddler.

Maybe since before that. Since she'd stood in their cabin in nothing but her chemise and asked him to lace up that damned corset, and he'd had to keep his hands steady and impersonal when all he'd wanted was to do something else.

Two months. He'd waited two months.

He could wait another hour.

The road stretched ahead, familiar and rutted. He kept his attention on it, on the horse, on anything other than the woman sitting beside him.

She was quiet. Watching the landscape, her hands folded in her lap. The brooch caught the late afternoon light every time she shifted.

He'd been watching her all day. Couldn't seem to help it.

Watching her navigate the food tables with the other women, her shoulders straight and her chin up, even though he knew she'd been nervous. Watching her laugh with Nell Johnson and Sarah Calhoun like she'd known them for years instead of hours. Watching her move through the contradance, stumbling sometimes but trying, always trying.

Watching her dance with Tom Johnson during that partner swap, and feeling something ugly and possessive in his gut.

She was his wife. His.

And some rational part of his brain knew that was the whole point of contradance: everyone danced with everyone, it didn't mean anything.

But the irrational part, the part that had spent two months sleeping next to her and touching her and learning what made her gasp and arch against him, that part had wanted to walk across the floor and pull her back to his side of the line where she belonged.

He'd managed not to.

And then the waltz.

He'd danced before, enough to know the steps, enough to not embarrass himself. But he'd never danced with her. Had never had to reconcile the woman in his arms in public with the woman who came apart under his hands in private.

The way she'd looked up at him when he'd called her beautiful…

He shifted on the seat, adjusting his grip on the reins.

Focus. Road. Horse. Home.

Behind the seat, the wool blanket was folded where he'd stashed it that morning. The temperature had dropped since they'd left town, and it would only get colder as the sun set.

He glanced at her. She'd pulled her cloak tighter, but her hands were hidden under the fabric. Cold, probably.

"Hold these a second," he said, passing her the reins.

She took them without question, and he twisted around to grab the blanket. Shook it out and put it over both their laps, securing it around her legs.

His hand lingered on her thigh.

He told himself it was to make sure the blanket was firm. That the weight of his palm pressing through her skirt and petticoat was purely practical.

He let his hand rest there for a moment before he took the reins back and focused on the road again.

But he'd felt her reaction. The way she'd gone very still. The slight hitch in her breathing.

He didn't examine why he'd done it. Didn't want to admit, that every time she looked at him today with those mismatched eyes, it got a little harder to remember why he was waiting.

The wagon hit a rut, jostling them both.

She winced, her hand going to her side.

He glanced at her. "You alright?"

"Fine," she said. "Just this damned corset."

Damned corset was right.

He'd watched her struggle with it all day. The way she'd shifted in her seat during lunch, trying to find a position that didn't dig the boning into her more than necessary. The way she'd taken shallow breaths during the waltz, the tight lacing restricting her.

"That thing's coming off the second we get home," he said.

It was a practical statement. She'd been uncomfortable all day, and he'd get her out of it as soon as they were through the door. Help her unlace, let her breathe properly again.

That was all he meant.

But then, in a voice carefully neutral, she murmured, "I thought you were tired."

He turned to look at her and blinked.

Her expression was composed. Almost innocent. But her eyes…

She knew exactly what she was saying, knew exactly what she was implying.

And she wasn't drunk. He'd made sure of that back at the hall, which meant this wasn't the punch talking, this was her.

That something in him that had been held carefully in check all this time finally snapped.

"I ain’t tired."

He saw her swallow. Saw the way her fingers tightened slightly in the folds of her skirt under the blanket.

"Oh," she said, and it came out breathier than she probably meant.

He turned his attention back to the road, but his hands were tight on the reins.

The cabin was still twenty minutes away. Maybe less if he pushed the horse a bit.

Twenty minutes.

He could manage that.

----

The cabin came into view as the last light faded from the sky.

Bucky brought the wagon to a stop near the door, setting the brake before climbing down. He moved around to her side and offered his hand.

She took it, letting him help her down. Her legs were stiff from sitting, and she was acutely aware of how quiet everything was out here compared to the noise and warmth of the town hall.

Just the two of them now.

No music. No voices. No crowd to buffer the tension that had been building between them since they'd left town.

"I'll get the horse settled," he said, his voice low. "Get the fire goin’."

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and headed for the door.

Inside, the cabin was cold and dark. They'd put out the fire before leaving that morning, and now the chill was everywhere.

She moved by memory more than sight, finding the tinderbox on the mantle and kneeling by the hearth. Her hands were steady as she arranged the kindling and struck the flint.

Steady hands. That was good. That was important.

Even if the rest of her felt like it was vibrating with nervousness.

The spark caught. A small flame, then growing, casting light across the room.

She added larger pieces of wood, watching the fire build, feeling the first hints of warmth beginning to push back the cold.

I thought you were tired.

I ain’t tired.

The words replayed in her mind, his voice rough and certain in a way that had made her stomach drop and heat pool low in her belly all at once.

She'd started this. On the wagon. With that comment about the corset, maybe earlier in the hall. And now-

Behind her, she heard the door open and close. Bucky's footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the floor.

She didn't turn around.

Just stayed there, kneeling by the fire, watching the flames, very aware that her heart was beating faster than it should. That her palms were damp despite the cold. That every nerve in her body seemed to be standing at attention, waiting.

The warmth she felt on her back wasn't from the fire. Then, his hand was on her shoulder.

The touch was light, almost gentle. But she felt the weight of intent behind it.

"Stand up," he said quietly.

She rose slowly, brushing her hands against her skirt, and turned to face him.

The firelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his stubbled jaw, the way his gaze held hers.

Not like he'd looked at her during the waltz, warm and admiring.

This was different, darker. Hungrier.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. She could hear her own breathing. Could hear his.

Then his hands came up to the clasp of her cloak.

His fingers worked the fastening, and she realized her hands were hanging uselessly at her sides. Should she be helping? Doing something?

But before she could move, he pushed the heavy fabric off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her with a soft whump.

One layer gone.

His eyes tracked down her body -taking in the dress, the brooch still pinned at her collar, the way the firelight played across the dark fabric- before coming back to her face.

"Turn around," he said, his voice rough, and she complied slowly.

She felt him step closer still, close enough that when he exhaled, she felt it against the back of her neck.

Then his hands came around her from behind, reaching for the front of her bodice.

She stood very still.

The brooch came first. His fingers found the clasp, worked it open with surprising gentleness. She heard it, the soft sound of metal on wood as he set it on the shelf above the fireplace. Then his fingers returned to the top button, and she felt him work it free carefully.

Then the next button.

And the next.

He moved down her bodice slowly, each button releasing with a soft pop of fabric. She could feel his fingers brushing against her chest through the dress with each one, could feel the way his breath warmed the exposed skin at the back of her neck.

The dress began to loosen, falling open down the front.

She wanted to say something. Do something. But her voice had abandoned her, and all she could do was stand there and feel.

Feel his hands, his proximity. The way her body was already responding to nothing more than his fingers working buttons.

When he reached the last one at her waist, his hands went to her shoulders, and he pushed the dress down her arms in one smooth motion.

The fabric slid away, catching briefly at her elbows before falling past her wrists. It pooled at her waist where the skirt was still fastened, leaving her upper body in nothing but the corset and her chemise beneath it.

The cool air hit her bare arms, raising goosebumps.

Or maybe that was just him.

His hands moved to the ties at her waist, and she felt the skirt loosen, felt its weight slide down her hips, and then the whole thing was falling to the floor in a heap of dark fabric around her feet.

She stepped out of it instinctively, and he kicked it aside without ceremony.

Now she was standing in her corset, chemise, petticoat, and stockings.

Still mostly covered.

But it felt like being naked.

His hands came to rest on her waist, and she felt his thumbs press against the boning through the fabric.

"This thing," he said, his voice low and rough near her ear, "has been drivin’ me mad all day."

She didn't know what to say to that.

Then his hands moved to the laces at her back.

They loosened with swift, deliberate tugs, so different from the careful tightening she'd asked him to do that morning. Each pull released more pressure, let her body expand a little more, let air flow a little easier.

She felt the exact moment the corset went from "tight" to "loose."

Felt herself able to draw a full breath for the first time since dawn.

The relief was immediate and overwhelming.

"Better?" he asked, his voice close to her ear, his hands still working the laces.

"Yes," she managed.

The laces went slack, and his hands slid to her waist, and he pulled the corset away from her body entirely.

She heard it hit the floor somewhere behind them.

Now there was just the thin cotton of her chemise between his hands and her skin.

Just one layer.

She could feel the heat of his palms through it. Could feel the way his fingers spread across her sides, spanning her waist.

"All day," he said quietly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, "I've been watchin’ you in that thing."

His hands tightened slightly.

"Watchin’ you barely able to breathe. Watchin’ you try to hide how uncomfortable you were." His thumbs traced upward along her sides, a slow, deliberate path. "Watchin’ other men lookin’ at you."

Oh.

"And all I could think about," he continued, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "was getting you home and gettin’ you out of it."

His hands slid higher, brushing the underside of her breasts through the chemise.

"Gettin’ you under me."

Heat flooded through her, sharp and overwhelming and so intense she felt dizzy with it.

Her hands came up instinctively, gripping his forearms where they crossed in front of her. Needing something to hold onto. Needing to ground herself.

She felt the muscle shift beneath her fingers. Felt the strength in him, barely leashed.

"Bucky-" Her voice came out thin.

She tried to turn in his arms -wanted to see his face, needed to- but he held her still, keeping her facing away from him.

"Not yet," he murmured against her ear. "I'm not done."

His hands left her sides, and she heard the rustle of fabric behind her.

Then she felt his fingers at the ties of her petticoat.

The knot came free easily, and the weight of the fabric loosened around her hips. He pushed it down, letting it fall to pool around her feet.

She stepped out of it, and he kicked that aside too.

Now she was down to her chemise, drawers, and stockings.

His hands came back to her waist, but this time they didn't stop there.

They slid upward, slowly, deliberately.

Her pulse was pounding now. In her throat. In her wrists. Between her legs.

His hands cupped her breasts through the chemise, and a sound escaped her lips. Small, involuntary.

Evidence that she was still breathing. Still present. Still capable of response.

"You know what you did to me today?" he asked, his voice rough against her ear.

She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words.

His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and they hardened instantly against the fabric, sensitive and aching.

"Tellin’ me I look good," he continued, his hands working her slowly, deliberately. "Askin’ if I'm uncomfortable with the unexpected."

Another brush of his thumbs, circling, more deliberate this time, and she felt her knees go weak.

"Dancin’ with me like that." His mouth moved to her neck, pressing a kiss just below her ear that made her shiver. "Lookin’ at me like you wanted me to drag you out of there and take you home right then."

Had she looked at him like that?

Yes, she had.

"And then," his voice dropped even lower, "you went and taunted me on the way back."

I thought you were tired.

She'd known what she was doing when she said it. Had seen his reaction. Had felt the change in the air between them.

Had wanted it.

"I told you," he said, his mouth moving along the curve of her neck, his hands still working her breasts with maddening slowness, "that if you kept sayin’ things like that, I'd stop bein’ patient."

He turned her then -finally- spinning her to face him with his hands on her shoulders.

The firelight caught in his eyes, and what she saw there made her stomach drop and heat spike through her all at once.

Want. Raw and undisguised, and so intense it was almost frightening.

"I'm done bein’ patient," he said quietly.

Then he kissed her.

Nothing like they'd shared in the dark over the past two months. The slow and deep ones where he'd let her set the pace, let her pull back when she needed to.

This was different.

This was him unleashing everything he'd been holding back.

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, probably dislodging what few pins had survived the dancing, and he angled her where he wanted her.

His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that made her knees genuinely weak. His tongue slid past her lips, tasting her, claiming her, and she felt the full force of two months of restraint finally breaking.

She grabbed onto his shoulders -partly for balance, partly because she needed something solid to hold onto- and felt the muscle shift beneath his shirt.

He was still fully dressed.

Coat, shirt, suspenders, trousers, boots.

Every layer intact.

While she stood there in nothing but her chemise and drawers.

The disparity should have made her self-conscious. Should have made her want to cover herself, to hide.

Instead, it made her feel... like he couldn't wait long enough to undress himself. Like getting his hands on her was more important than anything else.

He assaulted her with deep, demanding kisses that left no room for thought. Just sensation. Just the slide of his tongue against hers, the press of his body, the way his hand tightened in her hair when she made a small sound against his mouth.

She felt him move, felt his other hand slide to her hip, and then he was walking her backward.

She went willingly, blindly, trusting him to guide her even though she had no idea where they were going.

Her rear hit something solid.

The kitchen table.

His hands went to her waist, and then he lifted her and set her on the surface.

The height brought them closer to level, and he stepped between her legs without breaking the kiss, his hands resting on her thighs.

The chemise rode up slightly. She could feel the rough fabric of his trousers against the inside of her knees, could feel how close he was, how little separated them now.

He finally pulled back, but only far enough to drag his mouth down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat.

She tilted her head back, giving him access, and tried to catch her breath.

Failed.

"Bucky-" His name came out ragged.

"Still too many damn clothes," he muttered against her skin, his hands finding the hem of her chemise and pulling it up.

She lifted her arms automatically, and the thin cotton slid up her body, and he tossed it aside without looking.

The cool air hit her bare skin, and suddenly she was acutely, overwhelmingly aware that she was sitting on their kitchen table.

Topless.

In nothing but her drawers and stockings.

His hands came up to cup her breasts, palms warm, slightly rough, achingly gentle despite the hunger in his eyes.

Her hands fell to grip the edge of the table, needing something to hold onto.

His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and the sensation shot straight through her. They were sensitive. Had been sensitive since he'd touched them through the chemise, but now with nothing between his hands and her skin, it was almost overwhelming.

She made a sound -small, desperate- and his eyes flicked up to her face.

"That's it," he said quietly. "I wanna hear you."

Then his head dipped, and his mouth closed over one nipple.

The heat, the wet slide of his tongue, the firm suckles, made her back arch involuntarily. Her hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.

He'd done this before. Many times over the past two months. Had learned exactly how she liked to be touched, how much pressure to use, what made her gasp, and what made her squirm.

But it felt different now.

More urgent. Less restrained.

Like he'd finally stopped measuring every touch. Stopped holding himself back.

His mouth worked her deliberately, while his hand cupped her other breast. Then he switched, giving the same attention to the other side, and she felt her head fall back, felt her eyes close.

Felt herself stop thinking entirely.

His mouth moved lower.

When he reached her stomach, she felt a flash of self-consciousness cut through the haze of sensation.

Her belly wasn’t perfect.

But he didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't care.

Just kept kissing his way down, his hands sliding to her thighs, spreading them wider.

Wait.

Wait.

"Bucky," she managed, her voice shaky. "We- we eat here."

He lifted his head just enough to look at her. The heat in his eyes made her clench between her legs.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough and dark and full of promise. "And I'm about to."

Before she could process that, his hands were hooking into the waistband of her drawers.

"Lift up," he said.

She did, automatically, and he pulled the fabric down and off, taking her stockings with them in one motion. And then she was completely bare.

Sitting on their kitchen table.

It wasn’t the first time he'd done this, not even close. But always before it had been in bed, almost in the dark or the early morning light. Horizontal.

This was different.

She was exposed. The firelight played across every inch of her skin, and she could see everything: his hands on her thighs, his shoulders between her legs, the intent in his eyes as he looked up at her.

"Bucky, this is-"

"Relax," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "Let me."

One hand stayed on her thigh, warm and grounding. The other moved upward, and she felt his thumb brush through the soft curls between her legs. A slow, deliberate touch. Not quite where she ached for it, but close enough to make her tense.

He did it again, then his thumb pressed lower, parting her, opening her to his gaze. She made a sound -half protest, half something else entirely- but he was already leaning in, and any coherent thought became impossible.

The angle was different like this. Better. He didn't have to hunch or strain the way he did in bed. Could kneel there comfortably, with better access to every part of her.

And he was taking full advantage of it.

His tongue worked against her deliberately, finding all the places he'd learned over the time together. The spots that made her gasp. Made her hips try to shift closer even though there was nowhere closer to go.

"Stay still," he murmured against her, and she felt the vibration of his voice as much as heard it.

She tried. She really did.

But then his fingers joined his mouth -one sliding inside her, then another- and she couldn't help the way her body arched. Couldn't help the way her hand flew to his hair, gripping tight.

"Easy," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Need you ready for me."

The words cut through the haze.

Ready for me.

Not just for this. Not just his mouth and hands.

Something more.

His fingers moved inside her in a slow, maddening rhythm, curling, stroking, finding spots that made her whole body tighten. His mouth stayed focused on that bundle of nerves that made her see stars.

She was already close. Could feel the pressure building, that familiar tightening low in her belly.

But he pulled back.

Not completely. Just enough to look up at her, his eyes dark and intent, his mouth wet.

"This time," he said, his fingers still moving inside her in that slow, devastating way, "I'm not stoppin’ here."

Her brain struggled to process the words through the haze of sensation.

Not stopping here.

"You understand?" he asked, curling his fingers inside her in a way that made her whole body jolt.

She understood. She'd known, really. Since the wagon. Since he'd said I'm not tired in that rough, certain voice.

This was it.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

"Say you understand," he repeated, and there was something almost gentle in his voice despite the hunger in his eyes.

Like he needed to hear her say it. Needed to know she knew what was happening.

That she wanted this.

"I-" Her voice came out thin. She swallowed and tried again. "Yes. I understand."

Something changed in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction.

"Good," he murmured.

Then his mouth was back on her, lips closing around her sensitive bud, tongue working deliberately while his fingers moved deeper, faster inside her.

She tried to hold still as he'd told her. Tried to keep quiet even though sounds kept escaping her, small gasps and broken moans that she couldn't suppress.

Her thighs were shaking. Her whole body tensed, balanced on the edge of something overwhelming.

"Let go," he said against her.

As if she had a choice.

As if she could do anything else.

One last suckle and it hit her like a wave, sudden and complete and so intense she forgot where she was. Forgot everything except the sensation crashing through her, the way her body clenched around his fingers, the sound that tore from her throat.

He worked her through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping until the aftershocks faded and she was left trembling, boneless, utterly undone.

Then he pulled back, pressing a kiss on her mound before rising to his feet.

She was still trying to remember how to breathe when his hands came to her waist.

"Come on," he said quietly, helping her down from the table.

Her legs were unsteady -actually unsteady, not just weak-kneed- and she had to grip his arms for balance.

He held her steady, patiently, waiting until she found her footing.

Then his hand slid down to take hers, and he turned toward the bed.

"Go on," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'll be right there."

She went, crossing the short distance on shaky legs, hyperaware of her nakedness. Of the cool air on her skin.

Behind her, she heard the thud of his boots hitting the floor.

One. Then the other.

The sound of his coat hitting the floor. The slide of suspenders being pushed off his shoulders.

The rustle of fabric as he pulled his shirt over his head.

She reached the bed and turned around, unable to help herself. Needing to see.

He was down to just his trousers now, the firelight playing across his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach.

All that "more" of him she'd complimented that morning.

And the way he was looking at her made her forget everything except the fact that she wanted this.

Wanted him.

Next Chapter

She'd learned that her breasts weren't just functional. They could be touched, kissed, and sucked, and the sensation of his mouth on them could make her arch off the mattress and forget her own name.

She'd learned that he liked to look at her. That he'd coax her out of her nightgown in the lamplight and just... look, as his hands mapped her body appreciatively.

She'd learned the sounds he made when her hand wrapped around him, the way his breath hitched when her lips brushed his throat.

They hadn't- not completely. Not yet.

But something happened every night. Sometimes slow and deliberate, sometimes urgent and desperate. And she'd stopped feeling embarrassed about it after.

----

The rain had started before dawn, a steady drumming on the roof that showed no signs of letting up.

Bucky hadn't gotten out of bed.

She'd woken to find him with one arm slung across her waist, his face relaxed in sleep. It had taken her a moment to understand: no work today. The rain made the logging too dangerous, the slopes too slick. She wasn’t going to complain, really. Took one more look at his features and decided to snuggle against him and go back to sleep.

Way later, they both lie awake, buried under the quilts with the gray morning light filtering through the window. Warm and lazy in a way that felt almost decadent. She should probably get up. Start the fire, make coffee, and begin breakfast. But he showed no signs of moving, and his arm was still draped over her waist, heavy and warm.

"It's been raining more often lately." She said quietly.

"Mm." His hand moved absently along her side, tracing lazy patterns through her nightgown. "Always does this time of the year. Few more weeks and it'll turn to snow."

"Snow," she repeated, trying to imagine it. She'd seen snow back home, but something told her Montana snow would be different. Heavier. More unforgiving.

"Gets deep out here," he said. "Three, four feet some winters. Work slows down considerably until it really sets in, and then we stop."

She processed that. "So you'll be home more?"

"Yeah." There was something in his voice. Satisfaction, maybe. Relief. His hand stilled on her waist, and she felt him shift slightly behind her, drawing her closer. "A lot more."

The thought of having him here, in the cabin, day after day through the winter months, made her… happy. Though she supposed they'd have to figure out how to occupy themselves without driving each other mad.

"That a problem?" he asked, and there was a carefulness in the question that made her turn her head to look at him.

"Why would it be a problem?"

He shrugged, the movement jostling her slightly. "I've… barely been here. Gone before dawn most days, back after dark. You've been alone more than not." His thumb resumed its slow path along her side. "Winter means I'll be underfoot. Constantly."

She studied his face. He was watching her, and she realized he was actually asking. Wondering if she'd find his presence -his constant presence- burdensome.

"I think," she said carefully, "that I'd like that."

Something in his expression shifted. Eased.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She felt bold suddenly, the warmth of the bed and his body against hers making her brave. "The days you're here feel different. Better."

His hand tightened on her waist. "Sundays."

"And rainy days," she added. Like today. Days when she woke up to find him still there, his arm around her, his breath warm against her hair.

"Not enough of those," he said quietly.

"No," she agreed. "Not enough."

He was quiet for a moment, his hand resuming its lazy movement along her side. Then: "You know what winter means, though? Besides me bein’ here?"

"What?"

"Means we'll be snowed in. Just us. No trips to town when the drifts get high. No visitors." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Nowhere to go. Nothin’ to do but keep warm."

Heat crept up her neck at the implication in his tone.

"That so?" she managed.

"Mm-hm." His lips brushed the back of her neck, casual and deliberate. "Might get borin’ for you. Same four walls, same face across the table every day."

She knew what he was doing. Fishing, in that way, he did sometimes. Testing.

"I think I'll manage," she said.

"Think so?"

"I know so."

He made a low sound of approval, and she felt him smile against her skin. "Good."

They lay there in comfortable silence for a while, the rain continuing its steady drumming overhead. She was nearly drifting off again when he spoke.

"Speakin’ of time off," he said, his voice still rough with sleep. "Thanksgivin's comin’ up soon."

"Mm," she said, noncommittal.

"It's a non-work day here. In the territory."

That made her turn her head to look at him. She hadn't thought much about it, just assumed it would be observed out here the way it had been back home.

"I thought it wasn't an official holiday?"

"It ain’t. But out here..." He shrugged, the movement jostling her slightly. "Place like this, people take any excuse they can get to celebrate somethin’. Break up the monotony."

"So what happens?"

"There's a gatherin’. In the town hall. It's bigger than the saloon, fits more people. Everyone brings food, there's drinkin’, dancin’ if someone brings a fiddle."

"Have you gone? These past years?"

"Yeah." He shifted slightly, settling deeper into the pillow. "Ain’t much else to do here anyway, and it's a good chance to fill up on decent food." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then, casual and affectionate. "Though I ain't thinkin' about the food as much now. You keep me fed well enough. Still, people put out a good spread."

"Then I assume we're going."

"Mm-hm."

A town gathering. Everyone would be there. All the families, the other loggers, the shopkeepers, and their wives. People she'd seen in passing during her trips to town but hadn't really met. People who would be watching, judging, and forming opinions about Bucky Barnes' new wife.

Her first real introduction to the community as Mrs. Barnes.

The thought made her stomach tighten slightly.

"How do people organize it? What are you supposed to bring?"

"Whatever you want, really. Most of the loggers bring game, deer, and turkey if they're lucky. Hunt it a few days before so it can be hung and butchered in town. Then folks organize the cookin’. Other families bake things, bring preserves, whatever they've got." He paused, glancing down at her. "Why?"

"Because I need to contribute something," she said. "As your wife."

It wasn't vanity, precisely. People would notice what she brought -or didn't bring-, and would form opinions based on whether her contribution measured up. And while she couldn't control what they thought about her eyes or the circumstances of her marriage, she could control whether her cooking was good.

That, at least, was something she knew how to do.

He was quiet for a moment.

"You ain't gotta prove anythin' to anyone," he said finally.

"Maybe not," she said. "But I'd like to make a good impression anyway."

"Your cookin’'s good. They'll see that."

She appreciated the confidence in his voice, even if it didn't entirely settle the nervousness in her stomach. "What do people usually bring? For baking, I mean."

"Pies, mostly. Bread. Cakes if they're feelin’ ambitious." He paused. "Martha Crews brought a spice cake last year that people are still talkin’ about."

She filed that away. Martha Crews. A standard to measure against, apparently.

"And you're sure people just... bring whatever they want? There's no list or assignment?"

"No list. Just show up with food, and it all works out." His hand stilled on her side. "You're overthinkin’ this."

"I'm planning," she corrected. "There's a difference."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Alright. What are you plannin’, then?"

"Pumpkin pie," she said. "Apple pie. And a braided bread, maybe with herbs."

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest where her head rested. "Ain’t that too much?"

"I'd rather bring too much than too little."

"Fair enough." His hand resumed its lazy movement along her side. "Good thing Larson's comin’ to install the kitchen soon. You'll have room to show off properly."

She felt her lips curve slightly at that. "I wasn't planning to show off."

"No?" There was amusement in his voice. "Three dishes say otherwise."

"Pies are expected. The bread is something extra," she said. "Besides, I don't know why you're concerned. You're going to eat every test batch I make until I get used to the temperature of this stove for baking properly."

"You bake fine already," he said. "Better than fine, I'd say. But I'm not gonna complain if that means I get to stuff myself like a turkey until the day of the gatherin’."

----

The days leading up to Thanksgiving passed in a flurry of activity.

She tested recipes, adjusting for the temperamental stove until she could reliably produce pies with evenly browned crusts and fillings that set properly. Bucky ate every failed attempt without complaint, and most of the successful ones too.

When she wasn't in the kitchen, she was mending. Her traveling dress, the nicest one she owned, needed the hem repaired and a few small tears patched. It wasn't fancy, but it was the closest thing she had to something suitable for a social gathering.

She also took stock of Bucky's clothes and realized his formal options were limited. He had work pants, work shirts, and one set that might charitably be called "not for work." She pulled those out, shook out the dust, and told him to try them on.

He emerged from behind the curtain a few minutes later, tugging at the waistband of the trousers.

"These fit differently," he said, frowning down at himself.

She looked him over. The pants were snug. Not obscenely so, but tighter than they probably had been. The shirt pulled slightly across his shoulders and chest.

"When's the last time you wore them?"

"Way before we married, I reckon." He tried to button the shirt and grimaced when the fabric strained. "Guess I've put on weight."

"You're not fat," she said, moving closer to examine the fit. "Maybe a bit bigger. You work hard, and now that you're eating properly, your body's just... catching up."

She reached for the shirt, fingers measuring to adjust the buttons, needle ready. "I can move these over slightly. Give you more room."

"Hm." He watched her work, then asked, tone casual but with something underneath it, "What do you think? About me being bigger?"

She glanced up at him, needle paused mid-stitch.

He was looking at her with that expression he got sometimes. Testing, maybe. Wanting to know what she thought, but trying not to seem like he cared about the answer.

She considered for a moment, then said simply, "Well. There's more of you. That can't be bad."

His hand came up to catch her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes.

"That so?" he asked, his voice dropping lower.

She felt heat creep up her neck. "Yes."

"Why's that?" He was enjoying this, she could tell. The slight curve of his mouth, the way his thumb brushed along her jaw.

She squirmed slightly, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. "Because... you're healthy. It's- it's good."

"Healthy," he repeated, like he was testing the word. His other hand settled on her waist, fingers splaying across her side. "That the only reason?"

She could feel her face burning now. "You're fishing for compliments."

"Maybe." He didn't look remotely ashamed of it. "Is it workin’?"

She huffed, trying to look annoyed and failing. "I like that you're... solid. It feels-" She stopped, biting her lip.

"Feels what?"

"Good," she admitted quietly. "When you're... when we're..."

She didn't finish, but she didn't need to. His expression changed, something warm and possessive crossing his face.

"Good," he said, and she saw the intent in his eyes a second before he moved.

"The needle-" she managed.

He plucked it from her fingers without looking, stuck it into the pincushion on the table, and then he was kissing her. One hand cupped her face while the other pulled her flush against him, against all that 'more' of him she'd just been complimenting.

----

The morning of Thanksgiving arrived cold and clear, the kind of chilly November day that promised frost by nightfall.

She'd been awake since before dawn, checking on the pies one last time, wrapping them carefully in cloth to keep them protected for the trip into town. The braided herb bread sat cooling on the counter, golden and perfect. Everything was ready.

Almost everything.

She stood in front of the small mirror they'd finally hung by the washbasin, dressed in her chemise and petticoat, holding the corset she hadn't worn since she'd arrived in Montana.

The proper one. The one with the boning that dug uncomfortably into her and the laces that required another person to tighten properly.

Bucky was already dressed. Clean trousers, the shirt she'd altered for him, suspenders in place. He looked more put-together than- well, ever, and the effect was... distracting.

But right now, she needed his hands, not his face.

"Can you help me with this?" she asked, holding up the corset.

He looked at it, then at her, his expression skeptical. "You ain't worn that thing since you got here."

"I know."

"You've been wearin’ the other one. The... shorter one."

"Yes… the underbust corset," she confirmed. "But I need this one today."

He crossed to her, taking the contraption and helping her position it around her torso. She held it in place while he started working the laces at the back, his fingers surprisingly deft.

"Tighter," she said after a moment.

He pulled, but just a little. "That's tight enough."

"More."

He tugged harder, and she felt the boning dig against her sides. "This is ridiculous. Why can't you just use the one you've been wearin’?"

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. "Because the dress won't fit otherwise. It's as simple as that."

His jaw worked, clearly unhappy with that answer, but he pulled the laces tighter anyway, and she felt the breath press out of her lungs.

"That's-" she started, but then his hands slid around to her waist, testing the new shape of her, and she felt his lips brush against the back of her neck.

Her breath caught, an involuntary sound that she couldn't quite suppress.

"Bucky," she said, trying for stern but landing somewhere closer to breathless. "We're going to be late."

"Mm." His hands stayed where they were, fingers splaying possessively over the constricted curve of her waist. His thumb traced the edge of the boning through the fabric. "Hate this thing."

"I know." She did. She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his hands tightened slightly, like he wanted to undo what he'd just done.

His lips moved from her neck to just behind her ear, and despite herself -despite the clock ticking, despite knowing they needed to leave- she felt herself lean back into him.

Just slightly.

Just enough that he noticed.

"You're not helping," she managed, even as her eyes drifted closed.

"Neither are you." His voice was rough, accusatory, but his mouth was doing that thing where he kissed the spot just below her ear that made her knees weak.

She forced her eyes open, forced herself to step forward, breaking the contact. The cool air hit her neck where his mouth had been, and she felt the loss of it immediately.

"Help me with the dress," she said, reaching for where it lay across the bed. Her voice was steadier now, but only just. "It'll be faster with two people."

He made a sound that might've been agreement or protest, but he helped anyway. His hands were less careful than they'd been with the corset, tugging the fabric into place with barely restrained frustration.

She could feel it, the tension in him, the same tension coiling tight in her own belly.

When they finished, she smoothed her hands down the skirt, swinging a little to make the fabric move. "How do I look?"

He took a step back, his gaze traveling over her slowly. The dress wasn't fancy -simple cut, dark fabric that wouldn't show stains- but it fit properly now, the waist cinched tight, the skirt falling in neat lines.

His eyes lingered on her waist. On what his hands had just shaped.

"You look good," he said finally, his voice carrying an edge that made her stomach flip. Then, with a slight quirk of his mouth that didn't quite reach his eyes, "But I prefer the ones that let me touch more."

Heat crept up her neck. The corset suddenly felt even tighter. "Bucky."

"Just sayin'." He reached for his coat, shrugging it on with more force than necessary. Then he paused, looking at her again, and something in his expression shifted. Softened just slightly. "You really do look good, though."

She touched the fabric at her waist, hyperaware now of how restricted she was, how different it felt from the easy movement she'd grown used to. "Thank you."

"Come on," he said, offering his hand. "Let's get this over with so I can get you out of that thing later."

She nodded, moving to get her winter coat, the heavy one she'd brought from back east. The shawl would be fine for now, but by the time they headed home in the late afternoon, she'd need something warmer.

Outside, Bucky had already hitched the horse to the wagon. He'd set a wooden crate in the bed, packed with straw to keep things from sliding around during the trip.

She handed him the pies one at a time, watching as he nestled them carefully into the straw, making sure they wouldn't tip. The bread went in last, wrapped in cloth and wedged securely between the pies.

"That should hold," he said, checking the arrangement one more time.

She climbed up onto the wagon seat, arranging her skirts as best she could while he swung up beside her. The morning air was cold enough to sting, and she was grateful for the coat.

He clicked his tongue, and the horse started forward, the wagon creaking as they rolled down the path toward the main road.

Toward town.

----

They were about halfway to town when she turned in her seat for the fifth time, craning her neck to check on the crate in the wagon bed.

"If you keep lookin’ back there, you're gonna jinx it," Bucky said, not taking his eyes off the road.

"We just went through a rut," she said, settling back into her seat. "The whole wagon shifted."

"The food's fine. It's secured."

She nodded, but her hands twisted together in her lap, restless.

He sighed, slowed the horse slightly, and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small cloth pouch and held it out to her.

"Here."

She looked at the pouch, then at him. "What is it?"

"Was gonna give it to you before we went into town, but maybe it'll give you somethin’ else to think about right now."

She took the pouch, the fabric soft and worn against her fingers. When she loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm, a brooch slid out.

White copper, beautifully made. Oval-shaped with a scalloped edge, the surface etched with delicate flowers and leaves that caught the light.

"Bucky," she breathed, and her voice came out smaller than she intended.

It wasn't particularly expensive, you could tell that much. But that wasn't- that didn't-

Her throat closed.

"Peddler came through the camp last week," he said, his tone casual but his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. "Saw you workin’ so hard on the food, fixin’ up our clothes. Figured you ought to have somethin’ nice to wear too."

Something nice to wear.

She turned the brooch over in her hand, her fingers tracing the delicate etched pattern. Flowers. Careful details that someone had taken time to craft.

Her mother had owned a brooch. She'd worn it to church, to formal gatherings. When her parents died, her brother had packed away most of their mother's jewelry. "For safekeeping," he'd said. She'd been allowed to keep a plain locket and her mother's wedding band, both too worn to be worth much.

And now-

Bucky had bought her this.

Had seen the peddler and thought of her and spent money -money he worked ten-hour days in dangerous conditions to earn- on something pretty. Something just for her.

"Hey." His voice cut through the tightness in her throat. "You alright?"

She realized her vision had blurred slightly. She blinked hard, once, twice.

"Yes," she managed. Then, because that wasn't enough: "It's beautiful."

"It's alright," he said, still not looking at her. "Matches the dress well enough."

She wanted to tell him it was more than alright. That no one had given her something like this in… years. Maybe ever. Not something chosen specifically for her, not something meant to make her feel-

Pretty. Valued. Thought of.

But the words stuck in her throat, too big and clumsy to force out.

Instead, she reached over and placed her hand on his arm, squeezing gently. Her fingers tightened, holding on perhaps longer than necessary.

"Thank you," she said quietly, and hoped he could hear everything else she couldn't say in those two words.

He glanced at her then, just briefly, and something in his expression softened when he saw her face.

"You're welcome," he said, and his hand came up to cover hers where it rested on his arm. He squeezed back, just once, before returning his attention to the road.

She pinned the brooch to the bodice of her dress, just below her collar, her fingers careful with the clasp. When she was done, she touched it lightly, feeling the raised pattern of the flowers under her fingertips.

"Better?" he asked. There was warmth in his voice.

She smiled. "Better."

----

Bucky left the wagon and horse at the livery stable near the edge of town. He lifted the crate from the wagon bed, settling it carefully in his arms, and she walked beside him toward the town hall, her hand resting lightly on his elbow when the width of the path allowed it.

The streets were busier than she'd seen them on her usual trips to the general store, families making their way toward the gathering, children running ahead, voices carrying in the cold air.

She was grateful not to be walking up to the entrance alone. Grateful for his solid presence beside her, even as her stomach tightened with nerves.

They were nearly to the town hall when a voice called out.

"Barnes! Mrs. Barnes!"

She turned to see Carl Hayes, the butcher, and his wife approaching. Agnes Hayes was a sturdy woman in her early fifties, with graying hair tucked neatly under her bonnet and a warm, practical demeanor that had put her at ease during her trips to the shop.

"Mornin’, Hayes," Bucky said, nodding. "Agnes."

"Good morning," Agnes said, smiling at her. "Well, your first Thanksgiving here in White Creek. You must be excited."

"I am," she said, returning the smile. "Looking forward to it."

"You've picked a good year for it. The weather's holding, and I heard Martha Crews is bringing her spice cake again." Agnes leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Though between you and me, I think mine's better. Don't tell her I said that."

She felt some of the tension in her chest ease. "Your secret's safe with me."

"What did you bring?" Agnes asked, glancing at the crate in Bucky's arms.

"Apple pie, pumpkin pie, and a braided herb bread."

"Three dishes!" Agnes's eyebrows rose, impressed. "Well, aren't you ambitious. I only managed two this year, Carl was laid up for a few days, so I had to mind the shop."

Agnes then smiled at Bucky and nodded with her head toward his wife. "Well, let's go put our things out together, then."

Bucky shifted the crate, holding it out to her. She took it, the weight manageable but requiring both hands.

Carl moved ahead to open the door to the town hall, holding it as the women passed through first. Bucky followed just long enough to see where she was headed, then peeled off with Carl toward a cluster of men gathered near the far wall, where someone had set up a barrel and cups.

Inside, the town hall had been transformed. Long tables lined one side of the room, already laden with dishes: roasted meats, casseroles, bowls of vegetables, baskets of bread. The air was warm from the stove in the corner and thick with the mingled scents of food and woodsmoke and too many people in one space.

Women moved between the tables, arranging platters, making space, chatting as they worked.

Agnes led her toward an open spot on one of the tables. "Here, this should do. Let's see what you've brought."

She set the crate down carefully and began unwrapping the pies, setting them out one at a time. The apple first, then the pumpkin, and finally the braided herb bread, golden and still faintly warm.

"Oh, those look lovely," Agnes said, genuine warmth in her voice. "You've got a good hand for baking."

"Thank you," she said quietly, putting the cloth back into the crate.

Agnes glanced around the room, then back at her. "You've probably seen some of these ladies in passing when you're in town, but let me introduce you properly to a few. Come on."

She followed Agnes toward a small group of women standing near the stove, their conversation pausing as they approached.

"Ladies," Agnes said. "This is Mrs. Barnes, Bucky Barnes' wife. Just had been two months or so out here, haven't you, dear?"

She nodded. "About that, yes."

"Mrs. Barnes, this is Josephine Garrett. Her husband runs the gun shop. And this is Nell Johnson and Sarah Calhoun. Their husbands work the lumber camps with yours."

Josephine was a tall, lean woman in her thirties with work-roughened hands and a direct gaze. "Pleased to meet you properly, Mrs. Barnes. I've seen you at the street a few times."

"Likewise," she said.

Nell, younger and rounder-faced, smiled shyly. "It's nice to have another woman out at the camps. We're a bit outnumbered, if you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I had noticed," she said, returning the smile. "Though I suppose that's why they put up the sign in the first place."

Sarah laughed at that. "Well, Barnes got the pick of the lot, I'd say. Welcome to White Creek."

The warmth in their voices, the lack of staring or awkward questions about her eyes, made her feel more at ease.

"Thank you," she said. "I appreciate that."

Agnes patted her arm. "You'll fit in just fine."

Across the room, she caught sight of another cluster of women. Mary Collins, who stood with two other women, their heads bent together in conversation. One was elegantly dressed in a way that suggested means, and the other wore a neat, practical dress with a careful posture.

Mary glanced up, caught her eye, and offered a polite smile. Nothing warm, but nothing openly hostile either. Just... aware.

She nodded back, equally polite.

Near the far corner, another pair of women stood apart from the general bustle. One wore a dress of fine wool with a lace collar that would've cost more than most of the room made in a month. The other, similarly dressed, held herself with a particular confidence of being better positioned.

They didn't look her way.

Agnes followed her gaze and said quietly, "Don't mind them. The Mayor’s wife and the Banker’s wife. They keep to themselves mostly. Different world, you know."

She did know. The line wasn't drawn with rope or paint, but it was there all the same. Loggers' wives, shopkeepers' wives, and then... everyone else.

"Come on," Agnes said, steering her gently back toward the food tables. "Let's make sure your pies don't get lost in the shuffle."

They spent the next few minutes adjusting platters, making room for latecomers still arriving with their contributions. The tables were nearly groaning under the weight of it all.

A voice rose above the general chatter. Mayor Richards, standing near the center of the room, had his hands raised for attention.

"Alright, folks, if I could have your attention for just a moment!"

The room quieted, conversations tapering off as people turned toward him.

"I'll keep this brief," the Mayor said, his voice carrying easily. "We're gathered here today to give thanks for our health, for this community we've built together in White Creek. It's been a hard year, as most years are out here, but we've endured. We've thrived. And for that, we're grateful."

He paused, glancing around the room. "Reverend, would you lead us in a word of thanks?"

The man stepped forward, a lean man in his sixties with wire-rimmed glasses and a voice that had married her and Bucky not so long ago.

"Let us bow our heads," he said.

She lowered her gaze, feeling the warmth of bodies pressed close around her.

The prayer was brief and practical, thanks for food, for safety, for the work that sustained them. No flowery language, no theatrics. Just a man acknowledging what they had and asking for continued provision.

"Amen," the room echoed.

"Alright then," Mayor Richards said, smiling. "Let's eat. Help yourselves, folks."

The room erupted into motion, people moving toward the tables, reaching for plates, voices rising again in conversation and laughter.

She felt a hand at her elbow and turned to find Bucky beside her.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded, and they moved toward the food together.

----

They found seats at one of the long tables with a group of loggers and their wives, men Bucky worked alongside. Nell and Sarah were already there with their husbands, and they made room, shifting down the bench to let them sit.

The food was good, better than good, honestly. Roasted venison that fell apart under her fork, potatoes creamy with butter, herb bread, spongy and still a little warm. She'd been too nervous to eat much that morning, and now her stomach reminded her of that fact.

Conversation flowed easily around the table. Work talk, mostly, how the cutting had gone this season, which sections of forest they'd move to next, and whether the snow would come early this year.

Then one of the men, Nell's husband, leaned back in his chair and grinned at Bucky.

"So, Barnes," he said, his tone light and teasing. "Married life treating you well? Got to say, with the shortage of women up here, I'd imagine you are making up for lost time."

Nell smacked his arm immediately. "Tom!"

"What?" He laughed, clearly unbothered. "I'm just saying-"

Bucky didn't miss a beat. "Seems to me you're spendin’ a lot of time thinkin’ about my bedroom, Johnson. Ain't you busy enough?"

Laughter erupted around the table, including from Tom himself, who raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Fair enough, fair enough," he said, grinning.

Nell smacked his arm again. "Serves you right." Then to her, "I apologize for my husband. He forgets his manners when he's had a drink."

"It's alright," she said, forcing a small smile.

But her stomach clenched. The comment had been good-natured, just the kind of ribbing newlyweds probably got all the time.

Of course, everyone would assume. Almost two months into marriage? They'd think it had been consummated the first night. That was what happened. That was expected.

Except it hadn't.

She reached for her water, taking a sip to cover the awkwardness she felt crawling over her skin. Bucky's hand found hers under the table, his fingers lacing through hers briefly -a quick, grounding squeeze- before he let go and reached for his fork.

----

After they'd eaten, Nell caught her eye and nodded toward the far side of the room where someone had set up a table with drinks.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get something to wash all that food down."

She followed Nell and Sarah through the crowd. The drink table had cider -the hard kind, judging by the smell- and a large bowl of punch that was clearly spiked with something stronger.

Nell ladled punch into three tin cups and handed them out.

She took a sip. Sweet, spiced, with a burn underneath that made her throat tighten. Stronger than she was used to, but not unpleasant.

"Good, isn't it?" Sarah said, taking a healthy drink from her own cup.

"It's... warming," she managed.

Nell laughed. "That's one word for it."

They settled into easy conversation. Nothing serious, just the kind of talk that filled time pleasantly. Sarah's complaints about her mother-in-law's opinions on everything. Nell's story about a fox that had gotten into their chicken coop last week. Her own observations about how different Montana was from back east.

At some point, she realized she was on her third cup.

The nervousness from earlier had faded, smoothed over by the punch or maybe just by the company. It was hard to say. They'd moved on to talking about the coming winter, how to pass the long days trapped inside when the snow made travel impossible.

"I swear, by February I'm ready to throw Tom out the door just to have some peace," Nell said, refilling her cup. "Love the man, but three months of him underfoot is a trial."

Sarah laughed. "At least you've got space to get away from him. Our cabin's so small I can hear him breathing from across the room."

"You'll have to get creative," Nell said, grinning. "Find ways to keep yourselves occupied."

The comment was pointed enough to make Sarah blush, and she hid a smile behind her cup. A commotion of short limbs and decorations interrupted them, and Nell sighed. "Excuse me. I need to separate my son from the Morrison boy before someone loses a tooth."

She handed her cup to Sarah and headed off into the crowd.

Sarah grinned. "Those two have been at it all afternoon."

"Boys," she said, shaking her head.

"Exactly."

They were in comfortable silence when a voice spoke from behind them.

"Mrs. Barnes. How lovely to see you."

She turned to find Mary Collins standing there, another woman beside her. Mary's smile was polite, perfectly pleasant, and somehow still felt like a trap.

"Mary," she said, nodding.

"I don't believe you've been properly introduced to Mrs. Crews," Mary said, gesturing to the woman beside her. "Her husband runs the apothecary. Martha, this is Mrs. Barnes, Bucky Barnes' wife."

Martha Crews was a neat, carefully put-together woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a measured smile. "A pleasure, Mrs. Barnes."

"Likewise," she said.

"I was just telling Martha earlier," Mary continued, her tone light and conversational, "how wonderful it is that you and Mr. Barnes found each other so quickly after you arrived. Such serendipitous timing, really. Most brides have months to prepare for marriage, but you managed beautifully with only… what was it? A day?"

The words were sweet. The smile was warm.

But the implication wasn’t.

Martha’s eyebrow arched slightly.

Sarah's eyes went wide, and she took a long drink from her cup, suddenly very interested in the bottom of it.

She felt heat crawl up her neck, but kept her voice steady. "Sometimes circumstances require quick decisions. I'm fortunate Mr. Barnes is a man of integrity."

"Oh, of course," Mary said, her smile never wavering. "No one's suggesting otherwise. It's just so... romantic, isn't it? Like something out of a novel."

Before she could formulate a response, Nell reappeared at her elbow, slightly out of breath from dealing with her son. She nodded at Mary and Martha in greeting.

"What did I miss?" she asked, her tone pleasant.

She managed a tight smile. "Mary was just telling me how wonderful she finds the serendipity of my marriage."

"Mm." Nell took a sip from her cup, her expression thoughtful. "Well, I suppose that's way better than a long courtship that looks proper on the surface but ends with a husband visiting the saloon on weeknights. And not just for the drinking, if you take my meaning." She glanced at Mary with perfect innocence. "Isn't that right, Mary?"

Mary's smile froze on her face, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

Martha Crews's lips twitched, whether in amusement or surprise, it was hard to say.

Sarah suddenly found something fascinating about the ceiling.

"Of course," Mary said after a beat, her voice clipped. "Every marriage has its... challenges."

"Indeed," Nell said mildly, refilling her cup from the punch bowl. "Though I'd say Mrs. Barnes here seems to be managing hers quite well. Wouldn't you agree?"

The question hung in the air, pointed and unavoidable.

Mary's smile remained fixed, but there was a coolness in her eyes now. "Naturally. I'm sure she and Mr. Barnes are very... happy."

"We are," she said quietly, finding her voice again. "Thank you for your concern."

"Well," Mary said, recovering her composure with visible effort. "I should check on my husband. Martha, shall we?"

Martha inclined her head politely. "Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Calhoun."

They moved off into the crowd, and the moment they were out of earshot, Sarah let out a breath.

"Oh my God, Nell," she said, half-laughing, half-shocked. "You didn't."

"I did," Nell said calmly, taking another drink. "And I'd do it again. Woman's got no business throwing stones when she lives in a glass house."

She stared at Nell, something warm and grateful blooming in her chest. "Thank you."

Nell waved a hand dismissively. "Don't mention it. Mary Collins has needed to be taken down a peg for years. About time someone did it."

Sarah was still processing, shaking her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you said that."

"I can," Nell said mildly. "And I meant every word."

The punch in her cup was nearly gone. Its warmth had spread into her limbs, making everything feel pleasantly loose. But she could feel it now, the slight spin in her head when she turned too quickly.

Enough.

She excused herself and made her way back toward the tables where they'd eaten earlier. Someone had left a pitcher of water there, and she poured herself a cup, drinking it down quickly before pouring another.

She was halfway through her second cup when she felt a hand settle at the small of her back.

She didn't need to turn to know it was Bucky. She'd gotten used to the way he touched her, to the weight of his palm on her.

"You alright?" he asked quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"Yes," she said, glancing up at him. "Why?"

"Saw Mary talkin’ to you earlier," he said. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were watchful. "Didn't see your face, but I saw the others. Wanna to know if somethin’ happened."

She shook her head. "Nothing important."

It wasn't worth mentioning. Not when Nell had handled it so perfectly. And honestly, the whole thing had been more amusing than upsetting by the end. Besides, standing here with him now, with the alcohol making her bolder than usual, she found herself studying him instead of dwelling on Mary.

He really did look good. The shirt she'd altered fit him well, the suspenders framing his shoulders in a way that made her want to-

"Sweetheart, you have-" he started, clearly about to press the issue.

"You look very good," she said, cutting him off.

He blinked. "What?"

"You look good," she repeated, a small smile blooming at her lips. "Handsome."

For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, to her surprise, color crept up his neck.

He was blushing.

Bucky Barnes, who could pin her to a mattress and make her forget her own name, who touched her with absolute confidence in the dark, was blushing because she'd called him handsome in public.

"Where's that comin’ from?" he asked, his voice slightly rougher than usual.

She tilted her head, enjoying this more than she probably should. "Can't I tell my husband he's handsome?"

His jaw worked, and the flush deepened slightly. He looked almost... flustered.

It was fascinating.

In their cabin, in the dark or the early morning light, he was sure of himself. Knew exactly what to do, how to touch her, what to say to make her melt.

But here? With her initiating and complimenting him where others might overhear?

He didn't know what to do with it.

"You've been drinking," he said finally, though his hand hadn't moved from her back.

"A little," she admitted. "What, does that make my words less true?"

"No," he said, his voice quiet. "Just... unexpected."

She stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him properly. "Mm. Does the unexpected make you uncomfortable?"

His eyes darkened, and she heard him mutter under his breath, "Dammit, woman."

She laughed and watched the way his expression changed at the sound. Like he couldn't decide if he was frustrated or charmed.

He opened his mouth, clearly about to say something, when voices rose from across the room.

"Alright, folks! Let's clear some space here!"

"Someone's got a fiddle!"

"Move the tables back! Come on, make room!"

The hall erupted into motion as people began shifting tables and chairs toward the walls, clearing the center of the floor. Children darted between adults, excited at the prospect of music and dancing.

Bucky's hand stayed on her back, but his attention had shifted slightly, tracking the movement around them.

She looked up at him, still feeling that warm boldness from the punch. "Are you going to dance with me?"

His gaze snapped back to her, and for a moment, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

"You wanna dance?" he asked.

"Maybe," she said, smiling. "If you ask nicely."

She was enjoying this. Enjoying the way he seemed uncertain, the flush still visible on his neck, the way his hand had tightened slightly on her back.

"I've been watching you for a while," she added, the words spilling out before she could think better of them. "Did you know that?"

His expression schooled just a little.

"Have you now?" His voice had dropped lower, and the uncertain flush was fading, replaced by something far more dangerous.

"Mm-hm." She should probably stop talking. The punch was making her too honest. "You look very-"

His hand slid from her back to her waist, fingers splaying possessively over the corseted curve. The same way he'd touched her in the morning, testing her shape.

The words died in her throat.

"Very what?" he prompted, and there was no uncertainty in him now. Just focus. Intent.

She swallowed. "Distracting."

"Distractin’," he repeated, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice. He leaned in slightly, just enough that his next words were for her alone. "You've had enough punch to be honest, but not enough to forget this conversation tomorrow. Is that about right?"

Her face burned. Because yes. That was exactly right.

"I thought so." His thumb traced the edge of the boning through her dress. "Let me be clear: you can look all you want. I like it when you look."

Her breath caught.

"But if you keep sayin’ things like that where anyone can hear..." He paused, his eyes holding hers. "Well. We're gonna have a problem."

"What kind of problem?" The question came out before she could stop it.

His smile was slow, almost predatory. "The kind where I stop bein’ patient."

The air between them felt thick, charged. She was acutely aware of every point where his body almost touched hers, of the way his hand sat heavy and possessive on her waist.

Around them, people were still clearing space, laughing, calling out to each other. But it all felt distant, muffled.

"Have you ever done contradance?" he asked, and his voice was still that low, rough tone that made her stomach flip.

"I don't even know what that is," she admitted.

Back home, the dancing had been waltzes at formal gatherings, or polka in less refined settings. Had watched enough reunions to understand how things worked, but she'd never actually danced them. No one had ever asked her. No one had wanted to be seen partnered with the girl with devil's eyes, no matter how well she knew the choreographies.

This -whatever it was- sounded like something entirely different.

But with the punch warming her blood and Bucky's hand still steady at her back, she found she didn't care that she had no idea what she was doing.

She wanted to dance.

With him.

"But I'm sure I can learn," she added.

He leaned in then, just enough that his breath warmed her ear. His hand tightened on her waist, almost imperceptibly. "Well, I know how quick a learner you are," he murmured, and the way he said it made it clear he wasn't just talking about dancing anymore. “Just follow my lead," he added, his voice rough and low. "And try not to look at me like that in front of everyone."

She opened her mouth -to say what, she wasn't sure- but he was already moving, his hand sliding to the small of her back as he guided her toward the cleared space where couples were beginning to form lines.

Her heart was still racing, and it had nothing to do with the prospect of dancing.

Next Chapter

You’re bent over tightening your mare’s cinch when you hear boots scuff on gravel and a low whistle.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a warm voice says behind you. “That’s the prettiest view I’ve seen all summer.”

You straighten slowly, pushing your hat back with the back of your wrist, ready to tear into some cocky idiot who thinks he can comment on your ass before noon. You turn around, mouth already open—

—and forget what you were gonna say.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, dusty blue plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, worn ball cap pulled low over shaggy brown hair. There’s a little smudge of oil on his cheek, a crooked smile at the corner of his mouth, and eyes so blue you feel like you’ve been dropped into cold water.

You swallow. “If you’re talkin’ about my mare, you’re right,” you say, crisp. “If not, you got about three seconds to adjust your attitude, cowboy.”

His grin widens like you just fed him dessert. “Y’know, I meant the horse,” he lies easily. “But now that you mention it…”

You arch a brow. “Name?”

“Bucky.” He shifts the bull rope higher on his shoulder and sticks out a hand. His palm is rough and warm. “Bucky Barnes. Figured I’d roll through your little circuit here, win all your money, then head south for the big leagues.”

You ignore how his hand swallows yours and how your pulse kicks under your skin. “You’re awful sure of yourself for someone I’ve never heard of.”

“Guess you haven’t been listenin’ hard enough, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me darlin’,” you snap on instinct.

He smirks. “What should I call you then?”

You tell him your name and watch the way he rolls it slowly on his tongue like he’s tasting it. His gaze flicks down to your belt buckle—last year’s barrel racing champion, your county fair logo etched in silver—and something in his face sharpens.

“So you’re the barrel racer I gotta beat, huh?” he asks.

“You’re a bull rider,” you point out. “Different events.”

“Still the same all-around pot.” He kicks a boot at the dirt. “And I heard there was this girl out here, runs barrels like it’s a blood sport. Figured she’d be my competition.”

You shrug, pretending your cheeks aren’t burning. “Guess we’ll see if you can stay on longer than eight seconds before you go talkin’ big.”

He laughs, low and delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

You hate how it makes you want to smile back.

Bucky Barnes spends the rest of the summer proving you right and wrong, all at once.

He is cocky. He does talk too much. And he can ride like the devil.

You watch from the fence the first night he nods his head in the chute, hand wrapped in the rope, mouth set in a grim line. The bull explodes into the arena, twisting and leaping, hooves carving gouges in the dirt. Bucky moves with him—hips loose, shoulders squared, heels dug in. Every time the bull tries to whip him off, he’s there, like he’s welded to leather and muscle and fury.

Eight seconds hit and the buzzer screams. Bucky lets go, throws himself off, hits the ground and springs up again, sprinting for the fence. The crowd roars, dust swirling around him.

He tips his hat up toward the bleachers, searching until he finds you.

You’re already clapping, heart pounding in your throat.

He winks.

Show-off, you think savagely—and can’t stop your grin.

He finds you afterward by the trailers, where you’re walking your mare to cool her out. He’s got his hat pushed back on his head, hair damp with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest. There’s mud on his jeans, a scrape on his jaw, and adrenaline still in his eyes.

“Well?” he asks. “Did I pass your little test?”

“You loosened up your free arm this time,” you admit, because you know he’ll just bug you until you say it. “Didn’t let the bull control your shoulders. Looked good.”

He beams like you just handed him a first-place check. “Looked good, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes,” you warn. “It’s already too big.”

He spends the next week proving exactly how big it is, pestering you at every rodeo on the circuit. He shows up at your trailer with greasy fair food and a lopsided grin. He leans on the fence at morning warm-ups, calling out teasing critiques about your turns around the barrels.

“You’re droppin’ that inside shoulder,” he calls one day, boots hooked on the bottom rail. “Quit lookin’ at the barrel. Look past it.”

“Yeah?” you shoot back, cheeks flushed. “Maybe if you quit thinkin’ with your dick you’d make your dismounts a little cleaner.”

The guys beside him howl. Bucky just laughs, slow and delighted, like every barb you throw is a gift.

Some nights, when the stars are clear and the air soft and warm, you find him sitting on the top rail of the arena fence after everyone else has gone. He’s quiet in those moments, jaw working, hands folded loosely over the front of his thighs.

“Thinkin’ about leavin’ already?” you ask one night, swinging yourself up beside him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Thinkin’ about winnin’ enough to matter,” he says lightly. “This circuit’s… good. Real good. But there’s bigger money down in Texas. Vegas. Sponsors.” He glances at you. “Can’t ride small forever.”

You roll the dust between your fingers. “Nothing wrong with small,” you murmur. “Some of us like the life we got.”

He’s silent for a beat. “You ever wanna get out?” he wonders.

You consider the dark outline of the arena, the distant glow of the ferris wheel on the fairgrounds, your mare chewing on hay somewhere behind you. “Sometimes,” you admit. “There’s bigger rodeos I’d like to run. Different patterns, different arenas. Maybe Denver, Cheyenne. But my family needs me. And this place…”

This place is your roots. Your daddy’s ranch. Your mama’s kitchen. The graveyard where your grandparents rest and the kitchen table where you learned your first barrel pattern with cans of beans.

“It’s home,” you finish.

He studies your profile. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You won’t shut up about it.”

His shoulder brushes yours. The contact is warm, solid, grounding. You stare straight ahead, heart thudding loud in your ears.

You don’t kiss him then. You could. You picture turning your head just enough, catching his mouth with yours, tasting dust and sugar and danger.

You don’t.

Not that night.

You make it to the second-to-last rodeo of the circuit before you break.

It happens in the cramped space between your trailer and the stock pens, the air humming with generators and laughter and the metallic clang of gates. You’re leaning against the trailer wall, tugging off your boots, when Bucky corners you.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “They just posted the draw for next week. You see it?”

You shrug, tugging at your sock. “I was a little busy tryin’ not to die in that second barrel turn.”

He grins briefly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were smokin’ it. Don’t start.”

“Tell that to the second barrel I kissed,” you mutter. “What’s the draw say?”

“They added a bull.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Somebody backed out, so they slotted me in. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s a rank one. From a big stock contractor down south. They only brought him up ’cause there’s a scout comin’ through. And—”

“And this is your shot,” you finish dully.

“Maybe,” he says. “If I cover him with a good score, there’s a sponsor at the next rodeo who might pick me up. Truck, travel money, maybe a spot on their string. It’d… it’d change things.”

For him. For you.

A lump settles in your throat. “That’s what you wanted,” you say carefully. “Right? Big leagues.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

Your fingers curl against the trailer siding. “So why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “’Cause someone might,” he says quietly. “I just… I gotta figure some things out.”

“Like what?”

He steps closer. The diesel generator hum and country music from someone’s radio fade to a low blur. It’s just him and you and the smell of leather and sweat and the faint sweetness of cotton candy drifting on the breeze.

“Like how to ask you if you’d ever wanna come with me,” he says roughly. “And how to do it without soundin’ selfish as hell.”

Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”

“I know you got your folks,” he rushes on. “The ranch. Your mare. I know this place is yours. But I…” He trails off, jaw working. “I didn’t plan on you,” he admits. “Didn’t plan on spendin’ all summer thinkin’ about the way you laugh when you beat me out of the trailer park ’cause you drive like a damn bat outta hell. Or how you tap your hat brim three times before every run, like it’s some secret ritual.”

Heat prickles at the back of your eyes. You’d never told anyone about that. You didn’t think he’d noticed.

“Didn’t plan on wantin’ you in my corner when I ride,” he says. “Now I can’t not think about it.”

You inhale shaky. “You think you can just drag me all over the country to watch you get your brains scrambled?” you demand, voice trembling more than you’d like. “That’s your big plan?”

He flinches. “It’d be more than that,” he says. “We—”

“We what, Bucky?” you snap, nerves fraying. “We live out of your busted truck? I find a way to barrel race in between your events, if we can afford it? My parents are down a hand on the ranch and I’m off chasin’ some dream that isn’t mine?”

“It could be yours,” he protests. “We could hit different rodeos, bigger ones. You’re good enough. You know you are.”

“That’s not the point.” You shake your head hard. “My life is here.”

“And mine’s out there,” he says hoarsely.

Silence stretches between you, hot and taut.

There it is.

“Seems like you already decided,” you say finally, swallowing the ache. “So what are you askin’ me for?”

His face twists. “Because I’m an idiot,” he mutters. “’Cause I keep hopin’ there’s a way to have both.”

“There isn’t,” you whisper. “Not really. You know that.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So that’s it? I go. You stay. We pretend this summer never happened?”

“Didn’t say that,” you manage. “Just… don’t ask me to choose between you and my family when you’ve already chosen.”

He stares at you like he wants to argue. Like he wants to promise things he can’t guarantee.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he nods once, sharp and pained. “Guess I’ll just have to give you somethin’ to remember me by then,” he murmurs.

You don’t have a chance to ask what he means before he’s crowding you gently back against the trailer, one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just shy of your waist like he’s asking a question.

You answer by fisting his shirt and dragging him down.

The kiss is a collision—teeth, breath, the scrape of stubble against your chin. Heat flares low in your belly, bright and desperate. His hand finds your hip, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish. He tastes like dust and adrenaline and a hint of the lemonade he stole from you earlier.

“Tell me to stop,” he roughs against your mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathe.

Later, you’ll remember flashes more than anything: his hands shaking as they push your shirt up, the reverent way his fingers trace the curve of your waist; your back arching off the old quilt in the bed of his truck under a sky full of stars; the way he keeps asking if you’re sure even after you’ve pulled him down with a curse and a kiss. The heat of his body, the stretch, the overwhelming rightness of having him so close it feels like he’s under your skin.

You’ll remember his voice, low and wrecked, murmuring I got you, I got you, as he holds you afterwards, your fingers tangled with his, his breath uneven against your hair.

You’ll remember the shape of his promise.

“I’ll call,” he tells you roughly, forehead pressed to yours. “Soon as I know what’s what. I swear, honey. This isn’t… I’m not just leavin’ you behind.”

You want to believe him so badly that it hurts.

Instead, you kiss him one more time, slow and aching, and memorize the taste of goodbye.

He rides the rank bull.

He covers the eight seconds.

The scout notices.

The sponsor calls.

He leaves.

You don’t chase him. You watch his truck taillights shrink down the highway from the edge of your family’s property, arms wrapped tight around yourself until the night swallows the last glimmer of red.

You throw up in the barn two months later.

You blame bad fair food and stress and the ache of your heart. But the weeks pass, and your jeans start to feel different, and your mama gives you a look across the breakfast table that makes your fork freeze halfway to your mouth.

“Baby,” she says gently. “We need to talk.”

When the truth comes spilling out, you brace yourself for anger. For disappointment.

Your mama just squeezes your hand until your fingers hurt. Your daddy goes quiet, lips set, and then gets up from the table and goes out to the barn. He spends an hour there with the horses, shoulders bowed.

He comes back in and kisses the top of your head without a word.

You text Bucky that night. Fingers trembling, you type out I missed my period and I think—

Then you stop.

You stare at the blinking cursor. At the old messages—his dumb memes, his good-luck texts before your runs, his I miss you more than I miss my hat, and that’s sayin’ something.

You stare at the single unread message from him, sent two weeks ago, the last thing you got.

Sorry, honey. Things are crazy. Promise I’ll call soon. Big sponsor meeting. Think about you every time I tie my glove.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I bet you do.”

You select his number.

You hover over the call button.

You think about his dreams, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about Vegas, about the NFR, about buckles the size of dinner plates and checks that would pay off his daddy’s debts and then some.

You think about forcing a choice on him that he already once couldn’t make.

You think about your daddy out in the barn, cleaning stalls with his jaw clenched, giving you space to fall apart.

You delete the message.

You turn your phone off.

You throw yourself into the ranch instead. Into morning feeds and evening checks and training younger horses for other barrel racers. You sell your mare’s spot at the next big rodeo and instead buy baby clothes you keep hidden in the back of your closet until your belly makes it impossible to deny.

Your daughter is born on a cold March night, ten fingers, ten toes, lungs strong enough to shake the rafters. You name her Willa—soft and stubborn and rooted—mine, you think fiercely, as she curls her tiny fist around your finger.

You don’t write his name on the birth certificate.

You whisper it into her hair when you rock her at night, though. When she fusses and you pace the creaky floorboards, you murmur stories about a blue-eyed bull rider who once made you feel like the whole world was spinning under your boots.

You tell yourself you’ll tell her properly one day.

First, you have to figure out how to breathe again.

Ten years later, you walk into the same fairgrounds with calluses on your palms, a few more lines around your eyes, and a nine-year-old barrel racer at your side.

“Loosen your reins a little comin’ into the pocket,” you tell Willa as you walk alongside her pony. “You’re pullin’ too much and it’s costin’ you your momentum.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she chirps, adjusting her grip. Her dark hair—your texture, his color—is braided down her back. There’s dust already on her boots, glitter on her cheeks, and a determined set to her jaw that makes your heart both ache and swell.

She is too much like both of you.

You try not to think about that.

You swing her saddle onto the pony’s back, showing her again how to smooth the pad, check the cinch. She chatters about school and how her friend Lacey says she’s gonna beat her time today and how that just means Willa’ll have to run even faster.

“Competition keeps us sharp,” you tell her, tying off the latigo.

“Like you and Nana in the kitchen,” she says, eyes dancing. “Arguin’ over whose biscuits are better.”

“Nana’s biscuits are better,” you admit. “But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”

Willa’s laughter rings out bright and clear, a sound you’d bottle if you could. You reach over and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, your chest tight.

You almost don’t see the banner at first.

WELCOME BACK TO THE CIRCUIT, BUCKY BARNES! it proclaims in bold red letters over the main arena entrance. SPECIAL GUEST CLINIC AND EXHIBITION RIDE.

The world tilts on its axis.

“Mama?” Willa asks, frowning up at you. “You okay? You look funny.”

You swallow hard, drag your gaze away from the banner. “I’m fine, baby,” you lie. “Just remembered somethin’ I forgot to do.”

Bring the past back where it belongs, you think. Leave it buried.

But it’s too late. His name is everywhere. On posters by the concession stand. On a cardboard cutout by the registration table. On kids’ T-shirts that say BUCKY BARNES FAN CLUB with a cartoon bull underneath.

Willa’s eyes go wide as she spots one. “Mama! Look! That’s the bull rider Nana watches on TV sometimes. The one in Vegas who almost got stomped but then didn’t.”

“Mm,” you manage, throat dry. “That’s him.”

“You know him?” she demands eagerly. “Have you ever met him?”

You force a laugh. “Somethin’ like that,” you say.

You spend the next hour in a fog, checking and re-checking Willa’s tack, braiding her pony’s mane, signing her in at the registration table. People you’ve known your whole life greet you, compliment Willa’s progress, ask after your parents. You smile and nod and say the right words in the right order.

All the while, your stomach is in knots.

You could leave.

You could pull her out, feign sickness, toss her pony back in the trailer and go home. If you’re quick, you could be halfway down the highway before his clinic even starts.

But Willa has worked all year for this. She’s been up at dawn, running patterns on frosted ground. She’s earned this run.

You won’t take that from her just because your heart remembered how to break.

“Riders for the peewee barrels, please start makin’ your way to the warm-up pen,” the announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, crackling slightly.

Willa bounces on her toes. “That’s me!” she squeals.

“That’s you,” you echo. Your hands shake as you boost her up into the saddle, checking her stirrups, double-checking her helmet chin strap. She’s got your old lucky charm clipped to her saddle—your first little silver horseshoe, tarnished and dented.

“Tap your hat brim three times,” you remind her, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Look past the barrel, not at it. Let him run. You know what you’re doin’.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says again, solemn this time. She leans down and hugs your neck hard. “Love you, Mama.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Love you more.”

You lead her toward the alleyway, heart lodged somewhere in your throat. The stands are fuller than you’ve seen them in years, buzz of excitement humming through the air. Word travels fast when a living legend comes home.

As you guide Willa’s pony into the holding area, a wave of whistles and cheers rolls across the arena. A voice you haven’t heard in a decade booms through the speakers, lower now, rougher, but so achingly familiar you almost stumble.

“Afternoon, folks,” Bucky Barnes drawls over the mic. “Hell of a turnout today, huh?”

Don’t look, you tell yourself. You focus on adjusting Willa’s stirrup leather, on smoothing a hand down the pony’s neck.

You look.

He’s at the center of the arena, mic in hand, hat shading his face. He’s older—not old, just… lived-in. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, jaw a little sharper, hair shorter on the sides, longer on top. The easy grin is the same, though. The way he moves, comfortable in his skin in the middle of all that dirt and noise.

He’s in a crisp button-down with a sponsor’s logo on the sleeve and a buckle big enough to serve breakfast on. His limp is slight but there when he walks, a hitch you wouldn’t notice unless you knew his stride like the back of your hand.

You do.

“So before we get to the big bulls later,” he says, “we got the most important event out here—the peewee barrels. Y’all make some noise for these kids, yeah? They’re the future of this sport.”

The stands erupt. Willa’s eyes shine.

“Mama, he’s so cool,” she whispers down to you, awestruck.

You swallow. “He thinks he is,” you mutter, before you can stop yourself.

She giggles. “You sound like Nana.”

“Yeah, well,” you say. “Nana’s smart.”

The first little rider tears through the pattern, the crowd cheering like it’s the NFR. You watch Willa’s face as she follows every move, little hands tight on her reins. She taps her hat brim three times—one, two, three—the way she’s seen you do in old photos.

Your heart squeezes.

“And up next we got Willa,” the announcer calls. “Willa —, ridin’ Ponyboy. Y’all give her a hand!”

You walk them into the alleyway, give the pony’s rump a pat. “You know what to do,” you murmur. “Trust yourself. Trust him. Just breathe and ride, baby.”

“Breathe and ride,” she repeats.

You step back.

Bucky is at the other end of the arena, by the announcer’s stand, but as Willa bursts out of the alley, he turns.

His hand goes still on the rail.

For a split second, your eyes meet across the churned-up dirt, across a decade. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. His mouth parts. The mic hangs forgotten at his side.

Then Willa is flying.

She sits deep, hands forward, little boots pressing gently at the pony’s sides. She leans just right into the first barrel, Pony’s hindquarters dropping and digging, dirt spraying. They explode out of the turn and head for the second, Willa’s braid snapping behind her like a banner.

The pattern is tight and smooth and fearless. She is joy and speed and pure, bright determination.

You’ve never been more terrified or more proud.

Bucky is watching her like the rest of the world ceased to exist. There’s something almost haunted in his expression—recognition, wonder and a dawning horror that makes your stomach twist.

She looks like him when she grits her teeth coming out of the third barrel. Like you when she throws her hands up crossing the timer line and lets out a wild, delighted yell.

When the time flashes on the board, fastest so far, the crowd goes insane.

Willa whoops, circling her pony and heading back toward you, face flushed, eyes shining.

“Did you see?” she gasps as she reaches you. “Mama, did you see?”

You catch her leg, laughing through the tears you refuse to let fall. “I saw, baby. You were incredible. That was textbook. I’m so proud of you I could explode.”

She preens, glowing.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you, breathless and rough. “That was one hell of a run.”

You freeze.

Willa’s eyes widen as she looks past you. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” she breathes. “The bull rider.”

You turn slowly.

He’s closer than you thought—hat off now, held in one hand, the other on his belt buckle like he’s trying to anchor himself. His gaze flicks from Willa’s face to yours and back, taking in every detail.

Up close, the years are sharper: the faint scar at his temple, the deeper lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders carry tension like a second skin.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “That’s me.”

“Can you sign my hat?” Willa blurts, then clamps a hand over her mouth, mortified.

Bucky’s mouth quirks, but his eyes are wet. “Be honored to,” he says. “If your mama’s okay with it.”

Willa swivels to you, pleading. You could say no. You could throw up walls and boundaries and a decade’s worth of carefully constructed distance.

You exhale. “It’s fine,” you manage. “If you want, Willa.”

She thrusts her hat at him, practically vibrating. “Please.”

He takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass, and pulls a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. His hand shakes as he writes. When he hands the hat back, his fingers brush hers. Something flares across his face when she smiles at him—something vulnerable and broken and so, so hopeful.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she says politely. “Did you see my run? Mama says I gotta look past the barrel and not at it, and I remembered this time.”

“I did see,” he says. His voice is rough. “And your mama’s right. She usually is.”

“You know my mama?” Willa asks, curious.

He chokes on a sound that might be a laugh. His gaze slides to you, question written all over his face.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know your mama.”

You send Willa off with your parents to get a snow cone and check the posted times. Your mom gives you a sharp, assessing look as she takes your daughter’s hand, but doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes your arm in passing, silent support.

When they’re gone, you’re suddenly very aware of how close Bucky is. How many eyes are around you. How many years sit between your heart and his.

“Could we…?” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the barns.

You hesitate.

You need this. Even if it hurts. Maybe especially if it hurts.

You nod.

He falls into step beside you, both of you silent as you weave through the crowd. Kids dart past with cotton candy and plastic guns. Old timers nod in greeting. Someone calls his name; he lifts a hand automatically, but his attention never leaves you.

You end up behind the practice pens, where the noise dims and the late afternoon sun slants gold through the dust motes. A horse snorts in a nearby stall. Somewhere, a generator hums.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“You look good,” he says finally, voice low. “Stronger. Not that you weren’t—hell, you were a force back then. It’s just… different now.”

You cross your arms, suddenly self-conscious of the way your jeans fit, the faint scar on your forearm from a colt that kicked when you were twenty-seven, the laugh lines your kid jokes about when she squishes your cheeks.

“You’re still full of shit, I see,” you say lightly.

He huffs out a laugh, then sobers. “I’m sorry,” he says.

You close your eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“I’m sorry I left the way I did,” he says, words tumbling. “I’m sorry I promised I’d call and then I… didn’t, not like I should have. I’m sorry I thought I could somehow juggle my career and us without actually puttin’ in the work. I was a coward. An asshole. Both.”

Your throat burns. “You were young,” you say quietly. “So was I.”

“That ain’t an excuse,” he says hoarsely. “It’s just a fact. I got down to Texas, got picked up, started winnin’ some money. There was always a new bull, a new town, a new sponsor dinner. I kept meanin’ to come back, to call and say hey, I figured it out, here’s how we do this. But every time I thought I had somethin’ to offer, the bar moved. It never felt like enough.”

“You could’ve just—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “You could’ve called to say that,” you whisper. “Even if you didn’t have an answer.”

“I know,” he says. His jaw clenches. “Believe me, I know. I thought about you every damn day. Had your number pulled up more times than I can count. I’d get as far as your name and my hands’d start shakin’ like I was gettin’ on a rank bull. And then I’d… punk out.”

You stare at the dust between your boots. “So you’re sorry you didn’t call,” you say. “That’s… somethin’.”

“I’m sorry for more than that,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t… where?”

He looks at you, blue eyes raw. “You expect me to believe that little girl ain’t mine?” he asks, voice rough and soft all at once.

You flinch.

He laughs weakly. “She taps her hat brim three times,” he says. “Same way you did. She’s got your seat in the saddle, your balance. And when she crossed that timer line, she did that little thing with her mouth? That smirk? That’s mine. God help us all.”

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “You don’t know that,” you lie, voice thin.

“I do,” he says. “Down to my bones, I do. But I won’t—” He takes a breath, fists clenching and unclenching. “I won’t push. I don’t got any right to barging into your lives if you don’t want me there. I just… I gotta know. Please. If she’s mine, I need to hear you say it.”

Silence hangs heavy between you. The choice you made all those years ago presses down on your shoulders, suddenly sharp and fragile.

You remember nights pacing with Willa, alone and exhausted, whispering stories about a bull rider you’d loved so hard it nearly broke you. You remember watching him on TV at the NFR, his name flashing on the screen while your daughter slept on your chest, his last ride ending in a wreck that left you sobbing into your mama’s apron when they carted him out of the arena.

You remember telling yourself you did the right thing. That he didn’t need a kid tied to him while he chased his career. That you didn’t need to spend your life waiting by the phone.

You remember the look on his face when Willa smiled at him.

“She’s yours,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s your daughter.”

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then he exhales like someone cut his strings, stumbling back a step to brace a hand on the pen railing. He bows his head, hat clutched in the other hand so tight the brim bends.

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath too until it leaves you in a rush. Your chest aches.

“Her name’s Willa,” you say quietly. “She was born the March after you left. I told my parents the truth. They… we decided not to tell you. You were headin’ for the big time. I didn’t want to be the reason you resented your career. Or her.”

His head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Resent her?” he demands. “Or you? Is that what you think of me?”

“I think you chose bull riding over me,” you snap back, old wounds splitting open. “I think you barely managed to call or text, and that was when it was convenient for you. What was I supposed to think you’d do with a baby, Bucky? Set her in the chute with you?”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be another obligation you resented,” you press on, voice cracking. “You had your shot at the big leagues. You took it. I stayed. I made my peace with that. If I’d told you, maybe you’d have come home. Maybe you’d have come for a while and then left again. Maybe you’d have stayed and resented every second. I didn’t… I couldn’t do that to her. Or to me.”

Tears burn your eyes. You swipe at them angrily.

“For what it’s worth,” you add, quieter, “I watched every one of your rides on TV I could find. I prayed you’d stay in one piece. I’m not a monster.”

He’s across the distance between you in two strides. “Hey,” he says roughly. “Hey. I never thought you were.”

His hand hovers near your arm, not touching until you nod minutely. Then his fingers close gentle and firm around your bicep, grounding.

“You did what you thought was right,” he says. “I get that. I hate it, and I wish like hell you’d given me a say, but I get it. I made it real easy to believe I’d fuck it up.”

A ragged laugh bubbles out of you. “That’s the understatement of the decade.”

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh too. Then his face softens, something like awe creeping in around the edges of the hurt. “I got a daughter,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t quite believe it. “We got a daughter.”

The we hits you like a physical blow.

“She loves this life,” you say, staring at the dirt so you don’t have to look at him. “Horses, barrels, muckin’ stalls. She’s stubborn as hell and talks more than anyone I’ve ever met. She knows you from TV, but she doesn’t know… you. I wasn’t gonna lie to her, but I wasn’t ready to explain all of this yet either.”

He nods slowly. “Then we take it slow,” he says. “If you’ll let me. I don’t—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or to want me back. I’d love to try, but I know I burned that bridge once. I’m just askin’ for a chance to be… somethin’. For her. For Willa.”

You look up, finally.

There’s a fragility in his gaze that you’ve never seen before. A man who’s ridden the baddest bulls in the world and come out the other side, staring down the scariest thing he’s ever faced: his own choices.

“You’d stay?” you ask, voice small. “Really stay? This isn’t just another summer you’re blowin’ through?”

“I retired last year,” he says. “Took one wreck too many. Doctor said I could keep goin’ if I wanted to end up walkin’ with a cane by forty. Figured I’d quit while I can still feel my toes.”

You swallow. You remember that wreck. Remember holding Willa so tight she squirmed when they replayed it on the big screen.

“I’ve been doin’ commentary and clinics since,” he continues. “Travel’s lighter, money’s decent. My folks moved back up this way a while ago. I… I was thinkin’ about buyin’ a little place near here. Maybe help out with the youth rodeo program. Seemed like… I dunno. Time to come home.”

Home.

The word hangs between you, tender and dangerous.

“I didn’t come back ’cause I knew you were here,” he says firmly. “I didn’t know. When I saw your name on the registration spreadsheet this morning, I damn near threw up. And then I saw her, and…” He shakes his head helplessly. “It’s like God reached down and slapped me upside the head.”

Despite everything, you snort. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted to.”

“And probably not the last,” he agrees softly. “I ain’t askin’ for much right now. Just… let me be around. Let me show up. If she wants to know me, I’ll be there. If she doesn’t, I’ll take that too. But I am not runnin’ again. Not from her. Not from you.”

You study his face, searching for the boy you loved under the man he’s become. The boy is still there—in the crooked half-smile, in the stubborn tilt of his chin. The man carries more lines, more weight.

You carry your own.

“You hurt me,” you say finally. “More than you probably know.”

His eyes close briefly. “I know,” he says hoarsely. “And I’ll spend the rest of my damn life tryin’ to make that right, if you let me.”

You could say no.

You could send him back to his clinics and commentary and let your life keep going the way it has. You and Willa and your parents and the ranch. Safe. Predictable.

You think about Willa’s face when she laughed at his joke. The way her hands trembled with excitement when he signed her hat. How she watched him in the arena with the same rapt, hungry focus she has when a new pattern clicks.

You think about a little girl who asks sometimes why she doesn’t have a daddy like some of the other kids. How you tell her families come in all shapes and sizes and that she has more love than some kids with two parents.

You think about the way Bucky looked at her like she hung the moon.

You sigh.

“I’m not promisin’ anything,” you say slowly. “But… I won’t stand in the way of her knowin’ you. We go at her pace. You show up when you say you will. You don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He nods, relief crashing over his features. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Whatever you say.”

“And don’t call me ma’am,” you add, the old reflex kicking in.

He smiles, small and stunned. “There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”

Your heart lurches. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, even as his eyes say otherwise.

Introducing the concept of “your dad is Bucky Barnes, rodeo legend” to a nine-year-old turns out to be… a lot.

You sit Willa down in the camper that evening, her hat—now emblazoned with his signature—resting in her lap. Your parents hover just outside, giving you space but close enough that you can feel their support like a wall at your back.

“So,” you start, hands twisting. “You know how families come in all kinds of different shapes, right?”

Willa narrows her eyes. “Is this about when Lacey said it was weird I only have you and Nana and Papa and no dad?” she demands. “Because I told her that’s rude and you said she probably doesn’t know better yet.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah, it’s… kind of about that.”

She stares at you for a long moment, sharp in a way that always reminds you of her grandmother. “Do I have a dad?” she asks softly.

You inhale shakily. “You do,” you say. “He and I knew each other a long time ago, when we were younger than I am now. We cared about each other a lot, but… life took us in different directions. I should’ve told him about you sooner. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

She chews her lip. “Is it someone I know?”

“Not yet,” you say. “But you met him today.”

Her eyes widen. “Bucky Barnes?” she whispers.

You nod.

She is silent for a long heartbeat. Two.

“Cool,” she says finally.

You blink. “Cool,” you echo weakly.

“Can he teach me how to not fall off when Pony does that funny hop sometimes?” she asks, eyes earnest. “’Cause he always sticks to the bull even when it’s bein’ real mean.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, half hysterical, half relieved. “We can… ask him,” you say. “If you want to get to know him, we can try that. If you don’t, that’s okay too. This is your call, Willa. Okay? You’re not in trouble, you don’t gotta pick sides. You just… tell me how you feel. I’ll listen. Always.”

Her face crumples a little, lip wobbling. “I’m kinda mad,” she admits in a rush. “That you didn’t tell me I had a dad. Or tell him about me. But I’m also… happy? ’Cause he seems nice. And he likes barrels. And he looked at me like… like Papa does sometimes. Like he’s proud.”

Tears sting your eyes. You pull her into your arms, burying your face in her hair. “You have every right to be mad,” you whisper. “At me. At him. At the whole stupid world. And you have every right to be happy too. We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”

She nods against your chest. “Okay,” she murmurs. Then, muffled: “Can we get ice cream now?”

You laugh, wet and shaky. “Yeah, baby,” you say. “We can get ice cream.”

Over the next few days, Bucky makes good on his vow. He’s at the warm-up pen every morning, hat in hand, asking Willa if she wants a few tips. He never pushes, never assumes. When she wants space, he gives it. When she wants to show him her drawings of horses with wings and bulls with superhero capes, he listens like she’s reciting scripture.

He asks about her favorite subject in school (science), her least favorite (math), her best friend (Lacey, who apologizes for being rude about dads after Willa sets her straight). He tells her about the first time he got bucked off and landed on his ass in front of half the town. He shows her how to sit a little looser in the saddle, how to trust her pony’s stride.

He calls her “Willa-girl” once, and you see the way her face lights up like someone flipped a switch.

At night, after Willa is asleep and your parents have retreated to their own trailer, you and Bucky sit on the tailgate of his truck, the same one he drove off in all those years ago. It’s been repainted, the dents mostly hammered out. The bed still creaks when you shift your weight.

“Feels like we’re kids again,” he says one evening, looking up at the stars.

You snort. “Speak for yourself. My knees hurt.”

“Mine too,” he admits. “Rodeo ain’t exactly gentle.”

Silence stretches between you, easier now, threaded with shared glances and half-smiles.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asks quietly. “The big rodeos?”

You think about it. “Sometimes,” you say honestly. “Would’ve been fun to see how far I could’ve gone. But then I watch Willa run, and I think… maybe this is better. I get to see her find her own path. I get to sleep in my own bed most nights. I get to be there when Mama needs help with the garden or Daddy needs a new fence line built.”

You glance at him. “What about you? You miss the bulls?”

He takes a long breath. “Sometimes,” he says. “There’s nothin’ like it. The rush, the adrenaline, the crowd. But my body doesn’t. And when I watch these kids learn to ride, when I see Willa figure out how to shave a tenth off her time? That feels… big too. Different kind of big.”

You study his profile—the steady line of his jaw, the faint scar you don’t remember from before. The shadows under his eyes that have nothing to do with dust.

“You could help out more with the youth program,” you hear yourself say. “The circuit board’s been talkin’ about expandin’ it. Gettin’ more kids involved, keepin’ ’em busy and outta trouble. They’d fall over themselves for your name on the brochure.”

He smiles, slow and surprised. “You vouchin’ for me, sweetheart?”

“Don’t push it, Barnes,” you warn, though there’s no heat behind it.

“Didn’t think you wanted me stickin’ around this much,” he admits.

You look down at your hands, fingers threaded together. “I want Willa to have you,” you say finally. “And… I’ve spent ten years learnin’ how to live without you. I can do it. But I don’t… want to. Not if there’s a better way this time.”

His breath hitches. “What are you sayin’?”

“I’m sayin’ I’m willing to see how this goes,” you say, heart hammering. “Slow. For her. For us. No grand gestures, no drivin’ off into the sunset without a plan. You want in our lives, you do it the hard way. Day in, day out. Teachin’ peewees how not to fall off their ponies, fixin’ fences, sittin’ through school plays. You think you can handle that, Mr. Big-Time Bull Rider?”

His eyes shine in the dim light. “Darlin’,” he says, voice rough, “I’d ride the rankest bull on the planet bareback before I’d walk away from that again.”

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.

He chuckles, then sobers. “I don’t deserve this,” he says. “You. Her. A second chance.”

“Probably not,” you agree easily. “But life’s not about what we deserve. It’s about what we do with what we get. You got us for now. Don’t screw it up.”

He swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

You elbow him. “What’d I say about that?”

He grins, and for a moment you see the boy on the fence rail again, cocky and full of dreams. “Yes, sweetheart,” he amends.

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

He reaches for your hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking permission. You let him take it.

His palm is still rough and warm. It still feels like home.

You sit like that for a long time, fingers tangled, watching the stars over the rodeo grounds where it all started. The sounds of laughter and music drift on the night air. In the trailer behind you, your daughter sleeps with her hat on the hook and her boots by the door, her future wide open.

Ten years ago, Bucky Barnes drove away chasing his big-league dreams.

Tonight, he stays.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—home is big enough for all of it.

She turned when she heard the door, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

Except she didn't quite look at him. Her eyes met his for barely a second before sliding away, focusing somewhere past his shoulder.

"You're late," she said quietly. "I was starting to worry."

Her voice was steady enough, but there was something in the way she held herself, shoulders slightly drawn in, hand gripping the wooden spoon a little too tightly.

"Miller wanted to finish the section we were workin’ on," he said, setting down his lunch pail on the table. The same pail she'd walked all that way to bring him. "Took longer than expected."

She nodded, still not looking at him directly, and turned back to the stove. "Dinner's almost ready. I made stew."

She was focused intently on stirring the pot, like it required her complete concentration. Like she couldn't risk looking at him while she did it.

Shit.

So he did scare her.

Or made her uncomfortable enough that she couldn't even meet his eyes anymore.

He stood there for a moment, watching the way she kept her face carefully angled away from him.

"I should wash up," he said finally, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.

"There's water in the basin."

He moved to the counter, rolling up his sleeves, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say.

----

They ate in silence.

She'd set the table the way she always did, plates, spoons, bread wrapped in cloth. But she kept her eyes down, focused on her bowl, eating with small movements.

Every time he looked at her, she found something else to focus on. The bread. Her spoon. The grain of the wood table.

Anywhere but him.

He made it halfway through his stew before he couldn't take it anymore.

"We need to talk," he said.

Her spoon paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down carefully, still not looking up.

"About what happened today," he continued. "At the camp."

She nodded once, a tiny jerk of her chin, but didn't say anything.

He took a breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For the way I... for how I handled things. I shouldn't have-" He stopped, trying to find the right words. "You came all that way to bring me lunch, and I repaid that by draggin’ you behind a tree and-"

"You didn't drag me," she said quietly, still looking at her bowl.

"I was rough with you. Demandin’. And anyone could have seen us, and I-" He ran a hand through his hair. "You deserved better than that."

She was quiet for a moment. Then, so quietly he almost missed it: "I didn't mind."

He stared at her.

"What?"

"I didn't mind," she repeated, barely above a whisper. "What you did. How you-" She stopped, her hands twisting together in her lap.

"Then why you ain’t lookin’ at me?"

The question hung in the air between them.

She pressed her lips together, and he watched her throat work as she swallowed.

"I don't know how to," she said finally, her voice small.

"How to what?"

"How to... act. Around you. Now." Her hands twisted tighter in her lap. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or say, or-"

She stopped, and he saw her chest rise and fall with a shaky breath.

"I've never..." She trailed off again, clearly struggling. "This morning, you kissed me. And touched me. And I don't know- what happens now. What you expect from me."

Understanding hit him like a fist to the chest.

She wasn't scared of him.

She was embarrassed. Uncertain. Completely out of her depth and trying to navigate something she had no framework for.

Of course she was.

He exhaled slowly and set down his spoon.

"Look at me," he said quietly. "Please."

She hesitated, then slowly -so slowly- lifted her eyes to meet his.

The vulnerability in her expression made something in his chest ache.

"What I expect from you," he said carefully, "is nothin’ you ain’t ready to give. Understand?"

She blinked, clearly trying to process that.

"But you said-" She stopped, fumbling again. "You said you were done pretending you didn't want..."

"What's mine," he finished. "Yeah. I did say that."

He leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice gentle.

"And I meant it. I want you. I ain’t goin’ to lie about that or pretend otherwise." He paused. "But wantin’ somethin’ and takin’ it are two different things. I ain’t goin’ to push you."

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face like she was trying to understand something.

"But… what if I don't know?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if I don't know what I want because I don't understand what any of this is?"

He took a long drink of water, draining half the cup, his eyes on her the entire time. When he set it down, his voice was steady.

"Did you like it?" he asked. "What happened today?"

Her face flamed instantly, but she didn't look away this time.

"Yes," she said quietly.

No hesitation. No deflection. Just honest admission, even though he could see how much it cost her to say it out loud.

Something warm settled in his chest.

"Do you wanna do it again?"

Her breath caught. For a moment she just stared at him, and he could see her working through it: the embarrassment warring with something else. Want, maybe. Curiosity.

"Yes," she whispered.

He pushed his chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the floor.

"Then come here, sweet girl."

----

She stood slowly, her legs unsteady, and crossed the small distance to where he sat.

Sweet girl.

The endearment made her feel foolish. Childish. She wasn't a girl. She was twenty-six years old, married, and by all rights should have had years of experience with this sort of thing by now.

Other women her age had husbands they'd been with for years. Had children. Knew what happened between a man and woman in the dark, knew how to navigate this territory without feeling like they were stumbling blind through unfamiliar woods.

But here she was, being called sweet girl and feeling like it fit because she didn't know anything. Didn't know what to do with her hands or where to look or how to-

His hand caught hers when she got close enough, his fingers warm and calloused against her palm.

"Sit," he said gently, guiding her.

She let him position her, settling sideways across his lap with her legs draped over his thigh, her hip pressed against his stomach. One of his arms came around her waist to steady her, and suddenly she was surrounded by him: his warmth, his scent, the solid strength of his body supporting her weight.

"Comfortable?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His free hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone the same way he had this afternoon.

"We're gonna take this slow," he said. "And if you want to stop, you tell me. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Then he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers.

Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the intensity of this afternoon, but somehow just as overwhelming.

She felt the tip of his tongue trace along her lower lip -a question, a request- and this time she knew what to do.

She opened her mouth.

The sound he made -low and approving- sent heat flooding through her body. His tongue swept inside, and she remembered what he'd shown her earlier. How to respond, how to let her own tongue meet his.

It was easier this time. Less overwhelming now that she knew what to expect. She could focus on the details: the taste of him, the warmth of his mouth, the way he angled her head slightly to deepen the kiss.

His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her closer, and she felt herself shifting on his lap without thinking about it. Turning toward him more fully, her hand came up to rest against his chest.

She could feel his heart beating under her palm. Fast. As fast as her own.

The kiss grew deeper, more intense. His tongue stroked against hers with a rhythm that made something low in her belly clench and pulse the same way it had this afternoon.

She made a small sound -couldn't help it- and felt him respond immediately. His arm tightened around her waist, his other hand sliding from her face down to the back of her neck, fingers fisting in the hair at the base of her braid.

And then, without really meaning to, she shifted again.

It started as just wanting to be closer, to angle herself better into the kiss. Her body moved before her mind could catch up: one knee lifting, seeking better balance, and then the other following.

Her skirts bunched and caught between them as she moved, layers of fabric twisting awkwardly. She felt his hands come down to her hips -steadying her, guiding her- and then he was smoothing the fabric aside with sure movements, making space.

When she finally settled fully onto his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips completely, her skirts pooling around them both, his whole body went rigid beneath her.

----

Christ.

She'd done it without thinking, he could tell. Some instinct driving her to get closer, to find a better angle. She probably didn't even realize what the position meant, what it implied.

Didn't realize that now he could feel the heat of her even through all the layers of fabric between them. That with one small shift of his hips he could press up against her in a way that would-

No.

Slow. They were taking this slow.

But his hands had already moved to her waist, gripping firmly, and he had to force himself not to pull her down harder against him.

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice coming out strained. "You know what you just did?"

She pulled back from the kiss, her eyes unfocused and hazy. "Hm?"

He looked down meaningfully at how she was positioned and watched her follow his gaze.

Understanding dawned slowly. Her eyes widened.

"Oh," she breathed. "I didn't- should I move? I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking-"

"Don't." The word came out rougher than he intended. His hands tightened at her waist, holding her in place. "Don't apologize. And don't move unless you wanna."

She stared at him, clearly trying to figure out what he meant.

"Is this... proper?" she asked uncertainly.

A low laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it. "No. Not even a little."

"Oh."

But she didn't move. Just sat there straddling his lap, her hands resting uncertainly on his shoulders, her face flushed.

"Does it bother you?" he asked quietly. "Sittin’ like this?"

She considered the question seriously, and he watched her think through it. Felt her shift slightly, experimentally, testing the position.

The movement sent a jolt straight to his groin.

"No," she said finally. "It doesn't bother me."

"Good." His hands flexed at her waist. "Because I like havin’ you here."

He pulled her back into the kiss, and this time, there was less restraint in it.

His mouth moved over hers with more intensity, more demand, and she responded eagerly, her fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt.

One of his hands slid up from her waist to the back of her neck, fisting her braid, angling her head exactly where he wanted it. The other-

The other moved down.

Over the curve of her hip. Lower. Until his palm was cupping her rear through all the layers of skirt and petticoat, gripping firmly.

And then he pulled her forward, pressing her hips down against his.

She felt it immediately. The hard length beneath her, unmistakable even through all the fabric. Her whole body went tense with surprise.

He must have felt it because she felt him start to pull back, his hand beginning to loosen-

But before he could, before he could break the kiss or move his hand away, her body responded.

Instinct. Pure instinct.

Her hips rocked forward slightly, pressing down against that hardness, and sensation shot through her so intensely that it made her gasp against his mouth.

His grip on her tightened immediately. Both hands now, the one still in her hair, the other on her backside, holding her exactly where she was.

"Fuck," he breathed against her lips. "Do that again."

She didn't fully register what she'd done. But she understood the rough need in his voice, the way his whole body had gone tense beneath her.

So she did it again.

Rolled her hips forward, pressing down against him, and felt his whole body shudder.

The sound he made -low and broken- went straight through her. His hand on her backside tightened almost to the point of pain, guiding her movement, encouraging it.

"That's it," he muttered, his lips brushing against hers. "Just like that, darlin’."

She didn't understand what was happening to her body.

Every time she moved -every time her hips rocked forward against that hard ridge beneath her- sensation sparked through her lower body. Heat and pressure and something that made her want to press closer, move faster, chase whatever this feeling was building toward.

It was almost too much. The intensity of it, the strangeness. But she couldn't stop.

His hand was guiding her now, helping her find a rhythm, and she followed it without thinking. Rocking against him in small, deliberate movements that made her breath come faster, made heat pool low in her belly.

She could feel herself getting warmer. Could feel dampness gathering between her legs in a way that should have embarrassed her, but somehow didn't. Not when he was making those rough, broken sounds that told her he was feeling something too.

His mouth left hers, trailing down to her jaw, her neck. She felt the scrape of his teeth against sensitive skin and gasped.

"Bucky-"

"I know," he muttered against her throat. "I know, sweetheart."

But she didn't think he knew. Didn't think he understood that she felt like she was coming apart, like something was building inside her that she didn't have a name for.

Her movements became less controlled. More desperate. Chasing something she didn't understand but needed anyway.

And then his hand -the one that wasn't on her rear- moved.

Slid from her neck down over her shoulder, down further until it curved around her side. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast through her dress, and then his hand cupped it fully.

Even through the dress and chemise, she could feel the heat of his hand. The gentle pressure. The way his fingers flexed and squeezed experimentally.

No one had ever touched her there. No one. Not even herself, really, she'd been taught that such places were shameful, that touching them was sinful outside of the necessities of bathing and dressing.

But this didn't feel shameful.

It felt-

She made a sound she'd never heard herself make before. Helpless and needy and completely beyond her control.

His thumb found her nipple through the fabric and circled it deliberately.

The sensation was so intense it bordered on painful. She buried her face against his neck and her hips started moving again, faster now, more desperate.

----

He could feel her nipple harden under his touch, through the clothing. Could feel the way her whole body responded when he circled it with his thumb, the way she pressed her breast more firmly into his palm like she was asking for more pressure.

Christ, she was responsive.

And she had no idea. No idea what she was doing to him, how close he was to losing control.

She was grinding against him now, and he couldn't just sit there and take it. His hips lifted to meet hers, pressing up against her in a rhythm that matched her own. The friction was maddening, even through all the fabric, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from staining his underthings.

Every time she rocked forward, he thrust up. Creating pressure, friction, giving her something solid to grind against.

"Feels good, darlin’," he muttered against her neck. "Just- just like that, sweetheart."

She whimpered and kept chasing the sensation, and he matched her pace. His hand on her backside guided her, pulling her down harder against him with each movement. His other hand still worked her breast, thumb circling that peaked nipple in time with the roll of their hips.

The dual sensation -his hand on her breast, the pressure between her legs as she rocked against him while he thrust up to meet her- was clearly overwhelming her.

Her breath came in short gasps, her movements losing their rhythm as desperation took over.

He was going to lose his goddamn mind.

She had no idea what she was chasing. No idea that her body was building toward something, that all this friction and heat and pressure had a destination.

But he knew.

And Christ, he wanted to get her there. Wanted to feel her come apart in his arms, wanted to see what she looked like when she finally understood what her body was capable of.

But not dry-humping him through her skirts like some desperate girl hidden in a barn.

"Slow down," he said, his voice strained, even as his own hips continued to move beneath her. "Sweetheart, slow down."

"I can't-" Her voice was desperate, breathless. "Something's-"

"I know." He forced his hips to still, forced his hand on her rear to gentle its grip, trying to slow her movements even though every instinct was screaming at him to let her keep going. "I know what you're feelin’. But you need to slow down for me."

She made a frustrated sound but tried to obey, her movements becoming less frantic even though he could feel the tension thrumming through her entire body.

"That's it," he murmured. "Just like that. Slow and steady."

He guided her hips into a slower rhythm, more deliberate, and watched her face as she adjusted to it. Her eyes were closed, swollen lips parted.

Beautiful.

She was fucking beautiful like this.

"Bucky," she breathed. "I need-"

"I know what you need," he said quietly. "And I'm gonna give it to you. But not like this."

Her eyes opened, confused and hazy. "What?"

He shifted beneath her, his hands moving to her waist to still her completely.

"Stand up for me, darlin’."

She looked at him, dazed and confused, but let him guide her off his lap. Her legs were unsteady when her feet hit the floor, and he had to keep his hands at her waist to keep her from swaying.

He stood with her, his own body protesting the movement, protesting the loss of contact.

But he ignored it and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

"Come on," he said quietly, and started walking toward the bed.

She followed without question, her hand gripping his tightly, and he could feel the tremor running through her. Anticipation. Nervousness. Need.

When they reached the bed, he turned to face her.

Her eyes were wide, searching his face for something. Reassurance, maybe. Or permission.

"Sit down," he said gently.

----

She did, perched on the edge of the mattress, and he knelt in front of her.

"I'm goin’ to touch you," he said quietly. "Properly this time. Not through all these layers." His hands were already moving to her boots, unlacing them easily. "Is that alright?"

She nodded, her breath catching.

"I need to hear you say it, sweetheart."

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, it's alright."

He pulled off the first boot, then the second, setting them aside carefully.

"All of them?" she asked, and he could hear the nervousness creeping into her voice. "You mean... all the layers?"

He looked up at her from where he knelt, his hands resting on her ankles.

"No," he said simply. "Not all of them. Not tonight. Unless you want me to."

He saw relief flicker across her face, followed quickly by confusion.

"Just enough," he continued, his hands sliding up to her calves, "that I can touch you properly. Make you feel good." He paused. "The dress can stay on. The chemise too, if you want. But some things..." His fingers found the tie of her petticoat through her skirt. "Some things are goin’ to be in the way of what I'm tryin’ to do."

"And… what are you trying to do?" she asked quietly.

He smiled slightly. "Make you understand what your body was chasin’ a few minutes ago."

She felt him working the petticoat loose. The garment gave around her waist, and he helped her stand just long enough to let it fall to the floor in a puddle of fabric.

She sat back down quickly, suddenly very aware that there was one less layer between her and his hands.

"The stockings too," he said quietly, and she felt his fingers at her knee, finding the ribbon that held them up.

He untied the first one slowly, deliberately, his knuckles brushing against her skin as he worked. Then he rolled the stocking down, his palms warm against her leg as the fabric slid away.

The air felt cool against her bare skin. Strange. Vulnerable.

He did the same with the other leg, just as slowly, and she found herself watching his hands work. The carefullness of his movements. The way he touched her like she was something valuable.

When both stockings were off, he set them aside and looked up at her.

"Lie back," he said.

She hesitated for just a moment, then did as he asked, scooting back on the mattress until she could lie down fully. The bed was soft beneath her back, familiar. Comforting.

He stood, and for a moment she thought he was going to join her on the bed. But instead, he moved closer to the edge of the bed where her legs dangled off the side, his hands going to her ankles.

She tensed.

"Trust me," he said quietly.

Then he started gathering her skirts.

Slowly. Inch by inch. Pushing the fabric up past her ankles, her calves, her knees.

Higher.

She felt the cool air hit her thighs and instinctively tried to press her legs together.

"Easy," he murmured, his hands pausing on her knees, gentle but firm. "Need to... get there."

The words -the implication- made her face burn.

He kept pushing the fabric higher until it was bunched around her hips, and then his hands stayed on her knees.

"Open for me, sweetheart."

She let her knees fall apart slowly, her whole body tense with nervousness.

This wasn't-

Nothing about this matched what her mother had told her.

The conversation had been brief and clinical. She hadn't expected her to marry -had made that clear enough over the years- but had given her the information anyway, a few days before passing away. Just in case.

When the time comes, you'll undress and lie down. He'll get on top of you and put his... thing inside you. It will hurt the first time. Don’t make a fuss; men don't like fussing. You stay on your back, let him do, and it will be over quickly.

That was it. That was all she knew.

Nothing about this. Nothing about lying on her back with her skirts pushed up while her husband stood between her legs, still fully clothed. Nothing about the things he'd already done: the tongue in her mouth, the touching, the way he'd made her body feel like it was on fire.

Nothing about pleasure.

She felt exposed. Vulnerable in a way that went beyond just the physical. The cool air against her bare thighs, the knowledge that he could see her now, see parts of her that no one had ever seen.

"Breathe," he said quietly, his hands still resting on her knees. "Just breathe, darlin’."

She realized she'd been holding her breath and forced herself to let it out.

His hands moved then, sliding slowly up her thighs, pushing her legs wider as he stepped closer to the edge of the bed.

And then she felt it.

His gaze.

He was looking at her. Really looking. At the most private part of her body.

She wanted to close her legs. Wanted to pull her skirts back down and hide. But his hands were firm on her thighs, keeping her open, and something in his expression -something almost reverent- kept her from protesting.

"Christ," he muttered, his voice rough. "You're perfect."

Perfect.

The word didn't make sense. How could that part of her be perfect when it was supposed to be something to hide?

His hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where she could feel heat and dampness gathering, and she couldn't stop the small sound that escaped her throat.

----

He'd known what to expect, logically. But logic and reality were two very different things.

She was bare beneath her chemise and drawers, no additional undergarments in the way. Just the curls between her thighs, and beneath them-

Christ.

He could see how wet she was. Could see the evidence of her arousal glistening there, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to just bury his face between her legs immediately.

Slow. He had to go slow.

His thumbs brushed higher, and he heard her breath catch. Watched her hips shift restlessly against the quilt.

"I'm gonna touch you here," he said quietly, one thumb sliding along the crease where her thigh met her body. So close to where he wanted to be. "Right here, where you're wet for me."

She made a sound, half gasp, half whimper.

He let his thumb drift closer, brushing through the curls, and her whole body jerked at the contact.

"And then," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "I'm gonna use my mouth."

The silence that followed was absolute.

He looked up and found her staring at him, eyes wide with shock.

"Your-" She couldn't seem to finish the sentence. "You're going to put your mouth... there?"

"Yes."

"But that's-" Her face was burning now, he could see it even in the dim firelight. "Why would you-"

"Because it's gonna feel good," he said simply. "Better than anythin’ you've felt so far. And because I want to." He paused, holding her gaze. "Do you trust me?"

She stared at him for a long moment, clearly trying to reconcile what he was telling her with everything she'd been taught about what was proper, what was decent.

Finally, she nodded.

"Say it," he said quietly. "I need to hear you say it."

"I trust you," she whispered.

Then, quieter still: "Should I... rinse first? I washed this morning, but-"

"No." The word came out firm, almost harsh. He gentled his tone. "You're perfect just like this. Don't need anythin’ different."

The idea that she thought she needed to clean herself for him made something twist in his chest. She was worried about being proper. About being clean enough, good enough, acceptable enough.

He was going to show her she didn't need to worry about any of that. Not with him.

He dropped to his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed, positioning himself between her spread thighs, and let his hands slide up to grip her hips.

"I'm gonna learn what you like," he said, his thumbs brushing through the curls, and then lower, parting her folds, and she felt him touch her directly for the first time, brushing through wetness she'd been trying not to think about, exploring carefully, and every nerve ending in her body seemed to light up at once.

"Oh-" The sound escaped her before she could stop it when he caught in a little nub of flesh.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

His thumb circled it slowly, and she felt her hips lift off the bed without meaning to, chasing it.

Then his hand slid lower, and she felt pressure -gentle but insistent- at her entrance.

"Relax," he said quietly. "I’m gonna- just one finger. Nice and slow."

She tried to do as he said, tried to let her body soften, but when she felt him start to push inside, her whole body tensed.

It didn't hurt. Not exactly. But it was strange. The sensation of being breached, even just by one finger.

"Breathe," he reminded her, and she realized she was holding her breath again.

She exhaled shakily, and he pushed deeper.

All the way in until she could feel his knuckle pressed against her.

"Good girl," he said, his voice rough with approval. "That's good. You're doin’ so good."

Then he started to move.

Slow, shallow strokes that made her aware of muscles she'd never thought about before. Made her aware of how her body was gripping him, how the sensation shifted from strange to-

Not unpleasant.

Actually, not unpleasant at all.

His thumb found that spot again -the one that had made her gasp before- and circled it while his finger continued its steady rhythm inside her.

The dual sensation made her head fall back against the quilt, made her hips start to move with him instead of against him.

"There you go," he murmured. "Just like that. Feel good?"

She couldn't speak. Could only nod, her hands gripping the quilt again.

She felt him add a second finger, stretching her more, and the slight burn made her tense for just a moment before her body adjusted.

"Still good?" he asked.

"Yes," she managed, her voice barely recognizable. "Yes, it's-"

She couldn't finish because his fingers curled inside her, pressing against something that sent sensation shooting through her entire body.

She cried out, her back arching off the bed.

"Found it," he said, satisfaction clear in his voice.

----

Her reaction when he found that spot inside her -the way her whole body bowed, the broken sound she made- nearly undid him.

He stroked against it again, deliberately, and watched her fall apart. Watched her hips rock desperately against his hand, chasing more of whatever he was making her feel.

She was so wet now that he could hear it, the slick sound of his fingers moving inside her. It should have been obscene, but all he could think about was how responsive she was.

He kept working that spot inside her while his thumb circled her little nub, building her higher, watching her climb toward something she didn't even know was coming.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Let it build, darlin’. Don't fight it."

But he could see her start to tense, to pull back from the intensity of it, like she was scared of where it was leading.

Time for his tongue.

He left one hand between her legs, fingers still buried inside her, still stroking that sweet spot. His other hand moved to her inner thigh, holding her open and steady.

Then he leaned in and put his mouth on her.

----

The first touch made her entire body jolt.

She'd thought the fingers were overwhelming.

But this…

His tongue, warm and wet, licking directly over that spot his thumb had been circling, combined with his fingers still moving inside her, still pressing against that place that made her see stars-

It was too much.

She cried out, her hands flying from the quilt to tangle in his hair, not sure if she was trying to push him away or pull him closer.

He decided for her, his mouth staying exactly where it was, his tongue circling with the same deliberate motions his thumb had used.

Then he shifted, and instead of licking, she felt him-

Sucking.

His lips closed around that spot, and he started to pull gently. The sensation was so foreign, so strange that her mind scrambled for any reference point.

Like a baby nursing, some distant part of her brain supplied, and it should have seemed obscene, should have made her want to push him away in shame.

But she couldn't bring herself to care.

Couldn't think about propriety or decency when her entire body was lighting up like fire, when every suckle of his mouth sent sparks shooting through her.

The sounds coming from her throat didn't sound like her. Desperate, broken, pleading sounds that she couldn't control.

And she didn't care.

Couldn't care about anything except the building pressure, the heat coiling tighter and tighter in her belly, the way every suck and curl of his fingers was pushing her toward something that felt too big, too intense, like she was going to break apart if she let it happen.

"Bucky-" His name came out strangled. "I can't- something's-"

His fingers curled harder inside her, and his mouth worked that spot with renewed interest, and-

Everything shattered.

----

He felt it the moment she went over the edge.

Her entire body went rigid, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers, trying to pull them deeper. Her hands in his hair fisted it, holding his head exactly where it was.

And then she came.

Her hips bucked against his mouth, her back arched off the bed, and she made a sound he'd never forget, high and broken and completely unrestrained.

Her first orgasm. And he was giving it to her with his tongue and fingers, watching her discover what her body was capable of, feeling her pulse and clench around him as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her.

He worked her through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping, his fingers slowing their rhythm but still moving, drawing out every last aftershock until she was trembling and pushing weakly at his head.

"Too much," she gasped. "Please-"

Only then did he pull back, withdrawing his fingers carefully and pressing one last soft kiss to her inner thigh before sitting back on his heels.

He looked up at her.

She was wrecked. Hair falling out of her braid, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her legs were still spread, trembling slightly, and he could see how fucking wet she was, glistening in the firelight.

Perfect.

----

She couldn't move.

Couldn't think.

She lay there staring at the ceiling beams, trying to understand what had just happened to her. Trying to find words for the sensation that had ripped through her body, for the way she'd completely lost control, for the sounds she'd made-

Oh God, the sounds she'd made.

Heat flooded her face as awareness slowly returned. She became conscious of how she was lying, legs still spread, skirts bunched around her waist, completely exposed.

And he was looking at her.

She could feel his gaze even without seeing him, and suddenly the vulnerability of her position crashed over her like cold water.

She tried to close her legs, tried to pull her skirts down, but her limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated. Her hands fumbled with the fabric, shaking.

"Hey," he said quietly. "Easy."

She heard him stand, felt the bed dip as he sat down beside her, and then his hands were there, gently helping her straighten her skirts, covering her.

She still couldn't look at him. Couldn't meet his eyes after what she'd just let him do, after the way she'd fallen apart, after-

"Look at me, sweetheart."

The command was soft but firm, and her eyes obeyed before her brain could override them.

He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Satisfaction, yes. But also something else. Something almost tender.

"That," he said quietly, "was perfect. You were perfect."

She felt her eyes wanting to slide away, to look anywhere but at him, but before she could, he spoke again.

"Did it feel good?"

She knew he already knew the answer. Had heard it in the sounds she'd made, felt it in the way her body had responded to him.

But he was asking anyway. Wanted to hear her say it.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then there ain't nothin' to be ashamed of," he said firmly. "What just happened -what we just did- that's somethin' men and women do together. In private. In their marriage bed" He paused. "It ain’t wrong or shameful. It's natural."

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to let his words sink in and wash away the years of being taught that her body was something to be hidden, controlled, and never enjoyed.

But it was hard to unlearn a lifetime of shame in one night.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, needing not to be flat on her back anymore while they talked. The position felt too vulnerable, too unequal with him sitting beside her.

He seemed to understand, because he shifted, lying down next to her on his side, propping his head up on one hand so they were more level.

Better.

She could breathe a little easier like this.

"I thought..." she started, then stopped.

"What did you think?" he prompted gently.

She took a breath, forcing herself to continue.

"I thought that what happened between... between a husband and wife was just..." She gestured vaguely, her face burning. "Putting... not hands. Or mouths. Just..."

She couldn't finish, but she saw the understanding in his expression.

"Just the act itself," he said.

She nodded, relieved he'd said it, so she didn't have to.

He was quiet for a moment, seeming to choose his words carefully.

"Sometimes it is like that," he said finally. "The man does what he needs to do, and that's... that's all it is."

She nodded slowly. That matched what her mother had told her.

"I ain't gonna lie to you," he continued. "There'll be times when the need is strong enough that we might skip straight to the act itself. That happens. Men..." He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "Men have needs that can be pretty insistent."

She felt her face warm but nodded again.

"But in my experience," he said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate, "when the woman feels good, the man enjoys himself a hell of a lot more too." His eyes held hers. "I liked hearin’ those sounds you made, feelin’ you come apart under my hands and mouth."

The directness of it made her face burn again.

"So yeah," he continued, "we could do it the other way. But why would I want that when I could have you wantin’ it, instead of just doin’ your duty?"

He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, the gesture casual and affectionate.

"Does that make sense?"

She nodded, processing his words. Then her eyes drifted downward -just for a moment, just a brief glance- and landed on the obvious bulge straining against his trousers.

Heat flooded her face, but she forced herself to ask.

"And... and that?"

His eyebrows rose slightly. "What about it?"

She gestured vaguely, unable to make herself say it out loud. "Does it... will it just... go away? On its own?"

Something flickered in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or amusement, though not unkind.

"Eventually," he said. "Given enough time, yeah, it'll go down on its own."

"Oh."

"But the way I'm feelin’ right now…" He shifted slightly, and she saw his jaw clench. "I'm probably gonna need to step outside and take care of it myself."

She blinked, trying to understand what he meant. Take care of it himself?

How did one...?

Her confusion must have shown on her face because his expression softened.

"I'll handle it," he said simply. "Don't worry about it."

But she was curious now. Curious in a way that probably wasn't proper, but that she couldn't quite suppress.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Tried again.

"How do you-" She stopped, frustrated with her own inability to just ask. "I mean, what do you... do?"

----

He was going to die.

Right here, right now, from this conversation alone.

His wife -his sheltered wife who twenty minutes ago hadn't even known what an orgasm was- was asking him how he jerked off.

He took a breath, trying to find words that wouldn't completely scandalize her while still being honest.

"I know you ain't never seen one," he said, gesturing vaguely toward his crotch. "A man's... member."

She shook her head quickly, her face flaming.

"But have you ever seen one on an animal?" he asked, trying to find some kind of reference point.

Her eyes widened slightly. "I've... yes. Horses… in the street. Sometimes."

He couldn't help it; a laugh escaped his lips, though he tried to smother it quickly. "Well, it ain't quite that... dramatic. But the general idea is similar."

She was staring at him now, clearly trying to process this information.

"So when I take care of it," he continued, "I... wrap my hand around it. And I move my hand up and down. Along the length of it. Until-" He stopped, not sure how explicit to be.

"Until?" she prompted quietly.

"Until I finish," he said simply.

She was quiet for a moment, and he could practically see her mind working, trying to form a mental picture of what he was describing without any actual visual reference.

----

She was trying to imagine it.

His hand wrapped around... that. Moving up and down. The mechanics of it made a certain logical sense, she supposed, even if the reality was still completely foreign to her.

She thought about what had just happened. About how he'd used his hands and his mouth to make her feel things she'd never imagined possible. About how patient he'd been, how careful, how focused on her pleasure.

And now he was going to go outside -alone, in the cold- and take care of his own need by himself.

It didn't seem fair.

More than that, it didn't seem right.

She'd enjoyed what he'd done to her. Had felt cared for, cherished even, in the way he'd touched her. Shouldn't she... shouldn't she want to do the same for him?

And if she was being completely honest with herself… she was desperately curious.

Wanted to see what he looked like. Wanted to understand what she'd felt pressing against her when she'd been sitting in his lap. Wanted to know if touching him would make him make the same kinds of sounds she'd made.

But she had no idea how to ask for that.

How did one even phrase such a request?

She looked at him, opened her mouth, closed it again.

"What?" he asked gently, clearly seeing the struggle on her face.

"I..." She took a breath. "You made me feel good. And I... I want to..." She gestured helplessly. "Do the same. Is that... would that be appropriate?"

----

There was absolutely nothing appropriate about what he wanted to do after hearing those words.

He wanted to strip her naked and bury himself inside her until neither of them could think straight. Wanted to feel her wrapped around him, wanted to hear her make those sounds again while he moved in her.

But he couldn't.

Not when she'd just had her first orgasm twenty minutes ago and was still processing what that meant. Not when he was bone-tired from twelve hours at the lumberyard, muscles aching.

If he took her properly right now -the way his body was screaming for- he'd probably last all of two minutes before spilling inside her like some green kid with his first woman. And then he'd likely pass out on top of her, dead to the world, leaving her first time as some fumbled, graceless thing she'd remember for all the wrong reasons.

He wouldn't do that to her.

Wouldn't embarrass himself like that.

"You ain't gotta do that," he said, his voice strained. "This ain't about returnin' favors or what's appropriate. I wanted to make you feel good. That's all."

He saw something flicker across her face -disappointment, maybe- and felt his resolve crack.

Fuck.

If he'd been hard before, he was damn near ready to explode now. The idea of her hands on him, of her seeing him, touching him, learning what made him feel good the way he'd just learned her-

The words were out before he could stop them.

"Are you sure?"

He heard himself say it and wanted to kick himself. So much for noble restraint.

"I'm sure," she said quietly, and the curiosity and determination in her eyes completely undid him.

He took a breath, trying to get himself under control.

"Alright," he said finally. "If you want to… help, you can help."

He sat up slowly, and she mirrored the movement, both of them sitting on the edge of the bed now, facing each other.

His hands went to his suspenders first, sliding them off his shoulders. Then to the buttons of his trousers, working them open one by one, aware of her gaze tracking every movement, of her breathing coming faster.

When he pushed his trousers down just enough and reached into his drawers, he hesitated.

This was different than just being naked with a woman. This was his wife. Sheltered, inexperienced, twenty minutes ago, she hadn't even known what pleasure felt like. And now she was about to see-

He pulled himself free.

The cool air hit his overheated skin, and he hissed slightly through his teeth. He was achingly hard, had been for the better part of half an hour, and just the brush of his own hand as he took it out made his hips want to jerk forward.

He forced himself to stay still. To let her look.

Her eyes went wide.

----

She'd tried to imagine it based on what she'd felt when she'd been sitting in his lap, that hard ridge pressing against her through all the layers of fabric.

She hadn't been even close.

He was thick. Her mind immediately tried to compare it to something, anything, but came up blank. Longer than her hand could span, she thought. It curved slightly upward, and as she watched, she saw it twitch under her gaze, responding to her attention.

She couldn't look away.

The skin looked different than the rest of him, smoother somehow, pulled taut. Veins were running along the length that she could see clearly, and there was something at the tip -moisture, glistening slightly in the firelight- and she watched, fascinated, as his hand wrapped around the shaft.

Her eyes tracked downward. Below, she could see them, those she'd at least heard referenced obliquely, though never described. They hung heavy between his thighs, and she found herself wondering if touching them would make him react the way he had when she'd shifted in his lap earlier.

And that was supposed to... fit inside her?

Before she could process that thought fully, his hand moved.

She watched, transfixed, as his fingers wrapped around himself -his grip firm, almost tight- and dragged slowly from base to tip. The sound he made -low, guttural- sent a shiver down her spine.

He did it again, slower this time, and she couldn't look away from the movement. From the way his hand worked over himself, from the tension in his shoulders, from the way his jaw clenched.

Then he stopped. His hand fell away, gripping the edge of the bed instead, knuckles white.

She should have been frightened by the size of him, by the reality of what their eventual consummation would mean.

Instead, she felt that same heat starting to pool low in her belly again. Curiosity and something else. Something that made her want to reach out and touch, to see if it felt as hard as it looked, to learn him the way he'd learned her.

"Can I?" she whispered, not taking her eyes off him.

She heard his breath catch.

"Yeah," he said, his voice wrecked. "Yeah, sweetheart. You can touch me."

----

He had to make use of all his restraint to keep still as her hand reached out.

Slowly. Tentatively. Like she was approaching something that might bite.

Then her fingers made contact. Her touch was feather-light, exploratory. Just her fingertips tracing along the length, learning the shape, the texture, and he couldn't stop the groan that tore from his throat.

"It's so hard," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "But the skin is soft."

Oh yes, he definitely was going to die. Right here. Death by innocent curiosity.

Her fingertips were still just ghosting over him, curious and maddeningly gentle, and he needed-

Christ, he needed more than that.

"Wrap your hand around it," he managed, his voice strangled. "Like you saw me do."

She did, her smaller hand encircling him -not quite able to close all the way around- and he had to close his eyes against the sight of it.

Too much. It was too much.

"Move your hand, darlin’," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

She obeyed, tentative and careful. So careful it was almost worse than not being touched at all, like she was afraid she might hurt him.

A sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.

"Want me to guide you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle despite every nerve screaming for more pressure. "Show you what I need?"

"Yes," she whispered, and he heard the relief in her voice. "Please."

His hand came up to cover hers, his fingers wrapping around hers.

"I'm too far gone to let you explore right now," he said, his voice rough. "So today, I'm gonna set the pace." He paused, his hips already starting to shift restlessly. "Another time you can… touch how you want to. But right now I just need-"

He didn't finish the sentence. Just guided her hand in a long, firm stroke from base to tip.

The sound he made was broken, desperate.

"Like that," he managed. "Just like that, sweetheart."

He did it again, using her hand, setting a rhythm that was faster than she probably would have gone on her own. Showed her how much pressure to use, how to twist slightly at the top, how to-

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back.

----

She watched, fascinated, as his whole body responded to what they were doing.

His breathing had gone ragged. His jaw was clenched tight. The muscles in his neck stood out in sharp relief, and she could see his pulse jumping beneath the skin.

And the sounds he was making, low and rough, made her tingle between her thighs.

It was intoxicating.

His hand over hers kept guiding, kept showing her the rhythm, but she was learning quickly. Could feel the way he got harder -impossibly harder- under her palm. Could feel the moisture, making the slide easier.

"That's it," he rasped. "Christ, just like that."

His hips started moving, thrusting up into her hand, and she realized he was chasing the sensation the same way she'd chased hers earlier.

"Tighter," he said through gritted teeth. "Squeeze tighter."

She did, and his whole body shuddered.

"I'm-" His voice broke. "Close, I'm- you should-"

He was trying to say something, maybe trying to warn her, but his hand tightened over hers -the opposite of letting go- moving faster, rougher.

Everything happened fast after that.

He groaned -a deep, guttural sound- and gasped "Fuck-"

Then she saw it.

White liquid pulsing from him, coating her fingers, their joined hands. Spattering across his stomach in thick ropes.

Then she felt warmth on her cheek.

She jerked back instinctively, startled, but his hand was still clamped over hers, holding her grip firm on him as he continued to pulse and shudder.

He was still making sounds -broken, breathless sounds- his whole body rigid and trembling.

And she just... watched him in awe.

Watched him come completely undone, the way his face contorted with pleasure, the evidence of his release painting his skin, their joined hands, and -she realized- her own face.

Finally, the shuddering stopped. His body went slack, his head falling back, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

She stayed frozen, her hand still on him, not sure what to do now.

----

It took him a long moment to come back to himself.

When he finally managed to open his eyes and look at her, his brain was still too scrambled to process what he was seeing at first.

Then it registered.

Her hand still wrapped around him, covered in his release.

His stomach smeared with it.

And… a streak of it on her cheek, just below her eye.

Oh fuck.

He hadn't warned her. Hadn't told her what would happen, what to expect, where to-

Christ, he'd spilled on his wife's face.

"Shit," he managed, his voice wrecked. "Darlin', I-"

He tried to move, but his body wasn't cooperating yet.

She was just staring at her hand, at the mess coating her fingers, with an expression he couldn't quite read.

Shock, maybe. Or curiosity. Or horror.

Probably horror.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I tried to warn you. Should've pulled your hand away, or-"

"It's warm," she said quietly, cutting him off.

He blinked. "What?"

She finally looked up at him, and there was wonder in her expression instead of disgust.

"It's warm," she repeated. "I didn't... I didn't know it would be warm."

"Yeah," he said, and for the first time since any of this started, he felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. "It's... it's warm."

He wasn't used to talking so much about it. Explaining every detail like some kind of instructor instead of just... doing it.

And he was still mortified about her face.

A man didn't... you didn't do that to your wife. There were certain things that were meant for women you paid, not for the woman you married. And he'd just crossed that line without thinking, without even giving her the chance to-

"I'm sorry," he said again, already pushing himself up on unsteady legs. "Let me-I need to get somethin’ to clean you up."

He shoved himself back into his drawers awkwardly, not bothering with the buttons on his trousers, and crossed to where the towels hung near the basin.

His legs felt weak. His whole body felt wrung out in a way that was familiar but somehow more intense than usual.

Because it had been her. Not some quick fist in the dark or a paid fuck with a sporting woman who had a line of men waiting after him, and didn't care whose spend she was washing off.

It was her hand, her presence, her eyes watching him come apart and it had hit different. Harder.

He dampened one of the clean towels and came back to the bed, kneeling in front of her.

"Here," he said quietly, reaching for her hand. "Let me-"

----

She'd changed into her nightgown while he'd stepped outside to dump the water from the basin, he'd said, though she suspected he'd also needed a moment to collect himself.

When he came back in, he'd stripped down to his underthings without a word and climbed into bed beside her.

Now they lay on their backs, not quite touching, both staring at the ceiling beams barely visible in the dim light. She could hear his breathing. Steady but not quite the deep rhythm of sleep.

So he wasn't asleep either.

"Was it… alright?" he asked quietly, breaking the silence. "What we did. Any of it made you uncomfortable?"

She turned her head slightly to look at him, though she could barely make out his profile in the darkness.

"I was nervous," she admitted, and something about the darkness made it easier to say. "I didn't know what to expect. Didn't know what I was supposed to do."

"But did you want to?" he pressed gently.

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "I wanted to."

She felt him relax slightly beside her.

"I just..." She paused, choosing her words. "I feel foolish sometimes. Being so ignorant at my age. Most women have been married for years, they know these things, and I-"

"Darlin'..." He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. She could just make out the shape of him in the darkness. "That ain't your fault."

"I know, but-"

"No," he said firmly. "You're a proper woman." His hand found hers under the quilt, fingers threading through hers. "Your ma wasn't gonna tell you anythin'. No one was. That's how they keep decent women decent, by makin' sure you don't know enough to want it."

He paused, his thumb stroking across her knuckles.

"That… ignorance, is what separates a decent woman from... well, from the kind men don't marry. So you not knowin’, it ain’t make you foolish. It just means you were raised right."

She was quiet for a moment, processing his words.

"Besides," he added, and she could hear something rough in his voice, "when you touch me like you did tonight -when you look at me like you're curious, like you want to know-" He stopped, exhaled. "That does more for me than any woman who already knows what she's doin’ ever could."

Heat crept up her neck at his words.

"Really?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah." His thumb stroked across her knuckles again. "Because knowin’ I'm the only man who's ever made you feel like that… there's nothin’ else like it."

She absorbed his words, feeling warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the way he kept making her feel like she wasn't wrong or inadequate for her age.

"Can I ask you something?" she said after a moment.

"Anythin’."

She hesitated, then pushed forward. The darkness made it easier.

"Is it... is it always like this? Between spouses in the dark?"

"Like what?"

“Talking about it. You asking what I think." She turned onto her side to face him, though she still couldn't see him clearly. "My mother… made it sound like something that just happened. The man did what he needed to do, and the woman endured it. But this..."

He was quiet for a moment.

"I can't say I know what happens behind closed doors in every household," he said finally. "But from what I've heard -men talkin’ at camp, back when I served- most marriages are probably closer to what your mother described. The man takes what he needs, the woman tolerates it. That's just... how most people do things."

She heard the bedclothes rustle as he shifted closer.

"But I don't want it like that," he continued, his hand finding her face in the darkness. "Not because I'm some saint, but because-" He paused, seeming to choose his words. "A woman who's just lyin’ there waitin’ for it to be over… that don't do much for me.”

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because I'm a prideful bastard who gets off on makin’ my partner feel good,” he said quietly. “You feel good, I feel good.” His thumb stroked across her cheek. "And... because I care about you. So that's how this is gonna work between us."

She felt a smile touch her lips. "Good," she whispered.

He made a low sound of agreement, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer.

She let herself be pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder, his warmth surrounding her, and nuzzled against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her ear. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep.

She lay there listening to it, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the weight of his arm around her, and closed her eyes.

Warm, safe, and wanted.

Next Chapter