kittydeadbones

Seb turns to him. “And you—wow. This is honestly surreal.”

He sticks out a hand, no hesitation. “Bucky Barnes. Man. It’s an honor.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. He shakes the hand, briefly. “You can call me Barnes”.

Seb laughs. “Right. Too weird?”

“No,” Bucky says dryly. “Just accurate.”

There’s an awkward pause. Well — you feel awkward. Seb looks like he was born for this. Like he’s about to offer Bucky a hug and get away with it. Meanwhile, Bucky’s hand is still wrapped around your waist, and you can feel the slight twitch in his fingers every time Seb even glances at you.

Seb doesn’t mean to flirt. You know that. You believe that. He’s just… charming. Open. Too comfortable. And when he smiles at you — casually, like it’s a normal smile and not a living sin — Bucky pulls you slightly closer.

“You’ve got great taste,” Seb says, nodding toward Bucky, addressing you now. “This guy? Legend.”

You manage a smile. “Yeah. He’s alright.”

Seb winks. “Modest. I like it.”

Bucky’s mouth is a flat line.

Seb gestures toward the studio. “Anyway, they’ve got me running drills today. Tactical stuff. They’re teaching me how to reload a rifle in five seconds while limping and bleeding from the gut.”

You nod. “Sounds fun.”

“Oh yeah,” Seb grins. “Living the dream. Anyway—really good to meet you both. And hey—” he adds, eyes on you again, voice casual, “If you ever get tired of the original, you know where to find the knockoff.”

You freeze.

He’s joking. You know he’s joking.

But Bucky—Bucky turns his head so slowly it might as well be a horror movie. He doesn’t say a word. He just stares.

Seb blinks, then holds up his hands. “Kidding. Kidding. I’m kidding.”

“I’m not kidding,” Bucky says.

Seb just nods, backing away with a half-smile and a small wave. “Alright, I’ll let you two go. Great to meet you. Seriously.”

You wave, still half-frozen.

Once he’s out of earshot, Bucky finally exhales.

“That guy,” he mutters.

You turn to him, grinning. “You okay?”

“He called himself the knockoff. Who does that?”

You laugh. “He was kidding.”

“He winked at you.”

“He talks in winks, babe. It’s not personal.”

“He said you were pretty.”

“Well,” you shrug, “he’s not wrong.”

Bucky glares. You smile.

“I saw that Pinterest thing. ” he says. “Don’t think I forgot about it.”

You laugh so hard you nearly double over.

Bucky doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he growls. “You said you’d leave your future husband for him.”

You loop your arms around his neck. “Yeah. And then I met my future husband. So Seb lost.”

That shuts him up.

You lean in close. Nose brushing his. Voice low and wicked.

“I do have a type, though,” you whisper. “Dark hair, snarky attitude, trauma eyes. You should meet him sometime.”

Bucky kisses you like a man with something to prove. Like a man reminding you exactly which version you fell in love with. And as his hands slip to your hips, you make a mental note:

You are never letting him watch Fresh.

You’re only halfway through the studio tour when Bucky stops dead in his tracks.

You follow his gaze to one of the sound stages, where they’re filming what looks like a bar scene. The set is styled like a vintage 1940s pub — low lights, warm wood, swing music playing soft through the background. Sebastian, dressed in Buckys dress greens, as he leans against the bar next to an equally glossy version of Steve Rogers.

And women.

There are so many women.

Extras in red lipstick and pin curls are circling them like planets. One leans into “Bucky,” laughing at something he’s said. Another touches his shoulder like she’s known him all her life. Seb eats it up — not in a sleazy way, just naturally smooth, like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

Bucky crosses his arms, jaw clenched.

You glance up at him. “Everything okay?”

He huffs. “Steve was not that pretty.”

You press your lips together. “You were.”

“I wasn’t that pretty either. And I definitely wasn’t surrounded by dames and tossing around one-liners like I was in a goddamn musical number.”

You smirk. “So… it didn’t happen like that?”

“No. You know what really happened? We drank in silence while I stared at the door, waiting for some asshole to walk in so I could start a fight. Steve talked about joining the Army and I told him not to be an idiot. No dancing. No flirting. I got slapped once for being mouthy. That was the highlight.”

You try not to laugh. “So not quite as sexy as they’re making it look.”

Bucky turns his head toward you, eyes narrowed. “He’s playing me like I was some kind of… lady-killer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You weren’t?”

He scoffs. “I didn’t know what the hell I was doing back then. I was just some loudmouth kid from Brooklyn. Half the time I was nervous as hell. The rest of the time, I was trying to keep Steve from getting arrested or beaten into a wall.”

You lean in, close enough for only him to hear. “You know, most ladies love a loudmouth with a hero complex.”

His eyes flick to yours. You can practically see the tension in his shoulders.

You glance back to the set. “You want to get out of here?”

He shrugs, grumbling. “Where to?”

You grab his hand.

“Follow me.”

You tug him through a side hallway, past racks of costumes and labeled prop bins, until you find a half-open door labeled EQUIPMENT STORAGE — NO ENTRY.

You pull him in and close the door behind you. The room’s small, lit by a buzzing overhead bulb. Shelves stacked with cables and mic packs, a few tall cases in the back. And just enough room between them for you to push Bucky against the wall and slide your arms up around his neck.

His eyes widen a little. “What’re you—”

You kiss him.

Hard.

Your fingers dig into his hair, and you press your body flush to his, reminding him—wordlessly, physically, undeniably—that whatever movie-version of him exists out there doesn’t hold a damn candle to the real thing.

When you break for air, your voice is low, teasing.

“You were a ladies’ man, Buck. You just didn’t know it.”

He swallows. “I wasn’t.”

“You are.”

His hands find your hips, gripping tight.

“You don’t need one-liners,” you whisper. “You don’t need to pose for the cameras or flirt with extras or smile like you own the place. You just walk into a room and I forget how to breathe.”

His gaze darkens.

“I fell in love with you,” you say. “Not a movie star. Not a knockoff. Not some Hollywood fantasy.”

Your lips brush his jaw. “I fell in love with the real deal. The guy who growls when he’s jealous. Who gets snappy when someone else looks at me. The guy who survived hell and still holds me like I’m breakable.”

His grip tightens.

You roll your hips slightly, just enough to feel the way his breath catches.

You murmur, “Now, do you want me to keep talking about how unfairly charming Sebastian Stan is… or do you want to remind me exactly who I belong to?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just kisses you like he wants to erase every word you’ve ever said about your celebrity crush.

Your back hits the wall first.

He doesn’t give you a warning. Doesn’t give himself time to think. One second Bucky’s swallowing your words with that shattered kind of silence — and the next, his hands are under your thighs, gripping hard, lifting you like you weigh nothing and pressing you into the shelves behind you with a solid thunk.

“Say it again,” he mutters.

Your fingers are in his hair now, tugging just enough to make him growl.

“Say what?” you ask, breathless.

“That I’m not the knockoff.”

Your legs tighten around his waist. “You’re the original.”

He kisses you like he’s sealing a deal, messy and deep and way too filthy for a supply closet. Tongue sweeping yours, one hand braced against the shelf beside your head while the other grips your ass like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet.

The kiss breaks — barely — his forehead pressed to yours, breath hot against your lips.

“He winks when he talks,” Bucky mutters, completely deranged. “And why does his tongue have a mind of its own?.”

You laugh, and he bites your neck for it. Not hard. Just enough to make you gasp.

“You think I’m gonna lose you to Sebastian Stan?” he growls. “You think I’ll let that guy flirt at you in front of me like I’m not standing right there?”

You tilt your head. “Technically he wasn’t—”

“Don’t defend him.”

You grin. “You’re so jealous.”

His hand slips under your shirt, palming your chest through your bra, fingers rough, greedy. His mouth is everywhere — your jaw, your throat, the hollow just under your ear where he knows you’re sensitive. You’re already panting, already arching into him.

“Tell me whose you are,” he says, voice low and ragged.

“Yours.”

His thumb brushes your nipple, and you jolt. “Again.”

“Yours, Bucky—fuck—yours.”

He growls low in his throat and yanks your jeans open, one-handed, the button popping free like it offended him.

You scramble, hands working at his belt — frantic and uncoordinated, like you’re racing the heat building between your thighs. You both curse when his fingers brush over your underwear and find just how soaked you are already.

He smirks against your throat.

“Is that for me or him?”

You grab him by the collar and yank him up to meet your eyes. “Don’t be a dick.”

His grin is sharp and absolutely unfair. “Wasn’t planning to be, baby. But since we’re on the subject…”

He tugs your panties aside and sinks two fingers inside you, and you nearly moan out loud — biting your lip just in time.

Your head drops to his shoulder, hips grinding down on his hand, desperate. He’s muttering filth against your skin, hot and possessive and so Bucky it makes you dizzy.

“Bet he couldn’t make you this wet.”

“Bucky—”

“He couldn’t fuck you like this. Couldn’t make you come with just his fingers.”

You whimper. He presses his thumb against your clit.

“Say it.”

“Bucky—Jesus—he couldn’t, he couldn’t—only you—”

He pulls his hand back suddenly and you nearly scream.

“Then let me show you,” he growls.

You help him line up — barely — and then he’s inside you, thick and hot and stretching you open with one hard thrust. Your whole body arches. You slap your hand over your mouth to keep from crying out, your back banging the shelf behind you.

His hips roll into you with that perfect, brutal rhythm — every snap of his body saying mine, mine, mine.

“Still think he’s charming?” he pants against your neck.

“No,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders. “I don’t even remember his name.”

“Damn right you don’t.”

He fucks you harder. The shelf is rattling. A cable case falls off behind him and hits the floor with a crash. Neither of you flinch.

Your legs are shaking, your body coiled so tight you can’t even form words. You’re trying to tell him you’re close, but he already knows. He can feel it. He’s whispering filthy encouragement in your ear, biting your shoulder, growling like a goddamn animal.

When you come, it’s blinding — a white-hot, body-wrecking thing that rips through you like a thunderclap. You clamp down on him and Bucky chokes on a curse, hips stuttering as he follows you over, spilling inside you with a rough, broken sound that makes you shiver.

For a moment, it’s just breath.

Just heartbeat.

Just the two of you tangled together in a closet that now smells very obviously like sex.

You finally speak, voice hoarse.

“Still mad about the wink?”

Bucky’s laugh is breathless against your neck. “I hate that guy.”

You grin. “I don’t even remember what he looks like.”

He hums. “Liar.”

He glanced down at Clara again. She was pretending to sleep now—he could tell. She always twitched her nose when she was faking it. He could call her out on it. Start something. Pick a fight. Ask her what she thought he should do with the picture she gave him last week. The one in the red dress. She hadn't mentioned it, but she'd know if he packed it.

He didn’t say anything. Just breathed out through his nose.

Let her have her pride.

Instead, he reached over to the nightstand and checked the time. 4:48 a.m.

Shit.

His train was in four hours. Steve’d be waiting with the bag. Knowing him, he’d be up already, drinking that garbage instant coffee and reading the front page like he didn’t already have it memorized.

Clara shifted again. This time she pulled the sheet tighter around herself. Her eyes fluttered—then opened. Barely.

“You leavin’?” she asked, voice scratchy.

“Not yet,” Bucky said. “Can’t sleep.”

She nodded like that made sense. Maybe it did. She rolled onto her side, tucked her arm under her cheek. “You’ll write?”

“Sure.”

She gave him a look that said no you won’t, but didn’t say it.

“I mean it,” he added, quieter.

Clara’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. “I didn’t ask.”

Bucky looked at her for a long second. Then nodded once. Got out of bed.

She didn’t stop him.

Bucky’s boots hit the stairs like he was trying not to make noise. She wouldn’t call after him. Wouldn’t follow. That was part of the deal.

He stepped out into the morning. Still dark, but Brooklyn didn’t sleep like other places. It just pretended. A man two doors down was already out front in his undershirt and slippers, sweeping the same square of sidewalk he always did. Bucky nodded to him. The man didn’t nod back.

He walked the five blocks to Steve’s place without seeing much, fingers curled tight around the handle of his duffel. The weight of it was familiar. The kind of weight you get used to carrying before it ever goes on your shoulder.

He found Steve where he figured he would — out back, behind the building, sitting on a milk crate with his coat pulled around him like it made a difference. There was steam curling out of the chipped mug in his hands. The paper was folded on his lap, unread.

“You look like you lost a fight to Roosevelt’s economy,” Bucky said, dropping the duffel with a soft thud.

Steve squinted up at him, mouth twitching. “You’re one to talk. You look like you’ve been drafted.”

Bucky smirked, then sat on the stoop next to him. The cement was cold through his pants.

They sat like that for a bit, quiet.

Steve didn’t ask how he was feeling. Bucky didn’t ask how Steve was holding up. That’s how they did it — two guys from the same block, too many years in each other’s pockets to start acting sentimental now.

Eventually, Steve reached into his coat and pulled something out — a small, red-covered notebook, black star on the front, corners already a little scuffed. He held it out like he was offering a match.

Bucky glanced at it, unimpressed. “What’s this?”

“Something I read about,” Steve said, shrugging. “Said it helps. Getting things down. In writing.”

“You serious?”

“Crazier things have worked.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Steve didn’t answer that. Just held it out again.

Bucky took it — more out of habit than interest — and flipped it open. Blank pages. Plain paper. Nothing special.

“What am I supposed to write, huh?” he asked. “Dear Diary, war sucks?”

Steve snorted. “I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

Bucky turned it over in his hands. It felt light. Too light for something that was supposed to help.

“You want me to promise I’ll use it?”

“No,” Steve said. “Just thought maybe it’d keep you company. When I can’t.”

Bucky looked at him, jaw tight.

“That’s the mushiest thing you’ve ever said,” he muttered.

Steve didn’t deny it. Just stared straight ahead, eyes a little red.

“You gotta stop punching recruiters,” Bucky said after a minute, changing the subject. “They’re gonna start punching back.”

“I’m not quitting,” Steve said. “I don’t care what they say.”

“Yeah, well. Try not to get arrested again. I won’t be around to bail your scrawny ass out.”

Steve’s smile was crooked. Familiar.

The light started creeping in over the alley wall. Brooklyn waking up. The clatter of a trash bin. The smell of bread from the corner shop starting its ovens.

Bucky stood, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. The notebook disappeared into his coat pocket without much thought.

Steve stood with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, rocking forward slightly on his heels like he was trying to ground himself. He wasn’t the kid who used to trail after Bucky anymore. But he wasn’t exactly grown up either.

“You’re sure you’re packed?” he asked.

“Three times over,” Bucky said.

“Food?”

“Train gives us rations.”

Steve nodded, eyes flicking to the ground. He rubbed the back of his neck.

Then — quiet:

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. He looked down at his friend. His brother. The last piece of Brooklyn that still felt real.

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Steve laughed through his nose, fast and tight. He didn’t look up.

Bucky stepped forward. Pulled him into a hug without waiting for permission.

It wasn’t long. It wasn’t soft. But it was real.

Steve’s hand pressed against his back, quick and firm, and Bucky could feel him breathing like it hurt to let go.

They broke apart almost at the same time. Like it was choreographed. Like they’d practiced this goodbye a hundred times before.

Bucky nodded once. Then again.

And then he turned, picked up the red notebook, tucked it in his coat pocket beside Clara’s photo — and walked away.

The train station smelled like burnt coffee and old newsprint, the kind of air that stuck to your tongue. Bucky leaned against a cold metal post, coat collar turned up, watching the cluster of boys he’d been shipped out with crowd around the vending machine like it held state secrets.

They were loud. They were green. And they were scared shitless.

You could tell by how hard they were laughing.

“Hey, Barnes,” one of them — O’Malley, maybe — called over. “You’re from the city, right? You got all the girls cryin’ over you?”

Bucky gave a half-smile, didn’t answer. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingertips brushing the edge of the notebook he hadn’t looked at since shoving it away that morning.

Across the platform, a mother kissed her boy’s face like she was trying to memorize it. The kid was red in the ears and trying to squirm away. Bucky looked down before he had to watch her let go.

A voice crackled over the PA, announcing their train was boarding.

The rest of the unit whooped like they were heading to Coney Island.

Bucky didn’t move until the last call.

Later, the train rattled through Jersey like it didn’t know how to stop. Bucky sat in a window seat, chin in his hand, watching telephone wires vanish into fog. Across from him, Freddie had his boots up on the seat and was working through a half-dead deck of cards.

“You play?” he asked without looking up.

Bucky shook his head. “Not for money.”

Freddie smirked. “Good man.”

Outside, trees blurred past. Inside, someone started singing a marching tune out of key. It echoed through the car, boys joining in, trying not to sound like they were hoping no one’d notice their hands shaking.

Bucky didn’t sing.

He rested his head against the cold window, eyes slipping shut.

The bar was the kind of place you ended up when the other two were full and nobody wanted to drink in silence. It smelled like sweat and pipe smoke and something greasy bubbling on a hot plate out back.

Bucky sat at a round table with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, a half-drained beer sweating in front of him. Freddie was telling a story that probably wasn’t true, something about a girl in Astoria and her twin sister who didn’t know she was a twin.

The others were howling.

Bucky smiled like he meant it.

The jukebox was playing something slow — Ella, maybe — and someone had poured whiskey down its coin slot just enough to make the pitch wobble.

He looked around.

The whole place felt like it was vibrating on a frequency he couldn’t hear anymore. Everyone louder than they needed to be. Everything moving too fast or too slow.

He excused himself, quietly.

Outside, the night was colder than he expected. He leaned against the brick wall, pulling a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket. Lit it. Let the first drag sit in his lungs longer than he should’ve.

For a while, he just stood there.

The notebook was still in his coat, left slung over the back of his chair. He could picture it — red and quiet, waiting like a mouth that hadn’t opened yet.

He wasn’t ready.

He’d write when the time came. Or he wouldn’t.

Either way, he didn’t owe it anything.

The barracks were quieter than they looked.

A dozen cots lined up in two rows, metal frames squeaking every time someone turned over. The heater in the corner hissed but didn’t do much. Somewhere, someone was snoring like they were trying to win something.

Bucky lay flat on his back, hands folded over his stomach, boots still on.

He hadn’t unpacked.

The canvas duffel sat at the foot of the bed like a dog that didn’t know if it was allowed inside. His coat was slumped over the top. Still holding the shape of his shoulder.

He sat up after a while, elbows on knees, and pulled the coat toward him.

The notebook was where he left it — inside pocket, left side. Close to the ribs. He slid it out, turned it once in his hands.

Red cover. Black star.

He ran his thumb once along the edge of the star. It didn’t smudge. It never would.

He slid Clara’s photo into the back sleeve without looking at it again. Pressed it flat.

Closed the book. Set it on the nightstand beside him.

Still blank. Still his.

He caught himself in the cracked mirror above the sink before lights-out.

For half a second, he didn’t look like anyone he knew. That scared him more than the train.

They were moving before the sun.

Somewhere behind the trees, sky was trying to turn gray, but the clouds weren’t cooperating. The whole camp looked half-asleep, tents half-collapsed, boots crunching frost into dirt as the unit lined up with gear over their shoulders and collars turned up against the wind.

Bucky stood near the back, duffel strap digging into his collarbone, breath fogging the air in front of him. The coat wasn’t doing much. Nothing did, out here.

No one was talking anymore. Not really.

A couple of the boys were kicking a rock back and forth like they weren’t getting loaded into a truck bound for nowhere. One guy — he thought his name was Carter — lit a cigarette with a shaking hand, dropped the match, lit another.

The truck pulled up, engine loud as hell, and every conversation died like someone had cut the line.

A sergeant with a clipboard barked out names. No one argued.

Bucky climbed into the back of the transport with the rest of them, boots slipping on the edge, caught himself without thinking. Slid in. Sat against the wall.

The canvas cover overhead snapped with every gust.

He took the duffel off his shoulder and set it between his boots. Then, without thinking, reached into the inner coat pocket and pulled out the red notebook.

Still cold to the touch.

He didn’t flip it open. Just held it in both hands for a second. Then slid it carefully inside the duffel, in between his extra shirt and the photo Clara gave him. Tucked it flat, like it mattered.

No one saw.

No one would’ve cared if they did.

The truck hit a rut. The duffel shifted. The notebook pressed into his ribs like it wanted to be noticed.

He didn’t move. Let it settle.

Let the cold sit in his mouth. Let the notebook stay right where it was.

Rain sheeted down in silver ribbons across the stoop, drumming against the overhang in a low, relentless roar. You stood there shivering, hair plastered to your cheeks, one hand clutching the plastic handles of a takeout bag that looked like it had been dropped more than once.

Bucky opened the door with the tired ease of a man who’d been halfway to sleep and didn’t mind being woken. For a second, he just took you in—the dripping coat, the smudged mascara, the way your shoulders were hunched like you were trying to fold yourself in half.

His expression softened. That small, tired smile he saved for you tugged at his mouth.

“Jesus,” he murmured, stepping aside without asking anything. “You walk here in the damn hurricane?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just slipped past him into the hallway, your wet shoes squeaking on the wood. The takeout bag sagged ominously as you set it on the credenza.

“I didn’t—” Your voice cracked. You swallowed. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Hey.” He shut the door behind you, the latch clicking home with a finality that made your throat tighten. “You never have to explain. You know that.”

You tried to shrug it off. The motion just made water sluice off your shoulders, leaving a dark patch on the floor. Bucky sighed, reached for the collar of your coat.

“C’mere,” he said, so gently you almost started crying on the spot. His fingers were careful as he worked the buttons free, peeling the soaked fabric down your arms. His metal hand was warm from the radiator—he’d been standing near it before you arrived—and the contrast against your chilled skin made you shiver again.

“Bad night?” he asked, voice low, as he hung your coat on the hook.

You gave a hollow laugh. “You could say that.”

When he turned back to you, you were hugging yourself tight, chin tucked to your chest. His gaze flicked over you—your bare arms, the damp cling of your shirt—and something darkened behind his eyes. But he didn’t touch you yet. He knew better than to push before you were ready.

Instead, he nodded once, like you’d confirmed something he already suspected.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

He reached past you, flipped the switch on the little lamp by the door, and the soft glow spilled over both of you. For the first time, you really looked at him. His hair was loose around his shoulders, eyes shadowed with sleep and something else you couldn’t name.

You swallowed again. The ache in your chest pressed up, begging to be let out.

Bucky tilted his head, studying you. “You wanna talk about it now, or you wanna sit?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Only a choked breath.

So he reached for you—slowly, so you could pull away if you needed to—and his big hand curled warm and solid around the back of your neck.

“Hey,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’re okay. You’re home now.”

You didn’t pull away from his hand right away. Just stood there, eyes closed, breathing in the warm, familiar smell of him—clean soap, leather, the faint trace of old aftershave.

But the ache wouldn’t stay contained. It pressed up through your ribs until you felt like you were going to splinter apart.

Bucky’s thumb paused at your jaw. “You wanna sit?”

“No,” you said, sharper than you meant. You stepped back, dragging your palms over your face. “I—fuck. I need to move.”

He didn’t argue. But his gaze swept down your dripping clothes and came back up, jaw tightening.

“Hang on.” He turned away, disappearing into the bedroom. You stood there shivering, arms wrapped tight around yourself, until he came back holding one of his hoodies.

“Gimme.” He made a little circling gesture with his hand.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“The shirt. You’re gonna get sick.” His voice was quiet but brooked no argument. “Arms up.”

You huffed, but your hands were trembling as you obeyed. He caught the hem of your soaked shirt and peeled it carefully over your head, warm fingers brushing your ribs. He didn’t linger, didn’t let his eyes drop lower than your face—though you felt the heat of his gaze like a physical thing.

“Shorts too,” he said after a second, even softer.

Your breath caught. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. But then you swallowed and pushed them down, kicking the wet denim into a pile with the shirt.

He held the hoodie open, waiting. You ducked into it, grateful for the dry softness, the way it fell almost to mid-thigh. The familiar smell of him wrapped around you all at once.

“Better,” he murmured, smoothing the sleeves down your arms.

You didn’t quite trust your voice, so you only nodded.

Bucky stepped back, looking you over like he needed to be sure you weren’t about to collapse. His jaw flexed again, but he didn’t say whatever was behind his eyes.

Instead, he gestured toward the living room. “Go on. I’ll pick that up.”

You padded over to the couch, the oversized hoodie swaying against your bare thighs. The TV was still on, some old black-and-white war movie you’d watched together a hundred times, but it sounded thin and far away.

You started pacing in front of the coffee table, arms crossed tight.

“I don’t even know why I’m so mad,” you burst out, voice shaky. “It’s not like it’s the first time. He just—God, he looked at me like I was the problem. Like I’m supposed to be grateful he even tried.”

Bucky came back, arms folded, leaning against the archway. He didn’t interrupt.

“And it’s always the same bullshit,” you went on, voice rising. “They act like they’re doing me some big favor by—by fucking me at all, and then they roll over like they deserve a medal. And I’m supposed to lie there and pretend it was good.”

You stopped pacing, pressing your palm to your forehead.

“Do you know—not a single one of them has ever made me come?” you blurted.

His brows shot up, mouth parting.

You didn’t notice, too caught up in your own fury.

“It’s not that hard,” you snapped. “It really isn’t. But they don’t even try. And when I say something, they look at me like I’m broken.”

You let your hand fall to your side, shoulders sagging.

“Maybe I am,” you said, quieter. “Maybe it’s just me.”

Bucky’s voice was rough when it finally came. “Hey.”

You looked over. He’d pushed away from the archway, his eyes locked on yours, dark with something you couldn’t name.

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head once, deliberate. “Don’t even start thinking that.”

You tried to shrug. “I’m just—I don’t know. Tired. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t matter.”

His gaze swept over you, from your flushed cheeks to the way the hoodie fell around your bare legs. His jaw flexed again, but when he spoke, his voice was soft.

“You deserve better than that,” he said.

Your breathing had gone ragged again, each inhale catching at the top of your chest. For a second, neither of you moved—just stared at each other across the living room, the blue light of the TV flickering over the floor.

Bucky’s eyes swept over you, taking in the tremor in your hands, the way you were hugging your elbows tight to your ribs. His expression softened.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

You shook your head once, but it was halfhearted. When he stepped forward, you didn’t step back.

He reached out and cupped your cheek with his warm palm, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. Up close, you could see how tired he looked—lines etched at the corners of his eyes, dark circles under the lashes. But the way he looked at you—like you were the most important thing in the room—made something twist low in your stomach.

“You’re not broken,” he said quietly. “You hear me?”

You swallowed, throat tight. “Yeah. Sure.”

His brows pulled together, like he could see straight through the lie. But he didn’t call you on it. Just slipped his hand behind your neck, guiding you gently toward the couch.

“Sit down,” he ordered in that soft, rough voice that didn’t leave you much room to argue.

You let him steer you. When you sank into the cushion, the hoodie fell around your thighs like a blanket.

He turned away for a second, picking up the damp bundle of your discarded clothes. You watched him kneel by the credenza to fold them into a neat pile—some ridiculous part of you wanted to laugh that he’d do it so carefully, like it mattered.

When he came back, he held out the big fleece throw you usually stole on movie nights. You hesitated, but he gave you a look that brooked no argument.

“Arms up,” he said again, softer this time.

You obeyed. He draped the blanket over your shoulders, tucking it carefully around your legs, like he was building a little nest he didn’t want you to escape.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Bucky settled next to you, close but not quite touching. His knee brushed yours, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric. He reached for the remote, turning the volume down so the old movie was just a low murmur filling the silence.

You were the one who broke it.

“I just don’t get it,” you said, voice quieter now. “Why is it so hard? To—to care if I feel good?”

He didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his hands, flexing the metal fingers once, and you saw the muscles in his jaw work.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.

“It isn’t hard,” he said. “They’re just idiots.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of you, more a breath than a sound. “Thanks.”

He glanced up then, meeting your eyes. Whatever you saw in his expression made your heart trip over itself.

“You deserve someone who gives a damn,” Bucky said, his voice low and certain. “Someone who—” He cut himself off, looking away.

“Someone who what?” you pressed before you could stop yourself.

His throat worked, like he was swallowing something back.

“Someone who wants to learn every way to make you feel good,” he said finally, not quite looking at you.

The air between you tightened, all the oxygen burned up in a single heartbeat.

Your mouth went dry. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. Just pulled the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders and stared at the flickering TV, pretending you couldn’t feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your skin.

The movie flickered across the screen, voices crackling from old speakers, but neither of you were really watching.

You were still holding the blanket closed under your chin, your fingers twisted in the fleece so tight your knuckles were pale. Every breath felt too loud.

Bucky sat there, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. You could feel him trying not to look at you—but failing. Every few seconds, his gaze dragged back up your bare thighs where the hoodie had ridden a little higher, the damp ends of your hair brushing your collarbone.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you like this—sleeping in his clothes, curled up against his side on this same couch—but it felt different now. Like your rant had cracked something open you couldn’t shove back into place.

You took a slow breath. “Sorry,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, his voice low and sharp. He lifted his head, finally meeting your eyes. “Don’t say sorry.”

You held his gaze, heart hammering behind your ribs.

“It’s just—” You hesitated, words tangling in your mouth. “I know I shouldn’t dump this shit on you.”

He made a rough sound, almost a laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in it.

“You think I don’t want you to tell me?” He shifted closer, not touching you yet, but so near you could feel the heat of him, the steady weight of his attention. “You think I don’t—”

He stopped. His metal hand flexed once on his knee.

“Don’t what?” you breathed.

His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second. When it came back up, something raw and unguarded shone there.

“You think I don’t wonder what it would be like?” he said, so low you almost didn’t hear it.

Your breath caught.

Bucky shook his head, jaw working. “You sitting here telling me nobody ever bothered to make you come—like it’s nothing.” He let out a quiet, disbelieving huff. “Like that doesn’t make me—”

He stopped again, a muscle jumping at the hinge of his jaw.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t pretend you didn’t understand what he wasn’t saying.

The silence stretched, taut as a pulled wire.

Your heart was thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

When you finally spoke, your voice felt small. “Bucky…”

He dragged in a slow breath, steadying himself. When he met your eyes again, there was something unmistakable in his expression—something possessive and aching and so full of want it made your skin prickle with heat.

He didn’t touch you. But you felt the promise there, unspoken but heavy between you: if you asked, he’d give you everything.

You opened your mouth—then closed it again. Neither of you looked away.

The TV kept flickering, but the rest of the world had narrowed to this: the taste of his name in your mouth, the heat of his gaze on your bare skin, the quiet certainty that nothing between you would ever be the same.

The rain had softened to a steady drizzle, a hush against the windows that made the living room feel even smaller, more intimate. You hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

Bucky’s gaze was still locked on yours, and something about the way he was looking at you made your skin feel too tight.

You shifted under the blanket, your mouth dry. “We should—maybe I should go home,” you tried, voice thin.

He didn’t move. Just tipped his head a fraction, studying you.

“Not yet,” he said softly.

Your heart stuttered.

His jaw flexed once. You watched the muscle jump before he spoke again, his voice so quiet it barely carried over the sound of the TV.

Heat flooded your face so fast it made you dizzy. You pulled the blanket higher, like it could hide you from the question.

“Bucky,” you muttered. “Don’t.”

He didn’t look away. If anything, his focus sharpened, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he blinked.

“Tell me,” he said, and there was no teasing in it. Only something rough and incredulous, like he couldn’t reconcile the thought with the woman he knew.

You swallowed hard, your throat working. “It’s not—God, it’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he said immediately, voice low. “It’s a big deal to me.”

You tried to look away, but his hand came up, warm fingers brushing your jaw, turning you back to face him.

“I need you to say it,” he went on, softer now but no less relentless. “You’ve never—?”

Your breath caught, shame burning through you.

“Not…not with anyone,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “I mean—I can, by myself. But no one’s ever…cared enough to figure it out.”

His eyes closed for a moment, lashes dark against his cheek. You could see the way he inhaled, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to calm himself down.

When he opened them again, they were darker than you’d ever seen, the blue swallowed up by something deeper.

“You just faked it?” he asked, voice rough.

You made a helpless gesture with one hand. “It was easier,” you said, miserable. “Less awkward.”

His thumb dragged slowly across your cheekbone, like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, almost to himself.

You didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at you—like you were something precious and breakable and he was furious on your behalf.

So you stared at the floor, heart hammering against your ribs, and waited for him to say something that would let you pretend none of this had happened.

But he didn’t.

He just kept touching your face like he couldn’t stop.

His thumb traced a slow line along your jaw, the gentleness at odds with the hard set of his mouth.

“Look at me,” Bucky said quietly.

You hesitated, staring at the blanket bunched in your fists. But he waited—he always waited—and eventually, you lifted your eyes.

He didn’t soften. He just held your gaze like he was determined to see every part of you you tried to hide.

“You’ve been faking it,” he said, low and certain. “Every time?”

You swallowed, your throat so tight it hurt. “Not…every time.”

His brows pulled together, and you rushed to clarify, your voice a nervous tumble.

“I mean—sometimes it was just easier to pretend. So they’d feel good about themselves. So I didn’t have to explain why it wasn’t working.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling slow through his nose. When he opened them again, the blue had gone almost glassy, like it was barely holding something back.

“And not one of them,” he said, voice ragged, “ever thought maybe it wasn’t your fault.”

You tried to shrug, but it looked more like a flinch. “It’s not that big a deal,” you whispered.

“Stop saying that.” His fingers tightened at your jaw, not enough to hurt but enough to make you feel the strength coiled behind them. “It is a big deal.”

You couldn’t look at him anymore. You dropped your gaze to his mouth instead—huge mistake, because you immediately imagined what it would feel like there.

Your voice was small when you finally spoke again. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

His hand slid back, cupping the side of your neck. His thumb rested in the hollow under your ear, and your pulse leapt against it.

“Because you trust me,” he said simply.

Your chest tightened so painfully you had to suck in a shaky breath just to keep from crying.

You nodded once.

“I do,” you whispered.

His thumb stroked your skin in a slow, calming circle, but the look in his eyes was anything but calm.

“I don’t know how anyone could have you,” he said, voice low and steady, “and not want to learn every way to make you feel good.”

Your heart stopped. Just stopped.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t back down.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, your pulse fluttering against his thumb. Neither of you moved.

Outside, the rain finally tapered to a hush, the last drops sliding down the window glass. But the air inside felt thick enough to drown in.

Bucky’s hand slid down, his palm spreading warm and steady over the side of your throat, like he could anchor you in place just by touching you.

His eyes searched yours, quiet and lethal all at once. You knew that look—like he’d made a decision in his head and nothing was going to shake it.

When he spoke, his voice was so soft it barely carried.

“I wanna change that,” he said.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

“What?” you whispered, because you’d heard him but your brain refused to believe it.

His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw again, deliberate, almost tender.

“I want to show you,” he said, each word measured and certain. “How it’s supposed to feel.”

The air whooshed out of your lungs.

“Bucky—”

“I’m not asking for anything more than that,” he cut in, voice low. “Not if you don’t want it. But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend it doesn’t make me fucking crazy to hear you talk like you don’t deserve it.”

He leaned in then, just enough that you could feel his breath ghost warm over your cheek. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unflinching.

“You do,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rasp. “You deserve to know what it’s like when someone gives a damn.”

Your hands were shaking again, so you curled them tighter in the blanket.

He waited, silent, like he knew you needed the time to process it. Like he’d sit there all night if you needed him to.

And God help you—he looked so sure. So calm. Like he’d already made peace with crossing the line he’d been toeing for years.

You swallowed, but your mouth still felt too dry.

“Are you sure?” you managed, your voice a whisper.

Bucky’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking in that slow, lethal way that should have terrified you—but only made your whole body ache.

“Yeah,” he said, so soft it was almost a promise. “I’m sure.”

The moment stretched between you, so thick you could barely breathe.

Bucky hadn’t moved. His hand stayed warm against your throat, thumb brushing your skin in a slow, steady rhythm that somehow made it worse—made you feel like you were already his, and you hadn’t even said yes.

Your voice came out rough. “If we do this…”

His eyes never left yours. “Yeah?”

Your throat worked as you tried to find the words. “What if it ruins everything?”

Bucky’s expression didn’t flicker. He just shifted closer, so close you could feel the heat of him soaking through your thin borrowed hoodie, the blanket sliding a little down your arms.

“It won’t,” he said simply.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, gentler now, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt. “Nothing about this—nothing about you—could ever be wrong.”

Your breath shivered out of you.

“And if it’s a mistake?” you whispered.

His jaw flexed again, that slow, deliberate clench that made your pulse stutter.

“Then it’s mine to make,” he rasped, so quietly you felt the words more than heard them.

You tried to look away, but his hand shifted, tilting your face back toward him.

“Hey.” His voice was low, steady. “I’m not gonna pretend I haven’t thought about it. About you.”

Your heart stopped.

“But this isn’t about me,” he went on, eyes searching yours. “It’s about you. You sitting here thinking you’re broken when you’re the furthest damn thing from it.”

Your throat was too tight to answer. You could only stare at him, your whole body strung tight as a bow.

“You tell me to stop, I stop,” he said, each word measured. “You tell me no, it’s no. But if you let me—”

He leaned in, so close his mouth almost brushed your cheek.

“I’ll make sure you never think you’re the problem again.”

The blanket slipped down your arms. Neither of you noticed.

The room felt too small. Too quiet. Your heartbeat was the only thing you could hear, loud and frantic in your ears.

Bucky hadn’t moved. His hand was still cradling your jaw, warm and solid and impossibly careful. Like he was afraid you’d shatter if he held you too tight.

You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry. “Bucky…”

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, threaded with something that made your stomach clench.

You made yourself look up. Made yourself meet that steady, devastating gaze.

“I don’t… I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted, the words cracking on the way out.

He exhaled slowly, and the tiny crease between his brows eased.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

His thumb traced the line of your cheek, gentler than you thought anyone that strong could be.

“You just have to trust me,” he said, and the way he said it—calm, certain, like it was the easiest thing in the world—made your breath hitch.

And God help you, you did.

All the fear and doubt and exhaustion folded in on themselves, leaving only the quiet ache you’d been trying so hard to pretend you didn’t feel. The one that had been there for longer than you were willing to admit.

Your voice came out so soft you barely recognized it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He didn’t move, didn’t push, didn’t so much as breathe too hard.

“Yeah?” he asked, so low it felt like a secret.

You nodded, the motion small and helpless. “Yeah.”

His eyes closed, and when he opened them again, something in them was raw and unguarded and so full of relief it almost undid you.

“Okay,” he rasped.

He leaned in, not to kiss you—but just to press his forehead to yours, the heat of him sinking straight through your skin.

“I got you,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over your mouth. “I promise.”

For a long time, neither of you moved.

His forehead rested against yours, the heat of him sinking through your skin, anchoring you to the moment. You could feel every quiet inhale, every unsteady exhale, like you’d both forgotten how to breathe without each other.

Bucky’s hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking a slow line under your eye. His other arm rested along the back of the couch, but the tension in his shoulders made it feel like he was holding himself perfectly still on purpose—like if he moved even a fraction, he’d lose his grip on the restraint that was barely hanging on.

Your heartbeat thudded so loud you were sure he could hear it. You wondered if his was the same—fast and heavy and aching in the hollow between you.

Neither of you spoke.

Because there weren’t words big enough for it—for the way it felt to sit here in the wreckage of everything you’d pretended you didn’t want.

His breath ghosted over your lips as he exhaled, slow and ragged.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” he murmured finally, his voice low and certain.

Something in your chest clenched so tight it almost hurt.

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”

He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, letting you feel every ounce of the tension vibrating through him. Like he needed to give you one last chance to stop this—stop him.

But you didn’t.

Couldn’t.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was already looking at you. And whatever you saw there—want, hope, something softer you didn’t dare name—made your breath catch.

Your hand came up almost without thinking, fingers curling around the back of his neck. His skin was warm and smooth under your palm.

His jaw flexed once, slow and lethal.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, heart beating out of your chest.

“Yeah.”

His breath hitched when you nodded, the smallest break in his control.

Then, slowly, Bucky lifted his head. His gaze swept over your face like he was memorizing you—your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, the way your hand still trembled against his neck.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, so soft it made your stomach twist.

“You tell me to stop,” he murmured, “I stop.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tight. “I won’t.”

The look he gave you—hungry and unguarded and something close to reverent—made your breath catch.

Then he leaned in.

The first touch of his mouth was almost tentative, a featherlight brush that sent a shiver racing down your spine. He paused there, lips barely grazing yours, like he needed that last second to make sure you were real.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you felt him exhale, a shaky breath that tasted like relief.

Then he kissed you for real.

Slow at first—careful, almost too careful. But it didn’t stay that way. The moment your hand tightened in the hair at the nape of his neck, a low sound rumbled in his chest, and his mouth moved harder against yours.

Heat flooded through you, fast and overwhelming. Every inch of your skin felt too sensitive, alive to the rough scrape of his stubble, the warm slide of his tongue when you parted your lips for him.

One of his hands slid into your hair, tipping your head back so he could deepen the kiss. The other cupped your jaw, thumb stroking along the hinge as he tilted his mouth over yours again and again.

You didn’t realize you were making noise until he pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice low and ragged.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You have no idea…”

He trailed off, shaking his head like he couldn’t find the words.

You swallowed, your own breathing wrecked. “No idea what?”

His gaze met yours, blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

“How long I’ve wanted this,” he said hoarsely.

Your heart stuttered, and before you could think better of it, you kissed him again.

The second kiss wasn’t careful at all.

It was hungry—like the dam had finally broken and neither of you could stop it if you tried.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, rough sound from deep in his chest. Bucky’s hands slid down, one bracing at your waist, the other splayed wide between your shoulder blades, holding you close.

His mouth moved over yours with a deliberate, claiming heat that left you dizzy. He kissed you like he’d been thinking about this for years—because maybe he had.

When you pulled back, gasping, your lips felt swollen, your whole body tingling with awareness.

You didn’t let go of him. Couldn’t. Your hand stayed tangled in his hair, your forehead pressed to his.

Bucky’s thumb traced your lower lip, his breathing as wrecked as yours.

“We can’t go back, can we?” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unflinching.

“No,” he said, voice low and certain. “We can’t.”

You swallowed, the truth of it settling into your chest—heavy and inevitable.

“And you’re okay with that?” you asked, your voice so small it almost hurt to hear it.

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only a raw, aching honesty.

“Baby,” he rasped, thumb brushing your cheekbone, “I’ve been waiting for this longer than I wanna admit.”

Your breath caught, a soft sound that turned into a shaky exhale when he leaned in to kiss you again—slower this time, but no less sure.

And in that moment, you knew—there was no going back.

You didn’t want to.

Your lips were still tingling when he pulled back, just enough to see your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, tracing the heat there like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

The quiet between you stretched, weighted and electric.

You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. “Bucky…”

His hand stilled against your skin. “Yeah?”

Your eyes flicked up to his, searching for any hint of doubt—but there was none. Just that steady, lethal certainty that had always made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

“Are you sure?” you whispered.

His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking once before he leaned in, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said, voice low and rough.

Your breath shivered out of you.

“But if you don’t—”

You didn’t let him finish. You lifted your hand to cup his face, your palm sliding over the rough edge of his jaw.

“I do,” you said, barely more than a whisper. “I want this.”

Bucky’s eyes closed, and for a moment, he just breathed—like he needed to feel the shape of those words in the space between you.

When he opened them again, there was something raw in his expression—something that made your chest ache.

“Okay,” he murmured, and it sounded like a promise.

Then he kissed you again, slow and sure and devastating.

And you let yourself kiss him back without thinking about what it meant, without worrying about tomorrow.

His mouth was still on yours when he shifted, the subtle movement of his body so deliberate you felt it all the way down to your toes.

Bucky’s hand slid from your cheek to your hip, his fingers curling around your thigh. He tugged, gentle but firm, coaxing you forward.

You hesitated, just for a heartbeat. Then you let the blanket slip from your shoulders and moved, swinging one leg over his lap.

The moment you settled, your knees bracketing his hips, both of you sucked in a breath.

His hands flexed on your thighs, warm and steady. Like he was reminding himself you were real, that you were really here.

Your heart was a wild, unsteady thing in your chest. But when you looked at him—his hair falling loose around his face, eyes dark and focused on yours—it wasn’t fear that clenched in your belly.

It was want.

Bucky dragged his palms slowly up the outsides of your legs, under the hem of the oversized hoodie. His fingertips traced the bare skin of your thighs, higher, higher, until you felt the heat of his hands at your hips.

He paused there, his thumbs brushing just under the waistband of your panties. Waiting. Giving you one last chance to tell him to stop.

You didn’t.

Instead, you tipped your face down and kissed him, a soft, lingering press of your mouth to his.

That was all it took to break whatever fragile control he’d been holding onto.

His hands slid up, spanning your waist as he kissed you back—slow but hungry, all careful edges dissolving into something hotter, needier.

You gasped when he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. Your hands found his shoulders, bracing yourself against the solid heat of him.

One of his hands traced up your spine, splaying wide between your shoulder blades. The other slipped lower, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, urging you forward until you felt the thick, unmistakable press of him through his jeans.

You broke the kiss on a ragged exhale.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice wrecked.

His eyes opened—dark, blown wide, hungry.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, his thumb stroking your hip. “I’m right here.”

Your breathing was ragged when you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his.

Neither of you spoke.

His hands stayed on your hips, warm and steady, thumbs stroking slow circles against your skin. You felt every quiet tremor in him—like he was holding himself still through sheer force of will.

Bucky drew in a slow breath, then tipped his head back just enough to see your face. His gaze swept over you—your kiss-swollen mouth, the flush spreading down your throat, the way your hands were still bunched in the fabric of his t-shirt.

It wasn’t just heat in his eyes. It was something deeper, something that made your chest ache.

Like he’d been waiting so long to touch you this way that he didn’t quite believe you were really here.

He swallowed, his throat working. “You okay?”

You nodded, though your heart was beating so hard you felt a little lightheaded. “Yeah.”

He searched your face for a long moment, as if he needed to be sure.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t?” he asked, voice rough but gentle.

You let out a shaky breath. “Yes.”

His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking as he dragged his gaze down your body, then back up to your eyes.

“This isn’t something we can undo,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

You nodded again, your pulse tripping over itself. “I know.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, like he was trying to steady himself.

“Okay,” he murmured. His thumbs stroked another slow circle against your bare skin. “Then we’re gonna do this right.”

Your stomach flipped, heat licking up your spine.

You didn’t know what that meant, not really. But the way he said it made you feel like you were about to come apart in his hands—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

Bucky’s hands slid up your sides, slow and deliberate, until his thumbs brushed the edge of your ribs under the hoodie. He didn’t push it higher yet—just rested his palms there, feeling the way your breath shuddered.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unflinching.

“You know what I want?” he asked, his voice low and rough at the edges.

Your throat went tight. “What?”

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to hold something back and failing.

“I want to learn you,” he said simply.

Heat sparked low in your belly, so sharp it almost hurt.

“Learn me?” you echoed, your voice a breathless rasp.

He nodded, his thumbs stroking slow circles over your ribs.

“Every sound you make,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth, “every place you like to be touched.”

Your pulse kicked hard, thudding against the base of your throat.

“I want to know what makes you feel good,” he went on, softer now. “What makes you come so hard you forget every asshole who ever made you feel like you were the problem.”

Your breath stuttered out of you, your hands tightening in his t-shirt.

He looked back up, his blue eyes so dark they were almost black.

“And I’m not in a hurry,” he said, voice low and certain. “I’m gonna take my time.”

The heat pooled between your thighs, liquid and overwhelming.

“Bucky…” you whispered, because you didn’t know what else to say.

His hands slid higher, just a little, the rough drag of his thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts through the thin cotton. He still didn’t push, still didn’t rush.

He just looked at you like he’d never wanted anything this much.

“You okay with that?” he asked, and God, he sounded wrecked.

You swallowed hard, your voice small but sure.

“Yes.”

Your heart was beating so fast it almost hurt.

You tried to steady your breathing, but it was no use—every slow stroke of his thumbs made your body feel lighter, hotter, like you were teetering on the edge of something you didn’t know how to name.

Your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, pressing against the warm solidity of him as you tried to find your voice.

“I’m…nervous,” you admitted, the word cracking in the middle.

His hands stilled for a moment, thumbs resting just under the swell of your breasts.

“That’s good,” Bucky said quietly.

You blinked, your brows pulling together. “Good?”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“It means you care,” he said, his voice low and certain. “It means this isn’t just…” He trailed off, jaw flexing once before he went on. “It means you want this as much as I do.”

Heat licked up your spine, spreading through your chest in a slow, heavy ache.

“I do,” you whispered.

His eyes softened, though the hunger there didn’t fade.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re not nervous,” he said.

Your breath shivered out of you.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he murmured, leaning in until his mouth brushed your ear, “you won’t be able to think about anything else.”

A small, helpless sound caught in your throat, and his hands flexed on your ribs like he was barely holding himself back.

“You trust me?” he asked, his breath warm against your skin.

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

His lips grazed your jaw, soft and deliberate.

“Good,” he rasped.

His mouth traced a slow path along your jaw, every warm exhale sending sparks dancing across your skin. His hands slid higher, finally cupping your breasts through the hoodie—just a gentle weight, but it made your breath catch.

“You hear me?” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You swallowed, your throat working. “Yeah.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, slow and deliberate, and you felt your whole body tighten in response.

“I’m gonna touch you,” he went on, every word like a promise etched into the quiet. “Until you can’t remember a single one of those assholes.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, your chest, lower.

“Until all you can think about,” he rasped, “is how good it feels to be wanted.”

Your hands fisted in his t-shirt, your pulse a wild stutter.

“Bucky—”

His mouth found the soft spot just below your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

“I’m gonna learn you,” he said, so quietly it felt like a secret. “Every sound. Every way you fall apart.”

A soft, helpless noise slipped out of you, and his hands flexed around you like he was trying to hold you still.

“And when you come,” he murmured, his lips brushing your pulse, “you’re gonna know it was never you.”

Something in your chest cracked wide open.

You tilted your face toward him, your voice breaking on the words.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

His jaw brushed your cheek, rough stubble scraping tender skin as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

And the look there—hot and certain and impossibly gentle—made your heart stop.

“Okay,” he said softly, and for one dizzy moment, you knew exactly what he meant.

Then his hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, warm palms skimming bare skin, and you forgot how to breathe.

His palms dragged higher, heat blooming everywhere they touched. He didn’t rush. Just pushed the hoodie up, inch by inch, until the cool air hit your skin and you shivered.

Bucky paused, his eyes sweeping over you—your bare thighs straddling his lap, the flush spreading down your chest, the way you were already breathing like you’d run a mile.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your heart kicked hard.

He didn’t give you time to argue with him, to shrink away from the way he was looking at you like he’d never seen anything he wanted more.

Instead, he caught the hem of the hoodie in both hands and tugged it higher. You lifted your arms without thinking, letting him pull it over your head.

The second you were bare to him, his breath stuttered out on a quiet, wrecked sound.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his hands settling at your hips again. “You—God, baby.”

Heat pooled low in your belly, sharp and insistent.

Your voice was unsteady. “You can… You can touch me.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, blue eyes dark and glassy.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, your own breath shivering. “Yeah.”

Slowly, carefully, he guided you backward. One big hand braced between your shoulder blades as he shifted you off his lap, laying you out along the length of the couch.

The cushions dipped under his weight as he followed you down, his knees pressing to the floor so he could look at you from above.

His palms smoothed over your thighs, thumbs tracing the delicate skin where it met your hips. You couldn’t stop the small sound that slipped out of you, a soft exhale that made his jaw clench.

“You tell me if you want to stop,” he said again, voice rough.

“I won’t,” you whispered, your cheeks hot. “I want this.”

A low, almost relieved sound rumbled in his chest.

“Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Me too.”

His hands slipped under the waistband of your panties, hooking his thumbs there. He looked up, searching your face.

“Can I?”

Your throat was too tight to speak, so you just nodded.

He dragged them down slow, careful not to rush you. When he finally pulled them free, he let them drop to the floor without looking away.

For one breathless moment, he just took you in, his gaze sweeping over every inch of bare skin.

His hands smoothed up your thighs, thumbs pressing gently outward. And as he lowered himself between them, your heart stopped—and then started again, faster than it ever had before.

His hands moved higher, his thumbs skimming the sensitive skin where your hips met your belly. Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to your thigh, a slow, deliberate kiss that made your breath catch.

“Tell me what feels good,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.

You couldn’t answer—could barely think—so you just let out a soft, shaky exhale.

He kissed you again, higher this time, and again, every press of his mouth anchoring you to the moment. When he reached the spot where your thigh met your center, he paused, inhaling a slow, steady breath.

“Christ,” he rasped, and you felt the heat of it all the way through you.

His hands framed you, thumbs stroking the delicate crease as he bent lower. His nose brushed you, and the soft, helpless noise that slipped out of you made his jaw flex.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you.”

One of his thumbs trailed lower, tracing a careful line between your folds, and your hips lifted before you could stop yourself.

“Good,” he breathed, his voice rough. “Just like that.”

His touch was light—exploring, learning, testing. He circled you slowly, then pressed just a little firmer, and the quiet sound that broke in your throat made his gaze snap up to yours.

“There?” he asked, his thumb stroking again.

Your hand flew to your mouth, but he caught your wrist before you could hide.

“Don’t,” he said softly, guiding your hand to rest on your belly instead. “I wanna hear every sound you make.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you nodded, your breath shaking.

He dragged his thumb in another slow circle, watching your face. And when your eyes fluttered closed, when your hips tipped up to chase more, he made a low, wrecked sound that set your whole body alight.

“Yeah,” he rasped, leaning in to kiss your thigh again. “I’m gonna learn everything.”

Your breath was coming in soft, shaky gasps by the time his thumb drew another slow circle over your clit. Every nerve in your body felt raw, like you were being rewired from the inside out.

Bucky watched you for one more heartbeat—like he needed to see exactly how undone you already were. Then he slid his hands under your thighs, spreading you a little wider.

“Keep looking at me,” he said, voice dark and certain.

Your eyes fluttered open, and the second your gaze met his—heavy-lidded, hungry—you felt something tighten low in your belly.

“Good,” he rasped.

Then he lowered his mouth to you.

The first slow swipe of his tongue made your hips jolt. A soft, broken sound slipped out of you, and his hands flexed where they were bracing your thighs.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. “Let me hear you.”

His tongue traced you again, a little firmer this time. He didn’t rush, didn’t tease for the sake of teasing. He tasted you like he’d been starving for it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his mouth wet against you. “You taste so good.”

Heat surged under your skin, your hands scrabbling for something to hold on to. He caught one of them, threading his fingers through yours and pressing your joined hands to your thigh, grounding you.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your voice ragged.

“Right here,” he said, his lips brushing your clit. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Then he closed his mouth over you and sucked—slow and deliberate.

Your back arched, a soft cry tearing out of your throat before you could stop it. His grip on your hand tightened, like he needed the anchor as much as you did.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his breath hot against you. “God, you sound so fucking pretty.”

He flicked his tongue in a slow, steady rhythm, and you felt your legs start to tremble. Every thought you’d ever had about this—about him—disintegrated into heat and wanting.

Your free hand tangled in his hair, your hips lifting to chase the pressure. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he groaned low in his throat and pressed in harder, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Just like that,” he rasped, the words muffled against you. “Let me taste you, baby.”

And you did—helpless, aching, your whole body strung tight as a bow.

You couldn’t think anymore.

Every slow drag of his tongue, every soft scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs, made your vision blur at the edges.

Bucky’s hand was still laced with yours, his thumb stroking soothing circles over your knuckles even as he pulled another soft, helpless moan from your lips.

You felt the heat coil tighter and tighter in your belly, your breath catching every time he circled your clit just a little harder.

Your hips lifted, chasing the friction, and he let you—didn’t hold you down, didn’t tell you to be still. He just hummed against you, like he liked that you couldn’t keep quiet.

“Yeah,” he rasped between slow licks. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

Your free hand trembled as you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He groaned low in his throat, and the vibration sent a shockwave through you so sharp you cried out.

“Bucky—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing you softly before he dragged his tongue in another devastating circle. “Gonna take care of you.”

The pressure built and built, a tight, unbearable ache that made your thighs start to tremble.

You were right there—right on the cusp—and you knew he could feel it in the way your hips kept lifting, in the way your breath broke every time he sucked you into his mouth.

But then he slowed.

His tongue eased into a soft, teasing pattern, not quite enough, and you let out a helpless whimper.

“Please,” you gasped, your voice wrecked. “Don’t stop—”

His mouth curved against you in something that might have been a smile.

“I’m not stopping,” he rasped. “I’m learning.”

And he did it again—building you up with slow, relentless pressure, then easing off just when you were about to tip over.

“Bucky,” you begged, your voice breaking on his name.

His hand squeezed yours, and he kissed you once, slow and possessive.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, sounding almost wrecked himself. “I know. You’re so close.”

You nodded frantically, your hips moving without your permission.

“Then let me,” he whispered, and this time when he sucked you into his mouth, he didn’t hold anything back.

The second he stopped holding back, your body went taut.

His mouth sealed over you with a slow, devastating hunger, his tongue pressing exactly where you needed it most.

One of his hands slid from your thigh to cup you more firmly, his thumb spreading you open as he sucked you into the heat of his mouth. The other stayed locked with yours, grounding you when you felt like you were about to come apart completely.

“That’s it,” he rasped between licks, his voice dark and certain. “Let me feel you.”

Your breath caught, your whole body shaking.

“I—oh, God—”

“Don’t you dare hold back,” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin. “I want all of it.”

You felt the wave building again, hotter and heavier than before. His mouth never stopped moving, and when he slipped two fingers inside you—slow and careful—your hips jerked off the couch with a strangled cry.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, and he gave you exactly what you needed—his mouth relentless, his thumb circling, his voice a low, steady growl of praise.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Come for me. Let me see you.”

Your vision went white.

Heat detonated behind your ribs, the pleasure cresting so high you couldn’t breathe. You felt yourself clench around him, heard yourself sob his name, and then you were falling—hard and helpless and absolutely undone.

His mouth never left you. He kissed you through it, his tongue softening as he eased you down, his hand steady and patient as you shook apart beneath him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, brushing his lips over the inside of your thigh. “That’s it. Breathe.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until he kissed the salt from your skin.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, his voice low and gentle. “I’ve got you.”

Your heartbeat was still thundering in your ears when the last wave of pleasure finally eased.

You tried to catch your breath, but every time you inhaled, your whole body shivered, like you hadn’t quite found your way back into yourself yet.

Bucky didn’t move away.

He stayed between your thighs, one big hand smoothing up your side in slow, reassuring sweeps. His mouth pressed gentle kisses to the sensitive skin just above your knee, then higher, warm and unhurried.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice raw but so tender it made your chest ache.

You nodded, your eyes fluttering open to find him watching you—his pupils blown wide, lips swollen, hair falling around his face.

“I’m…God,” you managed, your voice hoarse. “Yeah.”

His mouth curved in the barest smile as he leaned in to press another kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“That’s not a face anyone ever faked,” he said, and the quiet, almost awed pride in his voice made something warm spread through your chest.

A soft, embarrassed laugh bubbled up, but it broke when he kissed you again, higher this time, right at the crease of your hip.

“You did so good for me,” he murmured, and there was nothing teasing in it. Just a quiet certainty that made your eyes sting all over again.

Your hand lifted to brush his hair back from his cheek, your fingers trembling.

“Bucky,” you whispered, because you didn’t know what else to say.

His eyes softened, the heat there still simmering but gentled by something deeper.

“Perfect,” he said simply, pressing one more kiss just above where you were still achingly sensitive. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You felt the truth of it settle under your skin, warm and solid and real in a way nothing else ever had.

And when he finally eased back, just enough to see your face, you knew there was no going back.

Your breathing had barely started to slow when you felt the couch shift beneath you.

Bucky’s hands slid up your sides—warm, patient, steady. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh before he rose to his knees, leaning over you.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice low and sure.

Your heart kicked hard.

He cupped your hips in both hands and helped you sit, moving slow so you wouldn’t feel rushed. The hoodie you’d abandoned earlier lay crumpled on the floor, leaving you bare to his gaze.

Bucky’s eyes swept over you—every flushed inch, every lingering tremor—and he let out a quiet, ragged exhale.

“You okay?” he asked, his thumb stroking your hip.

You nodded, your voice still shaky. “Yeah.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t say anything more. Just shifted back and pulled you gently with him until he was sitting against the cushions, his legs spread wide.

You hovered there, your knees bracketing his thighs, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. But his hands stayed steady, guiding you carefully forward until you were straddling his lap.

Your breath caught when you settled, the hard, unmistakable pressure of him thick and hot against you even through his jeans.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, a low groan slipping out of his chest.

“Jesus,” he rasped, his hands tightening on your hips. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn’t look away. Your hands came up to brace on his shoulders, your palms sliding over warm, solid muscle.

“Show me,” you whispered, your voice smaller than you meant.

His eyes opened—dark, wanting, and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I’m gonna,” he promised, his thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin.

Then he leaned in and kissed you—slow, deep, thorough—until your head was spinning all over again.

His mouth was still on yours when his hands started to move—slow, deliberate paths down your back, then lower, until he was cupping the curve of your ass in both palms.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his voice a low, wrecked rasp.

You swallowed, your pulse thrumming against your throat. “Yeah.”

One hand slipped between your bodies, pressing you down just a little, and the thick, hard line of him settled right where you were still sensitive, heat blooming across your skin.

Your breath stuttered out, a quiet gasp you couldn’t bite back.

“Good,” he said, and you felt his mouth curve against your cheek. “I want you to feel all of it.”

He guided your hips in a slow, rolling circle. The pressure made you shiver—hot and almost too much after how he’d touched you before.

“Bucky,” you whispered, and he groaned low in his chest.

“Just like that,” he breathed. “God, you’re perfect.”

He tilted his hips up, meeting you halfway, and the friction sent another helpless sound spilling out of you.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his hands steady as he rocked you against him again. “Don’t hold back.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your hips moving without your permission, chasing every slow drag of heat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his jaw flexing. “Look at you.”

Your head tipped back, a soft moan breaking in your throat. His mouth found your neck, lips dragging along the delicate skin as he guided you through another slow grind.

“You feel how hard I am for you?” he asked, voice rough and dark.

Your whole body went tight. “Yes—”

His teeth scraped lightly at your pulse, and you felt his breath catch.

“Been thinking about this,” he admitted, his voice ragged. “Thinking about you. For so fucking long.”

You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak—only move the way he was guiding you, your thighs trembling around his hips.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing the hollow of your throat. “Let me see how good it feels.”

And God help you—you let him.

Your breathing was ragged, your whole body strung tight as a bow, when Bucky finally eased your hips still.

He kissed you—slow, deep, the kind of kiss that left no space for doubt—and then leaned back just enough to look you over.

His gaze dragged from your flushed cheeks to your parted lips to the place where you were wet and aching against him.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, “you gotta let me make sure you’re ready.”

Your heart kicked hard. “I—I am—”

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I know,” he said gently. “But I want you shaking for me.”

A quiet, broken sound slipped out of you.

He guided you up, just enough that he could reach between you. You felt him unfasten his jeans, the rasp of the zipper impossibly loud in the hush.

When he freed himself, your breath caught—thick and flushed, the sight of him somehow making everything inside you clench.

His jaw flexed when he saw your eyes widen, and he let out a low, almost pained groan.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, wrapping one big hand around himself. “You’re gonna take all of me.”

Your thighs trembled where they bracketed his hips.

He held himself there, just brushing against you, but didn’t push closer yet. Instead, his free hand slid down, his fingers gliding through your slick heat.

You choked on a gasp, your hips tilting without meaning to.

“That’s it,” he breathed, his thumb finding your clit. “So fucking ready for me.”

He circled you slow, teasing, until your head tipped back and a soft moan broke in your throat.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice dark and steady. “That’s all you.”

“Please,” you whispered, not even sure what you were begging for.

His mouth curved in a slow, devastating smile as he pressed one thick finger inside you, the stretch making your breath catch.

“You gonna let me ruin you a little?” he rasped. “Make you forget every man who didn’t deserve you?”

Your answer was a helpless sob, your hips moving to take him deeper.

“Yeah,” he growled, kissing the hollow of your throat. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath was coming in soft, broken gasps as he worked you open with slow, careful strokes of his fingers.

Every time he pressed deeper, your hips tilted helplessly, chasing the heat that was building faster than you could stand.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice wrecked.

He kissed you then—hard and sure—before he eased his hand away.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice low and impossibly gentle.

You nodded, your pulse a wild flutter. “Yes. Please.”

His jaw flexed, something raw and possessive flickering behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay.”

He shifted under you, guiding the thick head of his cock to your entrance. You felt the heat of him, the way he was already trembling as he held himself there.

His hand lifted to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

You did—and the way he was watching you made your chest ache.

“Gonna go slow,” he murmured. “Wanna feel every inch of you.”

Then he started to press in.

Your breath punched out in a quiet, wrecked sound. The stretch was deeper, fuller, than anything before—more than your fingers, more than any rushed, careless night.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his other hand gripping your hip. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Your hands slid up his chest, grasping for something to hold on to.

He stopped halfway, breathing hard, like he needed the pause as much as you did.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you gasped. “More—please—”

He let out a low, broken laugh, kissing you again.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your mouth.

Then he pushed in deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

Your head fell forward to rest on his shoulder, your body shaking.

“Baby,” he rasped, his voice dark and ragged, “you feel like fucking heaven.”

A soft, choked noise slipped out of you, and he kissed your temple, his hand sliding up your spine.

“Breathe for me,” he murmured. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your whole body trembling around the thick, perfect stretch of him.

Bucky’s hand rubbed slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades, like he could feel every ragged breath you couldn’t quite catch.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice low and wrecked. “Look at me.”

You lifted your head, and the moment your eyes met his—dark, soft, so full of something you couldn’t name—you felt the last of your fear dissolve.

“You okay?” he asked again, thumb brushing your jaw.

“Yeah,” you breathed, and God, it was the truth.

His hand slid to your hip.

“Then let me show you,” he rasped. “Let me show you how good this can be.”

He guided your hips in a slow circle, and the pressure—deep and overwhelming—made your breath catch on a soft, helpless moan.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Just feel it.”

You couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t remember why you’d ever let anyone else touch you when this—this—was what it could feel like.

He rolled your hips again, slow and deliberate, and you felt him throb inside you.

“Baby,” he groaned, his voice breaking. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You pressed your mouth to his, gasping into the kiss as he rocked you down again, the friction sending heat spiraling low in your belly.

“Bucky—”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he rasped, kissing you breathless. “Say it.”

Your hands slid up to cradle his face, your body shaking as the pressure built and built.

“Please—don’t stop—”

“Not gonna,” he whispered, his voice a dark promise. “Gonna make you come all over me. Want you to feel it every time you close your eyes.”

His hand guided your hips faster, and you felt the wave rising—hot and unstoppable.

“Look at me,” he said, and when you did, there was nothing but want and devotion in his eyes.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your whole body tensing. “I—I—”

“Yeah,” he groaned, his thumb brushing your clit. “What do you need, baby?”

“I love you,” you whispered, the words tumbling out broken and true.

His jaw flexed, and for a heartbeat, he just held you still, his eyes locked on yours.

“Jesus,” he rasped, his voice shaking. “I love you too.”

Then he kissed you, and you fell apart—your body clenching around him as you came with a soft, wrecked cry.

His hand held you close, his mouth never leaving yours, as he murmured against your lips—

“That’s it, sweetheart. My perfect girl. All mine.”

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

You were still straddling his lap, your cheek pressed to the warm, solid line of his shoulder. His heartbeat thudded under your palm, slow but so steady, like he was anchoring you to the world.

Bucky’s hand stroked up and down your spine in unhurried passes. Each sweep of his palm made your body relax a little more, the last shivers easing out of your muscles.

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t even try. He stayed buried inside you, warm and thick, and somehow it didn’t feel overwhelming—it felt right.

You shifted, just enough to look up at him. His eyes were already on you, dark and soft in the low light.

“Hi,” you whispered, because it was the only word that made sense.

His mouth curved in a tired, crooked smile. “Hi.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “You okay?”

His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Better than I’ve been in…fuck, I don’t know how long,” he murmured.

Something in your chest went warm and aching.

You laid your hand over his heart, feeling it beat strong against your palm.

“Me too,” you said softly.

His breath caught, and for a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize every detail.

Then he bent his head, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Stay here with me,” he whispered against your skin.

You closed your eyes. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His thumb stroked your cheek, slow and steady, as if he needed to reassure himself you were really here.

Your heart was still thudding hard, every quiet second stretching between you like something too big to look at directly.

When you finally spoke, your voice felt too small for everything in your chest.

“Bucky?”

His gaze lifted to yours—dark, tired, so unguarded it made your breath catch.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, the words tangling behind your teeth. But you forced them out, needing him to hear it.

“Did you…mean it?” you whispered. “When you said…you love me?”

His jaw flexed, and he closed his eyes like he needed a second to steady himself.

When he opened them again, there was nothing hidden in them—just the soft, raw ache you’d felt from the start.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice breaking on the word. “I meant it.”

Your throat went tight.

“How long?” you asked, even though you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

A rough laugh slipped out of him, low and unsteady.

“Longer than I should admit,” he said, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Long enough I tried to bury it. Pretend it’d go away.”

Your chest twisted, equal parts heartbreak and something that felt suspiciously like relief.

“And it didn’t,” you whispered.

His thumb traced your lower lip, slow and reverent.

“It never even faded,” he said.

Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t look away.

You whispered, the words tumbling out before you could lose your nerve. “I think…I always have.”

He closed his eyes again, exhaling like you’d lifted something heavy off his chest.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you, soft and lingering. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

The kiss was slow—less like he was trying to start something and more like he was trying to prove you were real.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. Just angled his head so he could press his mouth to the corner of your jaw, then lower, tracing a warm line down your throat.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

His hands smoothed up your sides, careful, tender, like he didn’t quite trust that you wouldn’t disappear.

“Meant every word,” he murmured against your skin.

He kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“Every single one,” he added, and there was something raw in his voice—something that made your chest ache.

His lips found the delicate spot beneath your ear, and your breath caught.

“Love you so damn much,” he rasped, and you felt the quiet shiver that went through him as he said it.

Your fingers slid into his hair, holding him close.

“I love you,” you whispered again, because you needed him to hear it as many times as it took to believe.

He kissed your shoulder, the curve of your neck, the underside of your jaw—like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

“You’re everything,” he murmured, and you could hear the unsteady edge in his voice. “You always have been.”

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch from the way he was laying every part of himself bare.

“Bucky,” you breathed, and his gaze lifted to yours—dark and open and so impossibly gentle it almost broke you.

He kissed you again, slow and sure, and you felt the truth of it in every careful touch.

When he finally pulled back, you felt the cold without his mouth on your skin.

Your hand drifted to his cheek, thumb tracing the faint stubble there. The softness in his eyes made your throat go tight.

“What happens now?” you whispered.

His brows drew together, like he hadn’t considered that you might still be afraid.

“What do you mean?”

Your gaze dropped to his chest, too many old doubts crowding your lungs.

“This…us,” you said softly. “What if it ruins everything?”

Bucky’s thumb brushed your chin, coaxing your eyes back to his.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “look at me.”

You did—and the quiet certainty there made your heart stutter.

“It’s already changed everything,” he said. “But not in a bad way.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

He cupped your cheek in his big palm, his thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m not gonna pretend it’ll be simple,” he went on, softer now. “But I’d rather spend every day figuring this out with you than go back to pretending I didn’t love you.”

Something inside you cracked open, warm and aching.

“You mean that?” you asked, your voice small.

His gaze never wavered.

“Yeah,” he said, and there was no hesitation in it at all. “I mean every word.”

Your throat worked around a tight, shaky breath.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered.

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours.

“You’re not going to,” he said, his voice low and certain. “Not ever.”

Eventually, the quiet between you shifted. Not because either of you wanted to move, but because your limbs were starting to tremble with exhaustion.

Bucky kissed you once more—slow and lingering—before easing you carefully from his lap.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me clean you up.”

Your face went hot, but he didn’t tease, didn’t look away. Just helped you stand, his hands steady on your hips as he tucked himself back into his boxers.

You wobbled a little, your thighs still weak. Without a word, he bent and lifted you into his arms, carrying you down the hall.

The bathroom light was soft and golden. He set you on the counter, his palm warm on your knee as he ran water over a clean cloth.

You watched him, your chest tight with something you couldn’t name.

When he turned back, he paused—like he felt it too.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I just…I can’t believe this is real.”

He smiled, tired and so gentle it made your heart ache

“It’s real,” he said. “All of it.”

He cleaned you carefully, never rushing, never letting his touch feel anything but tender. When he was done, he pressed a kiss to your knee before lifting you into his arms again.

“Bed,” he murmured, and you nodded, too wrung out to argue.

He set you down in the middle of his big, rumpled sheets and crawled in beside you. The second you curled into his side, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Just breathed together, warm and quiet.

Then, so softly he almost didn’t hear it, you whispered—

“I wish…”

He tilted his head to look down at you, his thumb brushing your bare arm.

“Wish what, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, your chest tight.

“I wish no one else had ever touched me,” you admitted, voice small and raw. “I wish…it had only ever been you.”

His breath caught, and for a moment he didn’t speak.

Then he bent to kiss your hair, his hand tightening on your side.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low and certain. “You’re mine now.”

You closed your eyes as his lips brushed your temple, your heart finally settling into something steady.

You were exactly three sips into your pumpkin spice by the time Bucky joined you at the table, looking like he’d been personally insulted by the seasonal menu.

“This has foam,” he muttered.

“It’s a latte,” you said.

He held it at arm’s length. “It’s orange.”

“You ordered the same thing I did.”

“I didn’t know what ‘spice level’ meant!”

You slurped obnoxiously through your straw. “Maybe you should let me order for you next time, old man.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “You’re lucky I love you” and took a reluctant sip.

And then another.

And then didn't stop drinking it.

The bookstore was worse.

You were already balancing four books in one arm and a candle that smelled like haunted cinnamon, sniffing a fifth book like a wine sommelier, when Bucky appeared at your side and muttered, “You said one.”

You shoved the fifth book into his hands without looking. “I lied.”

He stared at the growing stack. “Is this even English?”

“It’s fantasy.”

“Of course it is.”

“You love me,” you reminded him.

“I do,” he agreed grimly, sliding his vibranium hand under the candle bag to keep it from tipping. “But if I have to carry another tote full of witch-themed paperbacks out of here, I’m gonna need hazard pay.”

“You get paid in kisses.”

He didn’t respond, but he did hold out his hand so you could pick another.

Spirit Halloween was your Roman Empire.

Bucky trailed behind you through aisles of plastic gore and polyester capes like a very patient bodyguard, arms full of candles, fake fangs, and a skeleton mug that said SIPPIN’ ON SOULS.

You stopped to look at a twelve-foot-tall animatronic clown.

“No,” he said instantly.

“You didn’t even let me ask—”

“No.”

“But—”

He leaned down, eyes level with yours, mouth twitching. “Where would we put it.”

“In the bedroom.”

“…No.”

“Coward.”

He laughed under his breath and adjusted the candle bag. “Pick out what you want, baby. I already know I’m not leaving without buying that stupid crow statue you made kiss my cheek earlier.”

You lit up like a jack-o’-lantern. “You saw that?”

“You made direct eye contact with me while doing it.”

“Oh. Right.”

Back at home, you dumped the bags on the kitchen counter like a triumphant raccoon, already unwrapping your new books with the reverence of a museum curator.

Bucky leaned on the doorframe, watching you with that tired, quiet look he got when he’d officially lost the battle but didn’t really mind.

“You done?” he asked.

You held up your candle, which read Smells Like Spells and Bad Decisions. “I’m going to light this while I read my ghost book and drink out of my skeleton mug and you are not allowed to make fun of me.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh and walked over to press a kiss to your temple.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered.

You smiled, smug and warm. “And yet, here we are.”

He didn’t answer. Just tilted your chin up with one finger, eyes flicking over your face like he was committing the moment to memory.

Then he kissed you—slow, deep, full of quiet affection and caffeine and October air. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise and a surrender all at once.

The gym smelled like sweat and old leather, the mats stained from countless bruises and ruined egos. You’re on your back this time, but it hardly matters—because somehow, somehow, your thighs are already bracketing Bucky’s neck.

His hands are braced on the mat beside your ribs, his face maddeningly close to where you ache for him. You glare down your body at him, but he’s smirking like he’s been waiting for this exact position all day.

“Y’know what’s funny?” he drawls, voice rough. “Every spar. Every single one. We end up exactly here—your legs wrapped around my goddamn head.”

You shift, pretending you’re about to shove him off, but he doesn’t budge. His metal hand slides up the back of your thigh, pulling it higher over his shoulder. The angle makes your breath hitch.

“It’s called leverage,” you bite out.

His grin goes slow and wolfish. “Sure it is.” He curls his fingers around your other thigh, settling it over his other shoulder, and the position leaves you embarrassingly open, heat pulsing between your legs. “Leverage. That why you’re soaking through your shorts?”

“You’re an asshole,” you say, but your voice comes out thin.

“Yeah?” His gaze flicks up to meet yours, dark and hungry. “Then stop me.”

You don’t. You dig your heels into the top of his back instead, pulling him in. Something in his expression snaps—restraint unraveling in one sharp moment.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You really don’t want me to stop, do you?”

He hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts, dragging you flush to his mouth. Your back arches right off the mat.

“Bucky—”

“Shh.” His breath fans over you, hot and electric. “Keep ‘em right here.” His thumbs press into the crease behind your knees, pinning them in place over his broad shoulders. “I’m not moving until you come.”

He pulls your shorts to the side, leans in and drags his tongue over you—slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second. Your whole body shudders, thighs instinctively squeezing around his head. He groans into you, the vibration sparking heat low in your belly.

“Oh—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice gone hoarse, mouth brushing slick against your clit. “Squeeze all you want, baby. Not letting you go.”

You feel it when he smiles, feel the scrape of his stubble, and then he sucks you into his mouth—hard enough your vision blurs. Your thighs clamp tighter around his head, heels digging into his back. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down.

“God—Bucky—please—”

He answers with another deep, slow lick, then seals his mouth around you and groans. The sound vibrates through your core. Your hands fly to his hair, tugging, but he doesn’t let you pull away. His hands flex under your thighs, anchoring you exactly where he wants you—legs locked over his shoulders, nowhere to go.

The pressure builds sharp and unstoppable, your body tightening around his mouth. You come with a strangled cry, thighs trembling against his ears, and he stays right there, working you through every pulse.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick, eyes dark. He smirks up at you, hands still holding your legs draped over his shoulders like he owns them.

“Told you,” he rasps. “Every time. Legs around my head.”

He presses a kiss to your thigh—soft and almost unbearably tender.

Not rushed. Not stiff. No. It was the walk of a man who knew—knew he’d just dropped six bodies without blinking, knew there were eyes on him, knew the mission was over and somehow, he was still the threat.

And worst of all?

He didn’t even try.

He wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t doing it on purpose. That strut? That slow, chest-up, shoulders-loose, model-type bullshit runway march through a goddamn warzone? That was just how he walked after he’d killed.

You let out a noise. It might’ve been a breath. Might’ve been a whimper.

Next to you, Yelena didn’t look away from her scope. But she heard it.

“Again?” she said, casually.

You tried to keep your voice level. “Shut up.”

Yelena clicked her tongue. “You are down so astronomical.”

You grit your teeth and forced yourself to look away, even as your eyes tried to drag back to him like magnets. You knew the shape of his silhouette now. You could sketch it from memory. The way he held the rifle loose but high. The metal arm gleaming, shoulders flexing with every slow step. Even the tilt of his head was hot—what the fuck was wrong with you?

You exhaled. “This is not sustainable.”

“Mm.” Yelena’s voice was too calm. “You say that every mission.”

Because it was true. Every mission. Every time he came back looking like that. Blood on his jaw. Breath fogging in the cold. Chest rising slow like he wasn’t tired, just pissed off that there weren’t more bodies to drop.

You blinked hard and looked at your HUD. It was shaking. Nope. Not the HUD. That was your hands.

“Okay,” Yelena said, finally lifting her head. “On a scale of one to—let’s say—feral, where are we today?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you looked back.

And that’s when you saw it. The walk. That fucking walk—straight at you.

No helmet. Blood running down the side of his face. Rifle resting on his shoulder like it weighed nothing. His eyes found you across the yard, and he didn’t blink. Just kept coming. One slow step after another. Not fast. Not urgent. Just… like he was the end of a goddamn movie.

You felt your knees lock.

Yelena raised one eyebrow.

“Oh no,” she said.

You dropped your rifle. You were already walking.

Yelena’s voice chased after you, high and amused:

“Oh my god. She’s gonna do it.”

It started in Prague.

You were running intel from a nondescript black van, tucked behind a brick alley that smelled like piss and cigarette ash. The kind of freelance op no one wanted their name attached to—something about a corrupt diplomat and a cache of untraceable weapons getting ready to change hands in the basement of a bar that pretended to be closed on Mondays.

But the only thing you remembered about that mission was the knife.

You were watching the CCTV feed from the corner camera above the bar’s liquor shelf. Dim red lighting. Long shadows. Loud music. A hellhole. You were mid-sentence with Yelena when it happened.

“—confirming three on the lower—no, wait, four. Bucky’s got—he’s—”

You stopped speaking.

On the monitor, Bucky stepped into frame. Black tactical shirt, sleeves rolled. Knife in one hand, glinting in the low light. No gun. No backup.

Just him.

And four men.

The first came at him wide—bad choice. Bucky sidestepped and drove the blade up into the soft part under the man’s ribs, twisted, yanked it free. The second tried to use a chair—Bucky caught it mid-swing, shoved it back into his chest, and spun him into the bar top headfirst. Third and fourth moved in together.

It didn’t matter.

In ten seconds, they were both on the floor, one with a slashed thigh, the other with a knife pressed under his jaw. Bucky didn’t speak. He just stared at the man beneath him, one hand on his throat, the blade balancing against the guy’s windpipe like it was weightless.

And then—without a word—he stood up, wiped the knife clean on his own thigh, and turned his head. Right at the corner camera. Right at you.

He looked into the lens like he knew.

Like somehow, through the miles of fiber cable and static and cheap black-and-white security feeds, he felt you watching.

Your voice crackled back in late, rough:

“Uh—subject four is neutralized. Bucky’s—Bucky’s clear.”

Yelena’s voice, a beat later: “Are you salivating?”

You ripped off your headset. “No.”

“I heard saliva.”

“I’m eating a granola bar.”

“You’re lying.”

You were.

That wasn’t granola. That was lust. You sat in that shitty van with your legs crossed so tight your thighs cramped, and tried to convince yourself it was fine. That it was just adrenaline. That anyone would have reacted that way after seeing something so clean, so lethal, so stupidly hot.

You convinced no one. Least of all yourself.

It was supposed to be a silent entry.

Small team. Quiet extraction. A dark, hot warehouse near the Mexico City border, full of dust and diesel and the click of guns being cleaned. You were in civilian gear—tight black jeans, jacket, low profile—sweaty under your bulletproof vest, following intel on an arms shipment being rerouted under the table.

You hadn’t meant to get separated. But there was a moment—a miscommunication over the earpiece—and suddenly you were outside the secure perimeter, slipping through crates stacked high as walls.

And then a voice behind you said, "Qué rica te ves, preciosa."

You turned just as the hand grabbed your arm.

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t violent.

But it was casual. Familiar. Possessive. As if this man had done it before. Would do it again.

You sucked in a breath and shifted your weight, ready to elbow him in the jaw and introduce him to your knee—but then—

CRASH.

The sound of a body hitting concrete so fast it echoed.

Bucky appeared out of the dark, full speed, like he’d been waiting.

You didn’t even see the grab. Just the result:

The man’s back slammed against the wall. A loud crack—maybe a rib, maybe the wall— Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around the guy’s throat, pinning him in place, his arm fully extended like he wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

The guy struggled. Tried to speak. Couldn’t. Bucky’s face was blank. Dead. Like he'd flipped a switch labeled Winter Soldier.

And then he leaned in close.

“Touch her again,” he said, voice like gravel, “and I take your hand.”

Your mouth went dry.

You should’ve stopped him. Should’ve said, “That’s enough,” or “We don’t need this,” or something reasonable. But instead, you stood frozen. Chest tight. Eyes wide.

And you felt it—the heat crawling up your neck, the fire blooming low in your belly.

When Bucky dropped the man—let him crumple like trash—and turned back to you, his breathing heavy, you were already flushed.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. Maybe twice. Too fast. “Yeah. I’m good. That was—uh. Efficient.”

He looked at you for a long second. Then nodded once, and kept walking.

You stared after him, pulse slamming in your throat.

Efficient. That’s what you’d called it.

Not: hot. Not: possessive in a way that made your knees buckle. Not: better than porn.

Later, Yelena asked why you were acting weird in the transport van. Why your face was red. You told her it was heat exhaustion.

She told you to go fuck yourself.

Berlin was cold that week. Cold and wet and full of smoke.

You were rooftop support—sniper nest, fourth floor, crouched on tarpaper with your cheek to the stock of your rifle. Objective was simple: keep eyes on the street. Eliminate any threats trying to escape the bombed-out safehouse below.

Nothing complicated. Except the man on the ground.

Bucky had gone in alone.

And when he came out—

God.

He walked out through fire and fog like he’d orchestrated the whole explosion. Shoulders back. Gun up. Expression carved from stone.

The broken husk of the safehouse glowed behind him in the red dusk, and for one terrible, humiliating second, your finger actually slipped off the trigger.

Because all you could think was:

“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my fucking life.”

You weren’t supposed to be looking at him. There were hostiles in the street. But your scope tracked him like it had a crush.

Through the magnified lens, every detail hit you at once:

His jacket, slashed open across the chest.

The glint of sweat in the hollow of his throat.

The faint steam rising off his skin in the cold air.

His mouth—set firm, jaw clenched, not angry, not smug. Just... calm. Like he knew he’d done everything right. Like the mission bent around him.

And that walk.

That fucking walk.

Deliberate. Wide stance. Not cocky, not rushed—just final. Like he was the mission. Like his presence was the closing statement.

You zoomed in.

You shouldn’t have. You really shouldn’t have.

But you did.

You followed that man’s entire journey through the wreckage with the slow drag of a hungry lens, tracing the line of his thighs, the flex of his forearms, the loose way he rested the rifle against his shoulder like it was light as air.

Somewhere in the comms, someone was saying something. Your earpiece buzzed. You didn’t respond.

Because Bucky Barnes was walking toward the evac vehicle in slow motion, and the way he moved—that fucking strut—was doing things to your central nervous system that you didn’t have language for.

When he finally disappeared into the transport, your mouth was dry. Your heart was pounding. And your pants felt…

Well.

You were glad you were on a solo perch that day. And you were even more glad no one could see what you googled later that night in your hotel room.

You had boots on the ground and blood on your vest. Your pulse was still rattling from the firefight, and the scent of cordite hung in the air like steam.

But all of that—everything—faded the second you saw him. Walking through the debris like he’d torn the battlefield in half with his bare hands.

It was worse this time. Slower. Heavier. Like he was dragging the weight of the mission behind him, letting it cling to him in smoke and heat and the sharp gleam of metal and sweat.

He was filthy. Hair matted to his forehead. Blood running down one side of his throat. Gun still up, as if he hadn’t decided yet whether the world was done pissing him off.

And his eyes—fuck, his eyes—were locked on you.

That’s what did it.

That’s what broke the last fragile thread of your professional restraint, snapped it in two, and lit it on fire.

You muttered it without thinking:

“I can’t fucking do this anymore.”

Yelena’s head whipped toward you. “Wait. Wait—what are you—oh my god. She’s gonna do it.”

You didn’t answer.

You dropped your gear. Vest off. Rifle down. And you walked.

Through the dust, through the bodies, through the ringing still echoing in your ears. Every step powered by something older than logic and stronger than common sense.

He slowed when he saw you coming.

His mouth parted just slightly. Like he wasn’t sure what you were doing—but he wanted to know.

And then—

You reached him.

And you jumped.

Your hands found his shoulders. His vest. His neck. You hauled yourself up like he was gravity itself and crashed your mouth against his like you were making a fucking statement.

Bucky caught you with a grunt, both hands instinctively grabbing your waist—hard. He staggered back a step as your body slammed into his, legs around his hips, fingers in his hair.

You kissed him like you were still in combat.

Like he was the next mission. And this time—you were taking him down.

And holy shit, he kissed you back.

It hit you like a backdraft. The heat. The pressure. The hands.

You heard a shout from across the courtyard—probably Yelena. Possibly laughing. You didn’t care.

Bucky’s mouth was open against yours now. His breath ragged. Teeth scraping yours. His hands dragging down your back like he didn’t know whether to hold you or fucking devour you.

And when he finally tore his lips away—just enough to speak—his voice came low and shredded:

“What the hell was that?”

Your chest rose and fell. You didn’t blink.

“That walk,” you said. “You do that fucking walk, Barnes. And it breaks my brain.”

Silence.

His eyes flicked over your face. Your mouth. Your hands still fisted in his vest.

And then—

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But almost.

“What walk?”

From somewhere far behind you, Yelena absolutely howled.

You’re standing at the dresser, pulling a soft sleep shirt over your head when you hear it—the rustle of paper behind you, the slow, deliberate flip of a page.

You freeze.

Your book. You left it on the nightstand, open-faced and shamefully obvious, like you forgot who you lived with. Not just any man. Bucky Barnes. The same man who could crush a boulder with one hand and undo you with just a look.

“Didn’t know you liked this kind of thing,” he says, voice low, amused, but not mocking.

You turn around slowly.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, metal arm glinting in the lamplight, one brow arched as he stares down at the open book in his hands. His thumb brushes the dog-eared page like it offends him.

Your stomach drops.

“I—” you start, but your throat dries up. You tug your shirt lower even though it already covers you.

Bucky glances up. His expression unreadable, eyes dark, jaw tense.

“This scene,” he says, holding the book up. “Guy chases her into the woods. Finds her. Fucks her like an animal.” His voice drops on the last word.

You swallow. “It’s just a book.”

He hums, not buying it.

“You like that?” he asks, gaze locked on yours. “Being chased like that? Caught?”

Your skin prickles, heat flooding low in your belly.

“I don’t know,” you say, voice smaller than you mean it to be. “It’s stupid.”

Bucky stands, slow and smooth, setting the book on the nightstand. He walks toward you, eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s not stupid.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

When he’s in front of you, his hands go to your hips. He tugs you closer until your chest is against his, your breath catching at the warmth of his body. He bends to murmur in your ear:

“Tell me what you liked about it.”

You shake your head, mortified.

He doesn’t let up. “Was it the chase? The way he caught her? Or the way he made her beg?”

You let out a soft sound, involuntary, already too warm.

His fingers trail up under your shirt, find the waistband of your panties.

“Maybe it was this part,” he says, slipping his hand down. “The way she was already soaked before he touched her.”

You gasp when his fingers find you—slow, sure, dragging through you with aching precision.

“Bucky—”

He moves behind you in a single step, pulling you back into his chest, one arm tight around your waist, the other between your legs again. Your back arches against him, thighs parting automatically as he strokes you deeper.

You’re already grinding down on his hand, mouth parted, breath stuttering. His lips graze the shell of your ear.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I wanted you—”

“Not what I asked,” he growls, pressing the heel of his palm hard against your clit. Your hips jerk.

“Do you like it?” he asks again. “The chase. The danger. Being caught.”

You nod frantically. “Yes. I like it—I love it, please—”

And just like that, he pulls his hand away.

You let out a noise that’s half-whine, half-plea.

He turns you around. His eyes are darker now, almost black, chest rising and falling. He grabs your hand, firm.

“Come on.”

“What—”

But he’s already walking, dragging you through the bedroom, down the hall.

To the back door.

He opens it. The woods beyond are dark and quiet, shadows stretching between the trees. Your heart hammers.

He steps outside, barefoot, shirtless, wild.

Then he turns to you.

“Run.”

You blink.

“Bucky—what are you—?”

“I said run.” His voice is low. Threatening. Commanding. “You’ve got ten seconds, baby. That’s all I’m giving you.”

The screen door slams shut behind you as you bolt.

You sprint into the trees, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. The woods are cooler than the cabin, the air sharp with pine and soil and late-summer damp. The forest floor is soft beneath your bare feet, needles sticking to your soles as you push through underbrush, past the thick trunks you’ve seen a thousand times—but never like this.

You don’t know what part of you is running from him, and what part is running for him.

You hide behind an old cedar, the bark rough against your back, your chest rising and falling like you’ve already been caught. You bite your lip to stay quiet, hand pressed over your mouth.

You listen.

Nothing but the sound of your blood, your breath, the breeze in the branches overhead.

Then: A step. Heavy. Measured. Close.

You freeze.

Another. Closer.

A twig snaps somewhere behind you, and your body goes still, your pulse leaping into your throat.

“Where’d you go, baby?”

His voice is soft, teasing, almost sweet—like he’s not hunting you at all.

But you know that voice.

And then—you feel him.

Not see. Feel. That energy. That hum at the base of your spine. That unmistakable Bucky-ness that wraps around you like a force field.

You try to shift to your left.

A metal hand slams into the tree beside your head.

You gasp.

“Thought I told you to run,” he murmurs behind you.

“I did,” you whisper, throat dry. “I—I ran.”

“You call that running?” His chest presses against your back now. “Didn’t even try.”

“I didn’t think you’d catch me that fast.”

“I wasn’t even trying.”

His other hand finds your hip, pulls you back into him—and he’s hard. Rock solid, straining through his sweats, grinding against your ass as he pushes you tighter against the tree.

“You want me to be the guy from that book?” he says, voice in your ear, hot and low. “Chase you down. Take you right here. Is that what you want?”

You can’t speak. You nod.

He grabs your jaw, turning your head just enough for your eyes to meet his.

“No,” he growls. “Say it.”

You gasp out the words. “Yes—I want it. I want you.”

His lips crash into yours. Messy. Starved. He kisses you like you’re something he owns—teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sliding into your mouth like he’s already inside you.

Then he pulls back, breathing hard.

“You’re not getting away now.”

He spins you around, palms on the tree behind you, body pressed against yours, and his voice is molten.

“You wanna be my good girl?” he growls against your ear.

“Yes—yes, please—”

“Then you take everything I give you.”

His voice is a low growl against your ear—and then he shoves you.

You barely catch yourself as your hands slap against the rough bark of the tree. His metal hand is between your shoulder blades, holding you down. Not just firm—immovable. You’re caged in.

The air is thick and damp and smells like earth and pine and sweat. You can’t breathe.

"You were fuckin’ waiting for me to catch you, weren’t you?" he spits behind you. "All that squirming. All that little whimpering. Thought I’d just give it to you?"

His hand slides between your thighs again, fingers dragging through slick heat. You’re soaked. Absolutely ruined and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

He chuckles—mean.

“You came out here like this? Pussy dripping? You wanted to be found.”

"Yes," you pant, cheek against the bark, your body already begging. "Yes, I—I wanted—"

"You wanted to be used," he cuts in. “Wanted to be taken by force, like your dirty little book.”

You nod frantically, but he just pulls away.

"Turn around."

You obey before you can even think. He grabs your jaw with one hand, the metal one, squeezing hard enough to make your lips part.

"Down."

You drop to your knees.

The pine needles bite into your skin, your thighs shaking as he steps closer, towering over you like he owns the entire fucking forest—and you’re just part of it.

"Look at me."

You look up.

His cock is already in his hand, hard and thick, tip flushed and leaking. He strokes himself slow, gaze locked on yours.

"Open that pretty mouth."

You do.

He slides in without warning.

Your lips stretch wide, eyes fluttering as he pushes deeper—past your tongue, past comfort. You gag, and he doesn't stop. His hand fists in your hair, pulling, holding you there.

“That’s it,” he grunts, hips starting to move, slow at first, then faster. “You like being hunted down and used like this? You like choking on the cock of the man who fucking owns you?”

Your nails dig into his thighs. Tears sting your eyes. Spit pools at the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin. He’s fucking your mouth like it’s not even yours—like it was always his.

"Fucking hell," he groans. "Look at you. Filthy little thing. Didn’t even make it two minutes in the woods before you were on your knees.”

You moan around him, choking again as he thrusts harder, deeper.

He pulls out suddenly.

You cough, spit dribbling from your chin, but he doesn’t let you catch your breath. He yanks you up by the hair and spins you back around, shoving you against the tree again.

You cry out, breathless.

“You think you’ve earned it yet?” he snarls in your ear. “Think sucking me off gets you my cock?”

"Please," you gasp. “Please—I'll do anything—”

He slides his cock between your thighs, rutting up against your slick heat, but not inside.

"You want it?" he hisses. "Then fucking say it."

You press your hips back against him, sobbing now, completely lost in it.

"I want it—I want you—please, please—"

"Say what you are."

You hesitate.

He grabs your throat—lightly, just enough to make you freeze.

"S-say what—"

"Say what you are," he snaps.

"I’m—" your voice breaks. "I’m yours. I’m your toy—your prey—your fuckin’ thing, just—"

He snarls like an animal.

“Good girl.”

That’s the last thing he says before he shoves you down.

Your hands catch on the forest floor—pine needles scraping your skin, dirt sticking to your knees. Then his palm is on your back again, pressing you down, arching you just where he wants. You feel the weight of him behind you, the heat of his body, his cock heavy against your ass as he grinds in slow, filthy circles.

"You ready for it now?" he mutters behind you, breath ragged. “You ready to be fucked like you begged for?”

"Yes," you whimper. "Please—I’m ready, I’m yours—take me—"

He slams into you.

You scream.

No warning. No easing in. He buries himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, stretching you open, knocking the air from your lungs. The tree scrapes your cheek again as your fingers claw the ground, grasping at anything, but there’s only him.

His hands grip your hips—hard—and he starts to move.

Relentless. Brutal. Like he’s claiming you.

"You feel that?" he snarls, fucking into you like his life depends on it. “This is what you fucking wanted, isn’t it?”

"Yes—yes, oh my god—"

"That’s right. Wanted me to find you. Make you mine. Now you’re gonna take every fucking inch until you can't walk.”

You’re crying now, completely gone—moaning, choking. He reaches forward, grabs your hair and pulls, forcing your back into a deep arch. His cock drives even deeper, and you swear you black out for a second.

"Fuck, you take it so good," he groans. "Tight little pussy just sucking me in."

You babble something incoherent—just his name, maybe, or a string of yeses so desperate it’s not even words anymore. He shoves a hand between your legs again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing viciously.

"You gonna come on my cock?"

"Yes—yes, please—please—"

"Do it. Right now."

Your body detonates.

It hits like lightning—your vision goes white, your thighs clamp down, your entire body locking up as you come around him with a scream. He keeps fucking you through it, moaning now, wild and ragged.

"That's it. Fuck me, baby—fuck—"

His rhythm breaks. His grip tightens.

And then he’s coming.

Hot, deep, buried so far inside you it feels like you’ll never get him out. He growls through his teeth, body shaking as he holds you still, cock twitching inside you, filling you up just like he promised.

Neither of you speak. Just panting. Your cheek pressed to the dirt, body trembling, cunt still fluttering around him.

Then—his arms wrap around you.

One under your thighs. One behind your back. You barely register it before he lifts you, carries you, your legs limp, your head falling into the crook of his neck.

He presses a kiss to your temple.

He doesn’t speak as he lifts you.

Just holds you to him—strong arms banded around your thighs and back, your legs hanging weak around his waist. Your face nuzzles instinctively into the crook of his neck, skin flushed, damp, still catching your breath.

He carries you like you’re breakable now. Like you weren’t just bent over a tree five minutes ago with his cock buried so deep you forgot your name.

Your limbs ache. Your thighs twitch with aftershocks. His cum is leaking out of you, running warm down your legs.

And still—he’s carrying you like you’re everything.

Like you’re his whole goddamn world.

The cabin’s porch light glows ahead. A soft yellow blur through your bleary vision. You don’t remember how far you ran, or how fast he caught you. It all feels like a fever dream now. Your book come to life. Your fantasy made real.

He nudges the door open with his foot, carries you inside like a man possessed.

Straight to the bed.

He sets you down so gently it makes your throat tighten. You sink into the mattress, muscles too loose to hold yourself up, and watch as he kneels between your legs, his hands on your thighs.

Bucky looks up at you.

Not the man from the woods. Not the predator. Not the fantasy.

Just him.

His mouth is soft. Eyes darker than normal, but no longer hard. Just full.

“You okay?” he asks, voice raw, thumb stroking your knee. “Need anything?”

You nod. “You.”

He climbs up, body pressed to yours. The weight of him feels grounding. Right.

His hands settle on either side of your head, his nose brushing yours. He doesn’t kiss you yet. Just looks.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “You can tell me anything. You want something—I'll give it to you. Doesn’t matter how dark, how rough. You say it, it’s yours.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually…” You trail off, breath catching.

“You said yes,” he murmurs. “That’s all I needed.”

His lips find your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, slow, reverent.

“You still feel safe with me?”

You nod, breath trembling. “I’ve never felt safer.”

He lets out something close to a breathless laugh. His forehead presses to yours.

“I fucking love you,” he whispers. “God help me, I’d chase you to the ends of the earth.”

You smile, exhausted, full in every way.

Then you pull him down and kiss him.

And this time, it’s not rough, or dirty, or wild.

The wrapper crackled in your hands, loud in the hush of the apartment. You tore it slow, careful, but even the faint tear of foil felt like a shout in the stillness. A square of chocolate slipped free, glossy under the fridge light, and you popped it into your mouth just as the hairs at the back of your neck stood up.

You weren’t alone.

“Sweetheart.”

His voice came soft, like gravel dragged through velvet. Not teasing…warning.

You turned, already caught, the half-unwrapped bar still in your hand. Bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders filling the frame. His hair was a mess, shadows cutting hard over his jaw. He didn’t move, didn’t smile. Just looked.

“You scared me,” you muttered, clutching the bar. “What are you doing up?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Could ask you the same.” His voice was low, heavy, like each word cost him something.

“It’s chocolate,” you said. “Midnight snack.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost a scoff. He shook his head. “Don’t need me hovering. Go ahead.”

And he leaned back against the doorframe, like he was ready to just… watch. Not take, not tease, not even step closer. Just stand there, broad and silent, like a tether stretched tight between you and him but never pulled taut.

You held his gaze for a beat, then broke a square from the bar. “You want some?”

His eyes flickered—hungry, then gone. His jaw tightened. “Not mine, sweetheart.”

That should’ve been the end of it. He gave you an out. He always gave you an out.

But you stepped closer anyway. The tile was cold under your bare feet, the air charged now, humming. You lifted the chocolate toward his mouth. “C’mon. Just one bite.”

He shook his head, voice rougher now. “I said no.”

You pressed the square against his lip. Felt the tension in him, every muscle coiled like a live wire. “I’m not asking, Bucky.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then his mouth parted, slow, deliberate, and he let you push the chocolate past his lips. He chewed, eyes locked on yours, tongue flicking over his lower lip when it was gone.

The sound he made—barely a groan, more like a choke.. lit every nerve in you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, so quiet you almost missed it. The vibrianium curled around the counter edge, grip creaking. “Don’t do this.”

You tilted your head, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way he gripped the counter like it was the only thing keeping him rooted.

“Don’t do what?” you asked, all faux innocence.

His eyes dragged over you—slow, hungry, like he was trying not to—but he didn’t answer.

You broke off another square of chocolate and lifted it, daring. “This?”

He swallowed, throat working. “Sweetheart…” It came out rough, ragged, half–plea.

You pressed it to his mouth again, thumb brushing his lower lip. He didn’t take it, not at first. His eyes stayed locked on yours, darker now, shadows in every line of his face. Then, with a low exhale, his mouth opened. He took the chocolate, tongue sliding deliberately against your fingertip as he did.

Your breath hitched.

His eyes flicked down, caught it. He froze, like he hated himself for it, then muttered around the taste, “Don’t… fuckin’ tease me like that.”

“Maybe I’m not teasing,” you whispered.

Something cracked across his expression. His hand left the counter, caught your wrist mid-air before you could reach for another piece. His grip was firm but trembling.

“Baby girl,” he rasped, voice breaking low in his chest, “you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“Sure I do.” You leaned in, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

That earned a sound from him—half growl, half groan. His head tipped forward until his forehead brushed yours, the tether snapping taut.

“You want me to lose it?” His words came hot against your lips, filthy and cracked with restraint. “You want me to fuckin’ ruin you right here on this counter?”

Your lips barely brushed his when you whispered, “James, lose it.”

That was all it took.

Bucky’s grip shifted fast, vibrainium snapping to your hip, hauling you against him so hard your back hit the counter edge with a dull thud. His other hand slid up, tangled in your hair, angling your head back as his mouth crashed down on yours.

The kiss was rough, messy, all teeth and hunger—like he’d been starving for years and finally let himself eat.

When he pulled back, his breath came ragged against your lips. “Fuck, sweetheart… you think I don’t watch you? Every night, walkin’ around here in those tiny shorts, smilin’ at me like you don’t know what you’re doin’. You’ve been drivin’ me outta my fuckin’ mind.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. “Maybe I wanted to.”

A low growl rumbled out of him, vibrating against your chest. He lifted you in one smooth motion, set you on the counter, caging you in with his broad shoulders.

His mouth dragged down your jaw, hot against your throat. “Goddamn tease,” he muttered, lips scraping skin. “Sittin’ here feedin’ me chocolate like you don’t know I’d rather have you on my tongue.”

Your thighs clenched around him, involuntary. He felt it. Smirked against your neck, then bit, just enough to make you gasp.

“Yeah,” he groaned, voice filthy now, raw. “That’s it, baby girl. Keep squeezin’ me like that and I’ll take you right here. Spread you out on this counter, ‘til you’re screamin’ my name.”

The words tumbled out of him faster now, unrestrained, like he couldn’t stop. His hand slid under your shirt, palm warm against your skin. “You taste better than any fuckin’ chocolate. Been losin’ sleep thinkin’ about it. You gonna let me have you, sweetheart? Right here, right now?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Fingers hooked in the hem of your shorts, you lifted your hips just enough to peel them down, slow, deliberate, until they hit the floor.

Bucky’s eyes went black. His jaw clenched, chest heaving like he’d been holding his breath for years. He muttered something low and broken under it — “fuck” — before the tether finally snapped.

He lunged.

His mouth claimed your throat, biting hard enough to leave marks, tongue soothing after every scrape of teeth. His hands were everywhere, one gripping your thigh tight, the other dragging up your side like he couldn’t decide where he needed you most.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned against your skin, words filthy and frantic, “you strip for me like that and expect me to think straight? Baby, I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

He yanked you forward until your ass slid to the edge of the counter, thighs spread wide around him. His hand slipped between, rough and sure, cupping you through thin fabric, groaning when he felt the heat there.

“Fuck—already soaked. All this for me? Been sittin’ here at night with your chocolate, thinkin’ about this? About me gettin’ my hands on you?” His laugh was low, ruined, pressed hot against your collarbone. “Sweetheart, you taste sweeter than anything in this kitchen, and I’m not stoppin’ ‘til I’ve had all of you.”

His vibranium fingers hooked into your underwear, tugging sharp. The sound of tearing fabric filled the kitchen, and then you were bare for him, legs spread, Bucky staring like he’d never seen anything more devastating in his life.

He hissed through his teeth, shaking his head. “Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect. Mine.”

And then he dropped to his knees.

His mouth sealed over you, and he groaned so loud it rattled through your core. He didn’t pull back, didn’t hesitate — just fucked you open with his tongue like he’d been dreaming about it every night.

When he finally surfaced, slick-mouthed and wrecked, his voice was hoarse, reverent and filthy all at once.

“Goddamn, baby girl… sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Better than chocolate. Better than anything.” His thumb brushed you, teasing, his eyes locked on yours. “You hear me? You’re perfect. Every inch of you. Made for me.”

You moaned, thighs trembling, and he pressed his lips back against you, sucking hard enough to pull another gasp.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me have it. Give me all of it.” He groaned again, deeper, like he couldn’t help it. “So good for me… fuck, you’re makin’ me crazy. Been dreamin’ about this—dreamin’ about you—an’ now you’re here, spread out for me, takin’ it like the prettiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.”

Every word poured out raw, unfiltered, broken by the wet slide of his tongue. He wasn’t holding back anymore, wasn’t teasing. He was praising you like worship, like every sound you made was worth dying for.

His tongue worked deeper, hungrier, every flick of it matched with a guttural groan that rattled through your bones. He wasn’t shy about it — his whole mouth was on you, messy and wet, like he wanted to drown in you.

When he surfaced, chin slick, his breath was ragged. His hand squeezed your thigh open wider, thumb circling slow, cruel, devastating.

“Baby girl,” he rasped, eyes blazing, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. Taste so good—sweetest thing I’ve ever had. Can’t believe you’re sittin’ here lettin’ me eat you like this. You’ve got no idea what it does to me.”

Your head tipped back against the cabinet, a moan spilling out. He grinned against your skin, then latched back on, sucking hard, filthy wet sounds filling the kitchen.

Your thighs clamped tight around his head, but he just growled into you, gripping your hips like he’d fuse you to the counter.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Don’t hold back on me. Wanna hear you. Wanna hear how good I’m makin’ you feel.” His words vibrated against you, breath hot, lips slick. “You’re drippin’ for me, baby girl—fuck, you’re so wet. All mine. Always mine.”

The praise poured out of him, rough and desperate between gasps of breath. He shifted, tongue circling faster, thumb working in rhythm.

“You’re so close, I can feel it. Gonna come for me, yeah? Come on, baby. Give it to me. I want it, I want all of it.”

Your body trembled, nails clawing the counter edge. His eyes stayed on you, even while his mouth devoured you, even while you fell apart under him.

“Good girl,” he groaned, voice breaking with need. “That’s my girl. My perfect girl. Come on, baby—fuck, that’s it. That’s it.”

The world fractured — your back arched, a cry tore free, and he didn’t stop, didn’t let up, riding you through it, swallowing every last sound like it was oxygen.

When you collapsed against the cabinet, chest heaving, he finally pulled back, mouth and chin ruined, eyes wild.

And he smiled, dark and reverent all at once.

You dragged him up by his hair, crashing your mouth to his. He tasted like you — sweet, messy, ruined — and the kiss was fire, all tongue and teeth and gasps. He groaned into you, hands gripping the counter edge like he’d break it before he broke you.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips brushing his, whispering against his mouth like a secret meant only for him.

“Bucky…”

His eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving.

“I need you inside me,” you whispered, slow, deliberate, every word laced with heat. Then you nipped his bottom lip, tugged it between your teeth, let it go. Your next breathless moan spilled right against his tongue:

“Please, baby.”

His whole body shook. A guttural, wrecked sound tore from his throat, and then he was done. Hands on your hips, dragging you to the very edge of the counter, grinding against you with no shame, no hesitation, nothing left but need.

“Fuck—sweetheart—” his voice cracked, ruined, “—you’re gonna kill me beggin’ like that. You don’t even know—Jesus Christ, you don’t even fuckin’ know what you do to me.”

The second please left your lips, he snapped.

His sweats were shoved down, your legs spread wide, and he lined himself up with a sound that was half–groan, half–prayer.

Then he pushed in.

Slow at first, just the thick stretch of him splitting you open, his jaw locked tight, his breath coming ragged. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging deep.

“Jesus Christ, baby girl,” he groaned, sliding deeper, “you’re so tight—fuck—you’re perfect. Made for me. You feel like heaven.”

He bottomed out, and for a moment he just stayed there, buried to the hilt, shaking like he’d lose it if he moved. His lips brushed yours, desperate, reverent.

“You beg me so pretty,” he whispered, kissing you hard, filthy. “Please, baby? You don’t ever gotta beg me. You want me inside you, I’ll give it to you every damn time.”

Then he pulled back and slammed into you, hard.

Your cry broke against his mouth, and he swallowed it, fucking into you rough, relentless, the counter creaking under the force.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice wild, praise spilling out like he couldn’t hold it back. “Good girl. Takin’ me so well. Look at you, sweetheart—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so tight. You feel so fuckin’ good.”

Every thrust was sharper, filthier, until his words turned to growls against your ear. “Been holdin’ back too long. Not anymore. You’re mine, baby girl. Mine.”

“Bucky—” your voice cracked on his name, nails clawing into his back, “—I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you inside me so bad.”

He groaned, loud and wrecked, hips stuttering before slamming harder. “Sweetheart—fuck—don’t—don’t say that to me right now.”

But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Your lips brushed his ear, voice hot and breathless.

“I’ve touched myself thinking about you. About this. About how big you’d feel. How hard you’d fuck me.”

Bucky shattered.

A guttural noise tore out of him — half-growl, half-moan — as his forehead slammed against yours. His thrusts turned feral, punishing, the counter rattling beneath you.

“Jesus Christ, baby girl—fuck—” his voice was a snarl now, every word raw, unrestrained. “You’re tellin’ me you touched yourself for me? My perfect girl, playin’ with that sweet pussy thinkin’ about my cock—fuck—”

He kissed you like he wanted to bruise you, his words breaking between every thrust.

“—you’re killin’ me—fuck—gonna ruin you for anyone else—you hear me? You’re mine. All mine.”

His hand gripped your jaw, forcing your eyes on him as he pounded into you, filthy praise pouring out like he’d lost control completely.

“Good girl—such a good girl—fuckin’ takin’ me so deep. You feel so perfect around me, sweetheart. Like you were made for me. Say it—say you’re mine.”

Your words had broken him, left nothing but raw hunger. His thrusts were brutal now, relentless, the counter thudding against the wall with every snap of his hips.

“Mine,” he snarled against your mouth, sweat dripping from his temple to your cheek. “You’re mine, baby girl. Can’t believe you fuckin’ touched yourself for me—Jesus—thought about me stretchin’ you out, fillin’ you up—fuck—”

You clawed at his back, pulling him deeper, tighter. “Wanted you so bad, Bucky. Wanted this—wanted you—”

He groaned, loud and broken, his rhythm stuttering as your words tore him apart.

“Sweetheart—fuck—don’t say that—can’t hold it—”

“Don’t hold it,” you gasped, legs locking around him, dragging him closer. “Come with me. Please.”

That was it. His control snapped like glass.

He slammed into you, harder, faster, mouth at your ear, words pouring out between ragged moans.

“Good girl—such a good fuckin’ girl for me—so tight, so perfect, takin’ me so deep—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so hard—gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna let me feel you come all over my cock?”

Your whole body arched, trembling, the coil snapping as his words hit, and you cried out, shattering under him, nails digging crescents into his shoulders.

The moment you clenched around him, he lost it too. With a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt, spilling hot inside you, grinding through it as his forehead pressed to yours, words spilling wrecked and unrestrained.

“Sweetheart—fuck, fuck, fuck—good girl—my girl—you’re mine—you’re fuckin’ mine.”

The counter creaked, your breaths tangled, his body shuddering as he emptied into you, both of you clinging to each other like you’d never let go.

When the storm finally broke, he kissed you again — softer this time, but no less desperate — still trembling, still inside you, whispering against your lips:

The team’s already waiting in the main ops room when the three of you walk in.

You’re flanked — Steve on your left, Bucky on your right. You’ve all cleaned up: suits on, hair in place, expressions neutral enough that no one could officially call anything out… but you can feel the eyes.

Lena and Bob exchange a glance like they know. John looks vaguely annoyed. Ava’s smirking like she’s keeping a secret. Alexei's already half-asleep in the back row.

You take your seat near the center of the table — between Steve and Bucky — and Steve stands at the head of the room like he was born for it.

“Alright,” he says, voice sharp, eyes clear. “Let’s get started.”

The air shifts.

This is not Soft Steve. This is Captain Rogers — all clean lines and authority, confident posture and no room for bullshit.

God help you, it’s hot.

You glance sideways at Bucky, then lean over just enough to whisper behind your hand:

“...Steve’s hot when he does the Captain voice.”

Bucky cuts his eyes toward you — doesn’t smile, but you see the twitch in his jaw. The warning.

Steve doesn’t even look up.

“Agent,” he says without missing a beat, eyes still on the dossier in front of him. “You got something you want to share with the room?”

You blink, wide-eyed, mock innocent. “Nothing you want everyone here knowing.”

Then wink.

There’s a pause. A slight one. Barely a twitch in Steve’s mouth — then he nods once and flips the next page.

“Didn’t think so.”

Bucky leans in while Steve starts going over mission structure.

“You’re in trouble,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low, velvet steel. “He’s gonna make you pay for that later, baby girl.”

You shiver. And smile.

Steve continues, eyes scanning the room, voice strong:

“New intel on target movement means shifts in assignment, so listen up.”

You do your best.

But between Bucky’s hand settling on your thigh under the table and the way Steve's voice commands the air, you’re not hearing much beyond the sound of your pulse.

And the promise in both their eyes.

The debrief wraps, and Steve’s voice shifts into command again as he walks toward the center table and starts calling assignments.

“Recon team is Lena and Ava, as discussed. Bob and Alexei on tactical support.”

He pauses, glancing once toward you, then at Bucky.

“Walker and Siren — you’re infiltration. You’re the only pair who can blend in with the social crowd without drawing attention. You’ve got the cover, and you’ve both passed the linguistics and intel tests.”

Your stomach drops a little.

John?

You don’t argue — because he’s right. You are the best fit. Your face has just enough press-friendly fame to slip into the gala circuit unnoticed, and John’s already got the charm and the credentials.

Still.

You feel Bucky tense next to you before he says a word.

Steve doesn’t even look at him.

“Barnes, you’re with me on extraction and overwatch.”

There’s silence.

Then:

“You’re splitting us up?” Bucky asks, voice sharp.

Steve stays calm. Controlled. “You’re too recognizable, Buck. You walk in there with her, people will be on high alert before she opens her mouth.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s not personal,” Steve cuts in. “It’s tactical.”

You glance at Bucky, trying to give him a look. One that says I’ve got this.

But he’s already chewing the inside of his cheek, jaw tight, hands clenched on the edge of the table.

John grins like he knows he’s about to be a problem.

“Guess you’re stuck with me, sweetheart,” he says, leaning just a little too close.

Bucky’s eyes snap to him.

Steve’s voice raises slightly. “That’s enough.”

The room goes still.

You clear your throat, rising from your seat. “When do we leave?”

Steve’s eyes meet yours — softer now. “Wheels up in two hours.”

You nod.

Bucky’s still sitting. Still tight. Still locked down.

You squeeze his shoulder as you pass him, but he doesn’t move.

Not yet.

But later?

You know that simmer in his chest is going to boil.

The door to the room clicks shut behind you, and the silence that follows is sharp. Too sharp.

You and Bucky stand near the wall. Steve’s by the window, still in uniform, hands behind his back like he’s holding something in.

He hasn’t looked at either of you yet.

Not until he speaks.

“Strip.”

The word cuts through the air like a bullet.

You freeze. So does Bucky.

Steve turns.

He’s all hard lines and narrowed eyes, that steady, unreadable face he uses when the mission’s gone sideways. But this time? It’s not a mission.

“Now,” he says.

You both move.

Your jacket first. Then your boots. Bucky’s shirt hits the floor before yours does. The tension in the room is suffocating. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears.

Steve steps closer, gaze like fire.

“You think it’s funny to whisper to him in my debrief?”

You swallow. “Steve—”

His eyes narrow. “That’s Captain right now.”

You flush. Not from embarrassment. From how your body reacts to that tone.

“Yes, Captain,” you breathe.

His jaw ticks. “Better.”

He turns to Bucky next. “And you—” A beat. “You questioned me. In front of the whole team.”

Bucky’s mouth opens, then shuts again.

“I don’t care if you were mad. I don’t care if it hurt. You don’t undermine me in the field. Ever.”

Bucky nods, quiet. “Yes, sir.”

Steve nods once. Then steps right up to you.

“You’re both going to learn,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “not to fuck with me in uniform.”

You shiver. Bucky’s hand brushes your lower back — not for comfort. For permission.

Steve’s eyes flick between you.

“Barnes,” he says, stepping back. “You’re going to hold her. Keep her steady.”

Bucky’s hands are on you before you’ve even caught your breath, pulling you in, one hand on your ribs, the other at your waist.

“And you,” Steve says, turning his attention to you, “are not coming until I say.”

You whimper.

He smirks.

“Loud enough to get my attention in a debrief?” he murmurs, brushing a hand along your jaw. “Then you’d better be loud enough to beg when it counts.”

You nod, chest rising fast.

“Words.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good girl.”

He moves to the edge of the bed. Sits down, legs spread.

Then gestures with two fingers.

“Now get over here. Both of you.”

You move first. Bucky’s right behind you. Silent. Heat rolling off his skin.

Steve stays seated, legs spread, back straight — watching like he’s taking mental notes. Like every breath you take is part of his plan.

When you stop in front of him, he looks up. Not at your face. Not yet.

His gaze drags down the line of your throat. Across the bare slope of your shoulders. Over the curve of your hips.

Then finally — slowly — back to your eyes.

“You going to behave now?” he asks.

You nod. Breath shallow. “Yes, Captain.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“You’re going to stay exactly where I put you.”

Another nod. “Yes, Captain.”

“Bucky,” he says, gaze not leaving yours, “hold her still.”

Bucky’s hands slide up your arms. Strong. Sure. One wraps around your wrist. The other finds your waist. You can feel the restraint humming under his skin — the ache to do more. To touch. To take.

Steve notices.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, finally glancing at him. “You get to feel her. But you don’t get to have her. Not until I say.”

Bucky nods once, tight.

And Steve?

He leans in and brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. Gentle. Almost sweet. Until his voice cuts the air again.

“You like teasing me in front of my team?” he asks, voice velvet-sharp. “You like whispering like I can’t hear you?”

Your lips part.

“I—no, I—”

He catches your chin, thumb and forefinger firm. “Don’t lie.”

You exhale. Barely a whisper.

“I liked it.”

His mouth curves — dark and dangerous.

“I know you did.”

Then he leans in. Not for a kiss. For a command.

“You’re going to stay on your knees until you’re shaking, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re going to tell me you’re sorry. And then, maybe, I’ll let you come.”

You don’t drop immediately — you sink.

Controlled. Willing. Wanting.

Bucky’s hands guide you down, careful as glass, like he can feel every thread of your nerves pulling tight.

Once you’re kneeling, Steve tips your chin up with two fingers.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So good for me now.”

You swallow. “Yes, Captain.”

“And you, Barnes,” Steve says without looking away. “Keep her still. Keep her present. And don’t you dare look away when she starts begging.”

Bucky’s breath catches, but his voice is steady.

“Yes, sir.”

Steve watches you. Eyes heavy-lidded. Posture perfect.

You're already trembling, barely even touched.

And Bucky? He’s behind you now — kneeling too. One knee down, one up. Supporting you. His arm curls around your middle like a band of steel, keeping you upright, his other hand resting just below your ribs, feeling every flutter of breath.

You lean back into him without thinking. Like you belong there.

Steve notices. Of course he does.

“Comfortable?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

You nod. Your voice is breathy: “Yes, Captain.”

Steve doesn’t smile.

He just leans forward, elbows on his knees again, voice low and firm.

“Then you can start by apologizing.”

You swallow hard. Bucky’s hand tenses at your waist.

“I’m sorry,” you says. Quietly. But Steve doesn’t move.

“I didn’t hear you.”

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

“For what?”

You glance up at him, flushed. “For teasing. For whispering. For… being a distraction.”

“You’re not just a distraction,” Steve murmurs. “You’re mine.”

Your eyes go wide.

Steve leans in, and now—now—he smiles.

“You like getting in trouble?”

You nod before you can stop yourself.

Steve hums. “Good.”

Then: “Bucky. Hands on her thighs. Keep her still.”

Bucky’s breath catches.

But he obeys.

One hand moves to the inside of your thigh — not moving, just holding. His other stays on your waist, steady and grounding.

Steve lets his eyes drift over both of you.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he says softly. “You don’t get to move unless I say.”

You’re shaking. Bucky’s jaw is locked. Steve is calm as still water.

“Understand?”

“Yes, Captain,” you breathe.

And then—

Steve sinks to the floor in front of you. Kneeling. Eye level. His hands slide up your calves, slow and deliberate.

And he says—

“I’m going to make you beg, sweetheart.”

Then to Bucky, eyes never leaving yours:

“And you’re going to sit there and listen to every sound she makes.”

You're shaking, lips parted, pupils blown. But you doesn’t fall. Because Bucky is right there behind you — his arms keeping you upright, his breath catching against your ear, his hands unmoving on your body like they’re the only thing anchoring you to the floor.

Steve drags one hand up the line of your thigh — not obscene, not rushed. Just patient. Commanding. Like he’s mapping every inch of your skin by memory.

“You don’t get to come,” he says again, low and serious, “until I know you’ve learned your lesson.”

Your mouth opens — a sound starts — but Bucky squeezes gently at your waist.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”

Steve nods, pleased.

Then: “Tell me what you learned.”

Your voice is a whisper. “Not to tease you in debrief.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re in charge.”

“Because I own your attention,” Steve corrects, tilting your chin up so your eyes lock with his. “Because if I’m speaking, you’re listening. If I give an order, you follow it.”

“Yes, Captain,” you breathe. “I’m listening. I’m—I’ll be good.”

Steve brushes his thumb along your bottom lip.

“I know you’ll be good,” he says softly. “You just forget sometimes. And that’s why I have to remind you.”

Your breath hitches. Bucky’s hand tightens just slightly.

Steve smirks.

“You like being reminded?” he asks.

You nod, flushed. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Steve hums, low and satisfied.

“Good girl.”

Then — still calm, still in control — he leans in, lips brushing against your ear.

“Now tell Bucky how bad you want to come.”

You shudder. Your hands curl against your thighs.

“Bucky—” you start, voice barely there. “I— I want to—”

His arms tighten around you, and this time, he doesn’t hide the groan in his throat.

“Say it,” Steve urges, eyes locked on yours. “Say exactly what you want.”

Your voice trembles.

“I want to come, Bucky. I want to fall apart right here in your arms. Please.”

Bucky swears under his breath, forehead pressing into the side of your neck.

“Steve—” he growls, warning and wrecked.

Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“You’ll come,” he says. “Both of you. When I say.”

And not a second before.

Your thighs tremble under Steve’s hands, his touch maddeningly steady. Too much and not enough all at once.

You tips your head back against Bucky’s shoulder, your breath shaky. His hand at your waist tightens.

“Bucky,” you whispers, soft as smoke.

He groans low in his throat, already fighting it.

“Please,” you breathe. “Just—just touch me. I need it. Just a little. No one has to know.”

His chest heaves against your back. His hand twitches, starting to slide lower—

“Don’t,” Steve snaps, eyes cutting up sharp.

Bucky freezes. Jaw clenched.

You smirk faintly, catching it. And lean in again, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw, just enough to make him shiver.

“You’re strong enough to hold me down, soldier,” you murmur, voice like silk. “Strong enough to make me come before he even notices.”

Bucky growls, his grip tightening almost painfully at your waist. His breath stutters hot against your ear. “Don’t play with me, baby—”

Steve chuckles darkly. “Look at her, Buck. Testing you. Testing me.”

Your lips curve. You whisper again, softer, more desperate: “Please, baby. I need you. I need your fingers. I can’t—”

Bucky swears under his breath, his hand sliding an inch lower—

And Steve’s voice cuts through, sharp as a blade:

“Barnes.”

Bucky freezes. Muscles coiled, breath wrecked, forehead pressed to your temple.

“Don’t you dare give her what she wants,” Steve says. “Not until she’s crying for it. Not until I say.”

You whimper, but the sound is half-laugh, half-moan — because you know you almost broke him.

Steve leans closer, his thumb brushing over your lips, his smirk dangerous.

“Keep trying, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Watching you beg him is almost as good as hearing you beg me.”

You're still trembling, still whispering against Bucky’s jaw, when Steve finally tilts his head.

“Fine,” he says softly. “Give her a taste.”

Bucky exhales like he’s been shot. His hand slides down — just a little. His fingers ghost over the inside of your thigh, close enough to make you gasp, close enough to have you arching into his touch.

“Buck—” you moan, already breaking.

And then—

“Stop.”

The command lands like a crack of thunder.

Bucky growls, forehead pressed to your temple, his whole body shaking with restraint. He pulls his hand back, curling it into a fist against your hip like it’s the only way to keep from disobeying.

You whimper, desperate. “No—please—”

Steve smirks. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Both of you.”

Then his eyes narrow, his voice sharper.

“Your turn, sweetheart. Put your hands on him.”

Your eyes go wide. “Captain—”

“That’s an order.”

You swallows hard. Your hands shake as you turn them, sliding one down Bucky’s chest, the other over his stomach, lower.

Bucky’s breath stutters. He grabs your wrist, holding it in place, his jaw clenched tight. “Steve—”

“Don’t stop her,” Steve says, voice low. “Don’t you dare. Let her touch you.”

You stroke him, slow, deliberate, your lip caught between your teeth.

Bucky groans — guttural, broken — his head tipping back, his hips shifting helplessly into your palm.

Steve’s hand moves, finally, to his own belt — slow, measured, stroking himself while he watches you. His gaze is sharp, hungry, utterly in control.

“Stop.”

You freeze. Bucky makes a sound like he’s dying.

Steve’s smirk is wicked now. “See? I own this. Both of you. You don’t get what you want until I say. Not a second sooner.”

He leans back against the bedframe, his hand still working lazily over himself as he watches you writhe.

“Now,” he says softly. “Say it. Both of you. Tell me you’re mine.”

Steve leans back against the headboard, one hand lazy at his belt, stroking himself like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes are sharp, ice-blue fire locked on them.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Say it.”

You shiver, your breath catching. “I’m—” You swallow hard. “I’m yours, Captain.”

“Good girl.” His smirk curves as his hand moves again, slow, measured.

Bucky’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head, forehead still pressed to your temple, chest heaving.

Steve notices. Of course he does.

“What’s the problem, soldier?” Steve asks softly. “Too proud to admit it?”

Bucky growls, low and broken. “You don’t get to—”

“Barnes.” Steve’s voice cuts sharp. Command. Absolute. “Say it.”

Bucky’s breath stutters. His hand clenches against your hip. You can feel him shaking behind you.

Steve’s tone drops lower, dangerous. “Or I’ll make her stop touching you entirely.”

Bucky swears under his breath. His grip on you tightens like he might break.

And then, finally, hoarse and guttural:

“I’m yours.”

Steve leans forward, smirk sharp, eyes blazing. “Say it right.”

Bucky grinds his teeth. Then his head tips back, and the words tear out of him like they cost blood.

“I’m yours, Captain.”

Steve exhales, satisfied. His gaze drifts over both of you, trembling and wrecked, held together only by his command.

“That’s better.”

His hand moves faster now, deliberate. His other hand reaches out, thumb brushing your bottom lip again, dragging it down.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Both mine. My girl. My soldier. You’ll sit there and take it until I decide you’ve earned more.”

You whimper, pressing back against Bucky’s chest. He buries his face in your neck, groaning ragged into your skin, his hands still locked where Steve told him to keep them.

“Captain—please,” you whisper. “Please let us—”

Steve chuckles darkly, cutting you off.

“Beg prettier, sweetheart.”

You're both trembling now. Your lip caught between your teeth, your thighs quivering under Steve’s grip. Bucky behind you, chest heaving, forehead pressed hard against your shoulder like he can’t bear another second.

Steve watches it all, calm, collected, hand still lazily stroking himself.

“Alright,” he murmurs finally, voice low and dangerous. “You’ve begged enough.”

Your eyes fly to his, wide, desperate.

“Captain—”

“Permission granted,” he says.

Bucky exhales like he’s been drowning. His hand finally slides down, brushing between your thighs — just enough pressure, just enough friction to make your whole body jolt against him.

“God, baby,” he groans into your neck. “Been dying to touch you.”

Your moan rips out sharp, and Steve’s smirk curves as he watches, his own hand moving faster now, precise.

“Don’t rush it,” Steve warns, eyes locked on Bucky. “She’s going to come apart slow. You hear me?”

Bucky’s voice is wrecked. “Yes, sir.”

He strokes you gently, steady, drawing circles that have you arching helplessly against him. His metal bands tight across your waist, holding you in place.

Steve leans in closer, watching your face twist, your lips part.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Let him give you just enough. Don’t you dare finish until I tell you.”

You whimper, your whole body trembling, thighs clenching around Bucky’s hand.

Steve’s gaze sharpens. “Not yet.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His tone is steel. “You’ll hold it. Because you belong to me.”

You sob against Bucky’s throat, nails digging into his arms. He presses kisses to your shoulder, whispering ragged praise — “so good, baby, so strong, I’ve got you.”

Steve strokes himself harder now, his voice breaking low.

“When I say go, you’re going to fall apart for me,” he growls. “Both of you. And you’re going to scream my name while you do it.”

You’re shaking now. Whimpering. Your body begging for what your mouth can’t form.

“Please, Captain,” you manage, voice raw. “I can’t hold it—”

Steve’s gaze softens just slightly. “Yes, you can. You’re strong enough. You’ve been so good for me.”

Bucky groans ragged against your neck, his hand still moving slow and steady between your thighs, circling, pressing, teasing you open. His breath is hot against your ear.

“She’s gonna break, Steve,” he rasps. “She’s—God, she’s perfect, but she’s gonna—”

“Not until I say,” Steve cuts in, sharp but calm.

You sob, nails digging into Bucky’s arms, hips twitching helplessly.

Steve leans closer, his thumb brushing over your lips. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You force them open, tears blurring your vision, locked to his.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Almost there.”

Then his voice drops lower, softer.

“Now.”

Bucky groans and his fingers press deeper, perfectly placed, and your body shatters. Slowly. Trembling. Every nerve alight, your release washing over you like a wave that just keeps cresting, leaving you sobbing his name, clinging to Bucky like you’ll collapse without him.

Steve strokes himself faster, groaning low, his release spilling hot across his stomach as he watches you come apart. His head tips back, his voice a guttural growl: “Mine.”

Bucky can’t hold back — he buries his face against your throat, his hips grinding helplessly into your palm until he’s breaking too, groaning loud, his whole body shuddering behind you.

The three of you collapse together — Steve kneeling in front of you, Bucky wrapped tight behind you, and you caught between them, trembling, wrecked, safe.

No words at first. Just breathing. Touching. The sound of three heartbeats pounding in the same rhythm.

Finally, Steve cups your face, presses his forehead to yours.

“That,” he whispers, “is what happens when you listen.”

You’re still pressed against Bucky’s chest, your pulse trying to slow down, your body trembling from what just happened. Steve disappears into the bathroom with military precision, leaving the two of you collapsed on the bed.

For a beat, neither of you speak. Just… breathing.

Then you whisper, voice still rough but wry:

“Fuck. He’s gonna kill me, Bucky.”

Bucky lets out a short, breathless laugh, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “Yeah. He’s gonna kill us both.”

You shift enough to look up at him, wide-eyed, your lips quirking. “Please tell me he’s done this to you before. And that he doesn’t just like… torture me for fun.”

Bucky actually huffs a laugh this time — quiet, incredulous, shaking his head.

“No, baby girl,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “That was new. You just bring out the psycho drill sergeant in him, I guess.”

Your mouth drops open. “Oh my god.”

He smirks faintly, brushing sweaty hair out of your face. “Could be worse. You survived.”

You flop back against the pillows, groaning. “Barely.”

And when Steve comes back out — calm, clean, collected, like nothing happened — he finds both of you staring at the ceiling, giggling helplessly like kids caught in detention.

He stops when he sees you sprawled against Bucky, hair a mess, eyeliner smudged, still catching your breath.

Then he sighs. Shakes his head.

“Come on.”

Before you can protest, he’s at your side, slipping an arm under your knees, the other behind your back, lifting you effortlessly off the bed.

“Steve—” you start, startled.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “You need a shower.”

He carries you into the bathroom, setting you gently on the edge of the counter. His touch is careful now, tender — brushing damp strands of hair back from your forehead, kissing your temple before turning the water on.

You watch him, still dazed, still warm from the aftershocks.

Then you smirk, voice rough but playful.

“So… what exactly did you do to Bucky to get him to torture me like that? Is that some kind of special training exercise I don’t know about?”

Steve chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he adjusts the water.

“Nothing,” he says, glancing back at you, eyes soft now. “That wasn’t about him. That was about you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “About me? So I’m the only one you put through Captain Bootcamp?”

He grins faintly, leaning down to kiss you quiet for a moment, slow and sweet this time.

-  

Eddie wakes in the middle of the night, a sudden urge to rise hitting him out of nowhere. His arm tightens around your waist, admiring your pretty face as he kisses your cheek. Your face falters only the littlest bit, twitching your muscles to shake off the tickle of his stubble.   

He finds himself starving, craving something only a feral racoon would also be satisfied with. He rubs his eyes as he walks down the steps. Sometimes he thinks he’s going to see you back in the kitchen chair in the dress and bathing suit, Dylan searching manically for a parking pass as if Eddie has imagined this whole dream scenario. Your love is just too good not to think he’d made it all up at times. He smiles to himself as he turns on the stove light, turning to the fridge for a snack.   

He feels frozen by the blank fridge at first, wondering where all the magnets got to. The black and white image staring him dead in the face suddenly registers, the heart shaped magnet falling to the floor as he rushes to pick it up to make sure his tired eyes aren’t fucking with him. They bulge out of his head when the significance of the photo occurs to him, and the hunger that woke him up seems to vanish.

His long legs take the stairs two and three at a time as he rushes back to you, hurling himself beneath the covers.   

The cold of his arms startles you, a gasp leaving your lips from the shock as you abruptly awoke. “Hmm?”  

“Are you fucking pregnant, sweetheart?” His eyes are unbearably soft, melted pools of milk chocolate staring intently at you.

A burst of sleepy giggles leaves your mouth, turning your body so you don't have to crane your neck. “You got up early.” You comment, weaving your fingers into his curls.   

“Skip the pleasantries, love.” He dismisses, scooping his arms beneath your back. “Are you fucking pregnant?”   

You pull him in for a kiss, your legs wrapping around his hips to pull him down against you. “What’s the sonogram tell you?”    

He chuckles against your lips, his thumbs swaying against your smiling cheeks. “You’re a little shit, you know that?” You nod, absentmindedly playing with his curls. “Fuck, I’m so excited right now, baby.”   

“Really?” You ask him, grinning.   

“I just found out my wife is having my baby. Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks, rutting his hips against yours desperately. “I’m rock hard, sweets.”   

Lucky for you and him, you opted for a pair of tiny panties and a t-shirt to bed, feeling his hardened cock against the thin lace fabric of your panties. Your fingers fumble to his boxers, hurriedly pushing them down his hips. “Then fuck me.”   

Eddie gently pulls the fabric aside, exposing it as his head perfectly brushes against your entrance. “God, my girl is soaked for me, ain’t she?”   

Your thighs tighten around his hips, jaw dropping as he teases you. “Want you, please, Ed.” Your eyes squeeze shut, relishing in the feeling of him pressed against you 

He pushes in, arms wrapping themselves around your torso. “Oh my god you’re having my fucking baby,” Eddie mumbles, face curling into your neck. “Gonna see your stomach all big when you’re carrying my baby, sweets, and you’ll be even hotter than you are now. Which I thought was impossible.”   

No words come to mind, mouth open and gasping at the way he moves in you. The cotton of your shirt is too hot, your hands shakily grabbing at the fabric to take it off. Eddie admires the sight he sees as your piqued nipples fall out of his faded black t-shirt, his eyes glazed over as he stares down at them. A moth drawn to the light, he dives into one, curling his tongue around the nipple with the perfect mix of teeth, pulling little mewls from you.  

“Fuck, we’re gonna be the happiest little family,” he chokes, kissing from your breast up to your neck, his voice filled with emotion.  

“Love you,” you sigh, gasping into his open mouth as his hips hit you harder.  

Eddie smiles, a wicked little grin as his hand curves over the swell of your tummy, thumb petting it gently.  

“Hold on to me, sweetheart. Hold on to your baby daddy,” you grin the line, wonderfully cheesy, but Eddie feels the way you tighten around him. Your arms curl around his back, pulling his body against yours.  

“Eddie, make me cum, please.” 

“Hold on, baby, I’m almost there, hold on,” he stutters, his deep voice starting to falter. His lips bend down to your ear, gasping desperately, bordering on whining. “Fuck– cum with me.”  

His lips wrap around yours, delicately connecting his tongue with yours as his hips stutter a final time, the little moans vibrating against your lips as he fills you up. As you collapse on the bed, sweaty bodies intertwined, he spends the twenty minutes until he falls asleep cooing, whispering in your ear how excited he is.  

You wake up the same way, with rounds two and three before he begrudgingly trudges off to work. 

- 

The sun accounts as a natural alarm clock as Dylan stretches his limbs wide, turning to face his girlfriend. His arm falls over Maya’s form, pulling her in as he starts to wake up. “Morning, Dylan,” she whispers, her pink lips spreading into a smile.  

He pulls her back against his stomach, hiking his legs under hers. “Mornin’.”  

She hums as he kisses the back of her neck, giggling as he takes a deep inhale of her shampoo. “You work today?”  

“No,” Dylan answers, caressing the strip of her exposed skin with his thumb. “I am seeing my dad today.”  

She smirks, turning to face him. “And your stepmom?” Dylan grits his teeth, tickling her stomach until she begs him to stop, hunching over the arm around her. “Okay, I’m sorry!”    

“Mmhm. I’m telling them, did you want to join me?”  

Maya squishes her face, seemingly debating on pros and cons. “I’m gonna pass on that, respectfully.” She can feel the questioning look Dylan gives her. “I have a long shift today, and I am exhausted.”  

“Next time, I’m dragging you with me,” Dylan insists, squeezing with his arms wrapped around her.  

“I’m counting on it.”  

As soon as Dylan opens the door, he listens in, waiting for a sound that never comes. Good, he waited long enough to come. He wanders into the kitchen, meeting his dad drinking orange juice straight from the carton. “Dad?”  

His dad freezes, removing the spout from his mouth, and wipes his face hurriedly. “Hey bud.”  

Dylan raises his eyebrow at him, pointedly glancing to the carton and back to him.  

“Don’t tell my wife.”  

Dylan smirks, rolling his eyes. “Speaking of the devil, where is she?”  

“Upstairs.”  

As if your ears are burning, the two men’s ears pick up the particular sound of someone coming down the stairs. Eddie prays you come downstairs with some clothes on. Your face lights up when you see Dylan, welcoming him into your arms without a second thought. “Dylan!” The familiarity you two share is still new, but wrapping him in a hug is like second nature at this point. “What brings you into this part of the world?”  

You leave the embrace, backing straight into Eddie’s arm. “Actually, I have some news I wanna share with you guys.”  

Eddie’s hand tightens around your arm, he’s mentioned Dylan talking about proposing last month, and this news felt right around the corner. He feigns ignorance, innocently asking, “Oh, what news would that be?”  

Dylan’s cheeks bloom in red, glancing down to his feet sheepishly. You just hoped you wouldn’t have to travel to a destination wedding while largely pregnant. “Uh, we–or, Maya,” he clears his throat, a laugh stuttering through it, “Maya’s pregnant.”  

The first thing you do is glance at your husband, both sporting wide eyes and slacked jaws. To say you’re surprised is a grand understatement.  

“Not the news you were expecting?” Dylan asks, watching the two of you share a silent conversation.  

In sync, the two of you switch back to him, twin smiles on your faces. Dylan had no idea what either of the faces in front of him could possibly mean, and there’s a part of him that wonders if this is happy news for either of you.  

“Um, no, actually,” Eddie barely holds back the sound of laughter in his voice. “That’s, that’s fantastic news, Dyl.” Truly, fantastic news. Eddie has been looking forward to being a biker grandfather since Dylan showed interest in being a father.  

You smirk, leaning into his shoulder. “How far along is she?”  

“Uh, 8 weeks, or so,” Dylan answers, squishing up his face comically.  

“Oh wow, so a week behind me, then,” you say nonchalantly, nodding at Eddie.  

“Wait, what?” Dylan asks, making sure he understood that correctly.  

You giggle, nodding as you sit your head in Eddie’s neck. “Yeah, I’m pregnant too, ironically enough.”  

Eddie leans into your ear, “So you’re gonna be a mom and a grandma in the same year…”  

Your eyes widen. “To think, I was just getting used to the idea of being a mom.” You lean back, meeting your husband’s pretty brown eyes. “Are we sure the kid’s gonna call me grandma?”  

Dylan picks up the conversation right away. “I mean, unless we’re gonna be completely honest with them, it doesn't make sense otherwise. You’re grandpa’s wife, therefore grandma.”  

Am I mom, then, too? You think to yourself, knowing you’ll point it out later. Your stomach rumbles, turning around to the counter to start making a breakfast of sorts. Your eyes hit the open orange juice jug and the lack of cup. “Did you drink straight out of the carton, again, mister?”  

Eddie avoids your eyes, looking at his son. “Hey, I didn’t say anything,” he surrenders, having a seat at the island.  

“How’s Maya been handling the pregnancy so far?” you ask, grabbing a pan from under the cupboards. “Because morning sickness is no joke.” You pause, leaning on the counter. “Not just in the morning, either.”  

“I think it’s some nausea, a bit of acid reflux, but to my knowledge she hasn’t been sick,” Dylan says, taking out his phone to text Maya about the news.  

“Bitch,” you mutter, the tone in your voice clear you’re joking. “We can’t all be so lucky. Eggs?”  

Dylan nods, grinning at the text Maya shoots back. “So dad, you’re gonna have a kid and a grandkid the same age as each other?”  

Eddie shrugs, taking another large sip from the carton. “Since my girl showed up, my life hasn’t been normal, and this just means it will never be normal again.”  

“You’re welcome,” Dylan laughs, rolling his eyes at the exasperated look you shoot at him.  

- 

Dylan’s phone buzzes, glancing at the unknown number as Maya fades in the middle of her sentence. “One minute, babe, I’m expecting a call from the interview I just did last week. Dylan Munson, speaking.”  

“Oh, Dyl-pickle, you sound so big!” Only one person has ever called Dylan that. He gulps, the sound of her voice bringing up old, sore emotions.

“Brooke. W-why are you calling me?”  

“Brooke? C’mon, I’m your mom, sweetheart,” she whines, her voice the sound of nails on a chalkboard.  

“Really, are you?” Dylan asks, getting up from the bed and starting to pace the hallway, his anger already building. “Ok, what college did I go to?” Silence. “What did I major in? What year did I graduate high school? When did I have my first kiss? Who’s my current girlfriend? What’s my best friend’s name? What sort of vehicle do I drive?”  

She doesn’t answer a single question, instead giving stuttered empty answers. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer any of that… We haven’t exactly been talking for the last fifteen years.” She says, somewhat accusatory.

Dylan sighs, rubbing his face frustratedly. “What, your phone didn’t work all those years?”  

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m not the only one who had a phone,” she protests, sounding incredibly defensive. 

“Yeah, well, you also weren’t a child for 8 of those years who begged his dad for his mom to come to one thing that was important to him,” Dylan retaliated, angry at her gaslighting. “My dad had your number, always left voicemails inviting you to my soccer games, to award ceremonies, to my birthdays, and you never answered a single call, let alone showed up.”  

“I’m sorry, Dylan, I am, but I was young then, you can’t blame me for wanting a fresh start.” 

“Actually, I can,” Dylan answers, now done with this conversation. “You had eight years to be a mom before I finally gave up on you. You don’t get to pick and choose when to be my mom, now.”    

“I’m sorry that hurt your feelings, Dyl. But I have two boys, and they really want to meet their older brother. Would you come down for lunch one day?”  

He nods, knowing that this sudden need to be a mom again wasn’t going to come for free. “No. I have no interest in being your life. Not since the day I turned 18.”  

“C’mon, Dyl–” 

“No, mom–Brooke. No. Don’t call me again, please. I need to go now.”  

She starts another sentence, but Dylan hangs up on her before he hears it. When he walks into the bedroom he shares with his girlfriend, he crawls into the bed next to her, feeling like the ten year old whose life got torn apart.  

It looks like Brooke still has that uncanny talent for making everything about her.  

- 

Eddie sits in his office, a small room decorated with frames filled with the faces of those he loves and papers strewn around the desk. He’s going over the receipts and payments, and silently regrets not having hired an accountant by now, but he’s far too stubborn to admit it.  

There’s a knock on the door and Eddie looks up in relief. Please, let there be a disgruntled customer to save him from the numbers. “Come on in!”  

Connor, one of the new apprentices he hired only a few months ago comes in, looking timid. The first few months he has a new hire they’re usually shy, and when their self confidence in their ability to do their job kicks in, Eddie truly starts to miss it. “Uh, hey, boss, there’s a client out there who wants to speak to you.”  

Eddie chuckles, leaning back in his chair as he rests his feet on his desk. “Don’t, don’t call me boss. What do they want?” 

Connor screws up his face. “Uh, I forgot to ask.”  

“Always ask, man. Tell them I’ll be right out.”  

“Alright, I’ll tell her.” Eddie sighs in relief, women tend to be more understanding.  

“Hey, send in Joe, will ya?”  

“On it!”  

Joe, a man who’s worked for Eddie for 20 years, older by ten years, walks into the office just a moment later. “What’s up, Ed?”  

“Give the lady a talk, will ya?” Eddie asks, scratching the itch on his right forearm. “Ask her what she wants.” Joe, tall, dark, and quiet, nods and shuts the door.  

He’s back in the office in seconds. The door’s loose knob has barely clicked shut before it’s abruptly opened again. “That fast?”  

Joe shakes his head, his eyes wide with a grimace on his face. “Uh, no, it’s…it’s Brooke.”  

Eddie scrunches his face up. “Brooke, like…Brooke?”  

“Yeah. You want me to–” 

“No it’s okay, I got it,” Eddie insists, a pit forming in the depths of his stomach. He rubs his face tiredly, fully unprepared to deal with this. 

“Dude, you sure?” He asks, having been with Eddie through the divorce.  

“Seriously, I got it. Thanks, man.”  

Eddie gets up from his desk, catching the eyes of his long-time employees on his way to the entrance of the garage. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.  

There she stands, looking around the garage holding her purse with two hands. She’s dressed like one of those Instagram moms, high waisted jeans with a loose blouse tucked in under a long coat. Her eyes land on him, her face lighting up as she exclaims, “Wow, the garage looks great!” 

“Thanks,” Eddie mumbles, sighing. “Is there a particular reason for…”  

Brooke smiles, and Eddie could almost see a genuine human behind the mask. “Um, do you mind if we go into your office?”  

Eddie raises his brows, perplexed. “I really don’t see the necessity for it.”  

“It’s not really a conversation to have in front of the guys, Eds,” Brooke comments, shuffling her feet as she crosses her arms.  

Eddie winces at the nickname she calls him. She really doesn’t know him well enough to call him such anymore. The audacity of it astounds him. “I’m not Eds to you…and my office holds things that are precious to me, that I honestly want to keep out of this conversation.”  

“Like I haven’t already seen pictures of your little wife,” Brooke grimaces, her tone switching from sweet to condescending in a split second, her eyes rolling. “Congrats on that, or whatever.”  

Eddie blinks, too exhausted to argue. “Alright, come on.”  

It's not like Brooke hasn’t been in his office before, Eddie thinks, they were happily married, after all. She looks around at the changes, her eyes seemingly fixated on where photos of Dylan’s previous achievements are proudly displayed. “Wow, he looks just like you,” Brooke mutters, a look on her face that Eddie can’t quite place.  

Eddie assessed the bulletin, Dylan’s graduation, first school dance, the Munsons spending a weekend at the Harrington’s, it certainly spelled out to her what she missed out on.  

He clears his throat, quietly asking for her to continue. “Right, um, I was wondering if you could talk to our son.” 

“Our son?” Eddie asks, barely holding back his laughter. “Last time I checked you said he was my son.”  

Brooke ignores it, faltering in her seat. “I tried calling him last week, but he shut me down.”  

“What do you need me to talk to him about exactly?” Eddie leans against his desk, his hands gripping the edge.

Brooke blinks, tilting her head. “When did you cut your hair?”  

“Irrelevant. What do you need me to talk to him about?” Eddie enunciates, already feeling the exhaustion of her mere soul sucking presence.

“My sons are asking questions about him, and they would like to meet him.” She inhales, as if preparing herself for what she was about to say, “I would love to reconnect with both of you, honestly.” 

Like an anvil, Eddie feels his stomach pull him all the way down into the floor. The silence she’s given him and Dylan for the last fifteen years has been stable, reliable even. The most reliable thing about her. This is turning off the road into a ditch with nothing to instigate it. “What did he say?”  

“Uh, he had no interest in it,” Brooke shrugs, leaning back in her seat.  

Eddie nods, having expected it. “Brooke, those pictures on the wall? My son spent so much time begging me to call and get you to at least one event, one time just to show that you still cared about him.” He pauses, watching her avoid his eyes. “I left dozens of voicemails in your inbox, and I know it was your inbox, because I remember the day it went from Munson to Prescott. I begged you to show up. Just once. The last time I did was for his graduation, but by then I had stopped telling him.”  

“He told our lawyers and the judge he wanted nothing to do with me. Forgive me if I thought he was telling the truth,” Brooke huffs, her voice sounding defensive.  

“He was a child, Brooke!” Eddie deadpans, narrowing his eyes. “A child hurt by his mother’s actions tearing apart his happy family. Staying with the stable parent was probably the more appealing option.” He scratches at the stubble on his face, glancing over to the sonogram sitting on his desk. He’d hoped Brooke hadn’t caught wind of that news, yet. “At first, he was really hurt, but after a while, he just wanted his mom. Who never showed up.” 

“Well, I might be a little late, but doesn’t it count for something that I’m trying, now?” She asks, folding her arms across her chest. 

“I think it counts more that he’s about to be a father and he has no interest in including you in his kid’s life.”  

Her eyes bug right out of her head. “Wait, what?”  

“Mmhm. Seems he’d rather give what was supposed to be your title to someone he’s known for less than a year.” Eddie flickers to the photo of you he has framed, a portrait of you surrounded by the sunset in your wedding dress. “You had eight years, Brooke. Eight. You don’t get to decide to be a parent when it’s convenient for you. I never had that luxury. I had to pick myself and my son up and find a way to get through it emotionally without falling apart at the seams.”  

She seems to start talking, but Eddie is on a roll. “I finally feel like I’m living my life, and not just surviving. If you reached out five years ago, I probably would’ve said yes. I even had a low enough self-esteem to hope it would mean something more…but now I have this woman, this beautiful person who showed me how much she believes I’m worth, showed me how much I am worth. Brooke, no offense, but when I look back on it, especially comparing the two, you treated me like shit.”  

“Uh, okay,” Brooke mutters, holding her hand out. “I did not treat you like shit.”  

“You never stuck up for me with your parents, forced me to do things I was uncomfortable with all the time, gave ‘our’ son’s teachers hell all the time, and, oh yeah, left me for the person you told me not to worry about. So, no I will not be talking to my son. If he comes to the conclusion to reconnect with you, then fine. But I will not be participating.”  

“Wow, you’re being harsh.” Brooke complains, grimacing. “Eddie, I was young. I made a few stupid decisions.”  

“You know, my wife is a bit young. Somehow, she already knows not to act like a stone cold cunt.”  Brooke stutters through an empty response, completely rendered speechless. “I think we’re done here.”  

“I’m not done!”  

“Well, I suggest you be by the time my pregnant wife gets here, because she’s not your biggest fan.” It gives him the utmost satisfaction to start looking through the papers. He glances back up to her expectant expression. “Safe travels back to Boston, hmm?”  

Eddie swears the smile on your face in the photo of you grows, glad the backbone he needed seems to have finally grown. “You’re not going to even–”  

“No. I’m not. I’m done here, Brooke. Give Kevin my condolences, yeah?”  

Brooke nods, reluctantly understanding she wasn’t going to get what she wanted. Eddie had indeed grown the self-confidence she never saw when she was with him. “Condolences?” 

“Yeah, for still being stuck with you. Close the door on your way out.”  

Brooke’s nostrils flare, her jaw locking. She turns around without another word, the slam of the door echoing through the garage as she storms out, every click of her heel enunciated.  

Moments later, Joe pops through the door. “Everything, ok, Ed?”  

Eddie looks up, his dimples pronounced on his face. “Oh just, peachy, Joe. Mind if I take off for the rest of the day?”  

“I would be concerned if you didn’t, man.”  

- 

The ringing of your phone stirs you from your slumber, having passed out on the couch mid snack. An app you downloaded on your phone for the pregnancy said the first trimester would have you feeling quite sleepy, and you didn’t believe it until you find yourself constantly falling asleep during your off days, and exhausted at work when you really shouldn’t be.  

Your sister’s name lights up the screen, and the quick assessment of the movie tells you you’ve been asleep for at least forty-five minutes. “Hey, Viti.”  

“Hey, sis,” she greets, an airy tone in her voice. “Sounds like you just woke up.”  

You haven’t broken the news to your family, yet, waiting to present the information in the form of a present next time you and Eddie make your way over to your parents’ house. “Had an afternoon siesta,” you sigh, watching the movie you’re tempted to restart. The twist of Carlisle’s death just isn’t the same if you don’t build up to it. “What’s up?” 

She sighs, a habit you’re all too familiar with. “Spit it out.”  

“Okay,” she starts, gaining her courage. “Me and Arlo got together the night of your wedding.”  

If you were attempting to get rid of any sense of sleep, it disappeared within a second. The information takes a second to register, eyes darting around the living room filled with wrappers you have yet to throw out. “Harrington?”  

She laughs, probably expecting a much worse answer. “Do you know any other Arlos?”  

“Guess not.” You pet the bangs in your eyes away from your face, trying to remind yourself of the look on your baby sister’s face when she was slow dancing with him. “Ok. How did it happen?” 

“You’re okay with this?” She asks, your heart melting at how little her voice sounds.  

“It was never my choice, Vi,” you answer, using the remote to restart the movie. “If you like him and trust him, then, yeah, I’m okay with it. So how did it happen? Tell me all about it. But if you’ve slept with him, then maybe not all about it,” You chuckle. Viti sighs exasperatedly and you can practically hear her eyes roll through the phone.

“Um, so we were kind of flirting a lot after the family dinner. I thought he was just being nice, but I was willing to be his friend. It got a bit more intense at the wedding, and he asked me to dance…”  

“I saw,” you admit, granted you only saw because Eddie pointed it out to you. “What happened after that?”  

You can hear the smile on her face. “He led me to a hallway, and then we went to the hotel room I was staying in…” She trails off sheepishly. Oh, that's all you need to know.  

“Damn, girl!” you laugh, opting to push away the mental image and simply be your sister's friend right now.  

“We went to dinner last week,” she says, a giggle laced through her sentence. “I really, really like him.”  

It had to be Arlo Harrington. “Then I’m really, really happy for you. Have you told everyone else yet?”  

“You’re the last to know, to be honest. I think Eddie even knows at this point.” You roll your eyes, because of course that’s why he was so peculiar this morning.  

“Just because I don’t necessarily approve of the choice of boy doesn’t mean I won’t be happy for you. Plus, I could get used to him, after all, Steve isn’t so bad.” That’s a damn lie, Steve Harrington has become one of your favorite people. “Tell me you got out of the hotel room before mom and dad discovered you.”  

“We heard them coming down the hall…” she says, giggling. “We were dressed as they were about to come in the door. Luckily, they were both pretty drunk, so they didn’t really catch on to what was happening. Well, until the next morning at brunch, I guess.”  

Note, send a text to your mom asking about what her perspective was, because there’s a chance she knew more than she let on. You think to yourself.

“Anyway, four weeks in Cancun. Spare me the dirty details but tell me all about it,” she giggles, moving the phone away from her face, “shut up, stop, shut up!’ 

“Let me guess. Arlo?”  

A burst of giggles runs through her body and you can hear the smile on her face. “Maybe,”

“You couldn’t wait until you were alone?”  

“She’s not really alone all that much these days,” Arlo’s voice rings out. You can picture the smug smirk on his face.  

“Arlo!” She chides him, and yeah, this might not be so bad, you decide.  

“I’m gonna let you two go,” you offer, dismissing any protests she let out. “Also, without the dirty details there’s not much of the honeymoon to tell. Well, except one thing.”  

“What?” 

“You'll have someone new to meet in seven months!”  

“No way!” 

- 

If there’s one thing you know, it’s Christina Perri’s A Thousand Years is the song for the last credit scene of the Twilight Series. As each character is shown with the corresponding credit, it gets closer and closer to the main cast.  

It might just be the hormones, but this round of credits just seems to hit differently, tears spilling down your cheeks as it gets to the Cullen family. The front door to the house slams shut, announcing the arrival of your husband. Odd, he’s about three hours early.  

The weight of the cushion next to you sinks down with a comforting arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your head falls easily into his embrace, curling into his lap as you sniffle. It’s ridiculous, the irrational reaction that takes over you, but damn do the editors know how to elicit a reaction out of the audience.  

His hand pets your shoulder, kissing your forehead. “You crying at Twilight?”  

You nod, furrowing your eyebrows. “Lose the smug attitude, mister. This is your doing.”  

He laughs under his breath, petting your hair. “Hmm, that’s not how I remember our honeymoon.”  

You tilt your head back to look at his face, fretting at the curls that are starting to resemble closer to a mullet. “Just because I begged for your babies does not mean you had to listen to me.”  

He rolls his eyes, leaning in to place a kiss on your lips that takes the breath out from your lungs. As he backs away, he hums with a peculiar look on his face. “What’s on your mind?” You ask, your brows knitting together.

Eddie sighs, petting the bare skin exposed on your hip. “Minor Brooke update, today.”  

Your brows instinctively rise, feeling every little muscle in your face tense up. “Oh?” 

“Yup. Are you interested?”  

You close your eyes, asking any entity out there listening for a lick of patience. “You piqued my interest. Lay it on me.”  

Eddie can’t beat around the bush, or he would never say it. “She came into my work today.” He pauses, allowing you to absorb the information before continuing. “Requesting that I convince Dylan to…let her back into his life, so to say.” You squint, remembering the few times that Dylan had confessed about his mom to you, always finishing by claiming he wants nothing to do with her and never will.  

“Yeah, good luck with that,” you comment, watching his eyes flicker back and forth between yours.  

“She reached out to him last week and when he refused, I guess the next most logical step was to drive the six hours from Boston and corner me at work.” Your teeth grit, angry at the fucking gall that fills Brooke whatever-the-fuck her last name is. God forbid Steve or Eddie ever accidentally tell you what it is, because the day it comes her inbox will be flooded with just a little piece of your mind, and she'll be lucky if profanities are the worst things you say.

“What are you thinking?” He asks, having watched your face move through the storm of emotions.  

“I was thinking that I fucking hate your ex-wife and if she has no haters then I’m dead,” you answer, dead panning.  

“I love you,” he sighs, tugging you in against his chest. “Are you hungry?”  

You look at the wrappers decorating the mahogany coffee table, “Surprisingly yes.”  

“Lets get a real meal in you, shall we?”  

- 

Eddie is present at every doctor's appointment, every ultrasound, birthing class, and even at 20 weeks, when you were inexplicably spotting, stayed with you throughout the 7 hour wait at the ER. He certainly helped you hide from the embarrassment of the doctor explaining the bleeding seemed to be brought on by intercourse and to start being a bit more careful.  

Only one time does a health care worker mistake Eddie for being your father, a mistake quickly fixed at the death glare he gives her. You don’t know how, as you look nothing alike and he has been doting on you too affectionately to be a dad, but you can’t help teasing him by calling him daddy as soon as she leaves the room. 

Well, that’s a lie.  

There is one other time he’s mistaken for your father, running into the maternity ward and anxiously stating your name to the front desk of labor nurses. The head nurse, a woman bearing silver streaks in her hair, calmly tells him to relax and sit down, only the baby’s father is allowed in the room with patients.  

“Well you better take me to my wife, then,” he deadpans, his eyes harsh enough to shoot daggers if it were physically possible. 

She stutters through her response. “Oh, you-you’re her husband? I’m so sorry I assumed–my mistake, she’s in the third door on the left.”  

He rushes to the door, ignoring her last pleas for forgiveness. He was far too busy focusing on how he knew he shouldn’t have gone into work when he knew you were due to go into labor any day now. He knew he should've told them to ask Joe for the solution, as he was basically acting owner while he was away.  

When he bursts through the door, you’re sat on the bed in the room with Bethany petting your face as you push through a particularly hard contraction.  

He waits and watches anxiously for you to get through it before announcing his arrival. As soon as your eyes land on him he sees your face crumple in relief and your hands reach out for him. “Baby,” you whine, seeking the comfort of his shampoo and cologne.  

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, planting a big kiss on the hand that was reached out. “Thank you so much, Bethany, for taking her.”  

She shrugs, dismissing his over exaggerated gratitude. “She’s been a champ. Let me know if you two need anything.”  

Eddie pets your hair, leaning in to plant a gentle kiss on your lips. “How’ve you been, baby?”  

“Only been an hour, and I am so over labor,” you whine, smiling pathetically. “Thanks for coming so fast.”  

Eddie was surprised he didn’t get pulled over, going 90 down the freeway. He turned a 20 minute drive into 8. “Made any progress?” 

“I’m only one centimeter dilated. We could be here for a while.” 

“I’m here every minute,” he says, grabbing a chair to sit by your bed. “I believe in you. We’ll listen to Taylor, listen to a smutty audio book, watch a true crime series, whatever you want, baby.”  

- 

True to his word, he allowed you to blast your Faves Spotify playlist, watched a few episodes of 48 Hours with you, and even sat with you as he let you play with the makeup you had packed in your hospital bag on his face.  

You made him look like a Captain Jack Sparrow, giggling as he animatedly talks in a pirate voice. The best thing about Eddie being there is that he wards off your parents and others who wish to visit you in your labor and acts as your advocate when the nurse is too rough with you and requests a new nurse immediately. Well, and his presence alone puts you at ease, of course.  

It feels like forever, but you’re eight centimeters dilated when a familiar face walks down the hall, passing his father as he carries the millionth cup of ice chips you requested. “Bud! Did someone text you about–” 

“She told me when Bethany was driving her to the hospital, but that’s actually not why we’re here,” Dylan sheepishly admits, his shoulders shrugging up to his ears as a pink blooms across his cheeks.  

“We?” Eddie catches on, blinking. “Is Maya also..?” 

“Yeah, we got here about three hours ago,” he squinted one eye comically, crossing his arms. “She’s about halfway there, now I think.”  

“Wow she’s progressing a lot faster than we did,” Eddie comments, it taking you far more than three hours to get to five centimeters.  

“It would be ironic wouldn’t it, if they had the same birthday?”  

“Irony is one word for it,” Dylan chuckles. “My girlfriend asked for ice chips about eight minutes ago, and she is not patient, so I’m going to get back to it.” 

“Let us know any updates, won’t you?”  

“I bet my kid will be born before yours,” Dylan answers, only somewhat joking. 

“Oh, you’re on, dude.”  

- 

As nurses and the doctor rushes around you, frantically assessing the baby while helping you with the afterbirth, birthing the placenta and ridding the bodily fluids that came out with the infant. Eddie cut the cord, watching carefully as the nurses quickly washed his newborn son off.  

He’s simultaneously whispering sweet nothings against your cheek, how proud he is of you, describing your son’s dark hair, his little mouth opening as the nurse's hand gently washes it. “Did so good, baby, so good, I’m so fucking proud of you.”  

“Is he okay?” You whisper, eyes half open as you stare up at your husband’s brown ones. “J-Josh, is he okay?”  

Eddie knows exactly what you’re asking, making sure his limbs are working, that he looks healthy, that the nurses don’t look too concerned about their results. He can’t help but answer, “He’s perfect.”  

Your favorite nurse, the one who got assigned after Eddie demanded it, brings him over swaddled in a hospital blanket and tucks him into your arms. The hormones and adrenaline overwhelm you as you stare at his face, selfishly grateful he looks just like his father, happily staring at the little button nose.  

“I love you,” when you stare up at your husband, you’re expecting his eyes to also be planted on the newest member of the little family. Instead they’re shiny and planted on you, his expression drenched in pure love.  

“I love you,” you sigh, leaning in for a sweet kiss. “He’s so perfect.”  

“I fucking love you so much.” 

The love fest eventually dies down, all the medical aides surrounding you finishing up and leaving the room as they steal one last glance at the happy little family.  

You’re lost in your own little world when Dylan runs in, seeing the little addition sat on your chest. Eddie looks up to face Dylan dressed in a hospital gown and a hairnet. His face is lit up with the same joy as the room is filled with. “You wanna meet your grandson?”  

Eddie nods, quickly stopped by his wife still lying on the bed sitting in the afterglow. “Go,” you insist, petting at the soft hair on your son. “Say hi for me.”  

He smiles, placing a gentle kiss on your knotted hair, followed by his newborn. “Be right back.”  

On the way over to the emergency surgery room Dylan explains that the umbilical cord ended up twisted around his son’s neck and they took Maya straight into an emergency C-Section. He sat with his girlfriend as they emptied the contents of her abdomen to allow the newest Munson to come into the world.  

Eddie asked several times to make sure it was okay if her father in law, her boyfriend’s father, to go into a room where she is this vulnerable. Dylan insisted that she said it was fine and since Eddie was here for the birth of his son it would be cool for him to meet his grandson, too, within the same half hour.  

Miraculously, after getting in his own scrubs, Eddie wanders in with Dylan as Maya is finished with her stitches. She’s still loopy from the general anesthesia, holding her newborn on her partially covered chest.  

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Eddie asked, knowing how against visitors you were.  

“Just come say hi to your grandson, Eddie,” Maya chuckles, passing up the newborn. “Meet Jace Edward Munson.”  

“Edward?” Eddie laughs, barely holding the mist that comes to his eyes. “What?”  

Dylan scrunches his nose, tilting his head to face the newborn now in his father’s arms. “You stepped up when she left. You were everything to me. You may have stolen a girlfriend, but that is small beans in the grand scheme of things, you know?”  

“Jace and Josh,” Eddie muses, laughter bubbling up his throat. “God, they even sound like twins.”  

- 

Kayla smooths over the dress she wears, nervously looking around the classroom. Are there enough learning centers set up? Will the children like the home center she put together? Will there be any difficult teachers during her first year?  

 For the first time, she’s on her own, placed in the very class she had spent so long working toward, kindergarten.  

Her little classmates with their parents, usually mothers, wander in with wide eyes, nervously holding onto their sleeves and looking around anxiously. She talks to each little one at a time, welcoming them and offering them many activities to distract them from wanting to stay with their parents.  

One little boy doesn’t need much, or any, peeling off his father as he runs in, his shaggy brown hair rustling in as he bolts straight to the building blocks. His dad walks in right after, carrying his bag dressed in a leather jacket and acid wash jeans.  

“Hi,” he sighs, sounding tired. “That’s Dylan.”  

“M or H?” Kayla asks.  

“M.”  

“Dylan, can you grab your bag from your dad and put it in the cubby?” Dylan runs to grab his bag from his dad, shouting in slight frustration as he’s pulled in for a hug. “Yours will have an M next to your name!”  

He listens, but doesn’t look back as he runs back to the blocks.  

“I’m Eddie,” the father says, holding his hand out. “His mom, Brooke, will pick him up after school, uh, she’s a bit of a hardass, so just beware.”  

Oh, goody. She gives him a strained smile, insisting she’ll be able to handle it.  

Eddie and Dylan end up being one of his favorite pairings for the year. But when Brooke walked in, she knew it became a big deal for something as small as Dylan putting his book in the wrong pocket in his bag.  

Kayla got along great with Eddie, as they turned out to be the same age. They saw one another around the school as Dylan got older, even became someone Dylan could rely on for a maternal figure when his parents ended up divorcing in fifth grade.  

About twenty one years after initially teaching Dylan, she’s a veteran teacher in her own right, having a monopoly over classroom #3 as she continues to be the answer for dozens of individuals when asked their favorite teacher.   

She sits in her lumbar chair that her coworkers raised the money for the previous Christmas as she finally is able to look over her newest class list. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until she came across 9th and 8th from the last name, two boys with J initials and the last name Munson. She’d been wondering if she would ever have the pleasure of teaching Dylan’s boys, or if he decided to skip town like most of his classmates.  

Their birthday right next to their attendance names indicated they had the same birthdate, so she was safe to assume she would have another set of twins. If they were anything like Dylan, they would be a fun sort of challenge for her, that she was sure of.  

On the first day the following fall, she keeps an eye out for her former student, keeping in mind it could very well be the mother that decides to drop them off.  

As she’s helping a particularly shy child settle into her classroom, she notices a parent helping their kid out of the wind breaker they’re wearing. As soon as the little girl is settled she goes to them welcoming them. She immediately recognizes the parent. “Dylan!”  

“Oh, Miss. Thompson! I didn’t realize you were still teaching!” He sheepishly admits, looking at the plaque now containing her married name.  

“I am just married, now,” she answers, answering him the same way she would a student out of habit. “Now, who do we have here?”  

“I’m Jace,” the little boy answers shyly, brown hair of this father but stark green eyes.  

“Well, Jace, would you mind finding your name at one of the cubbies for me? I think you’re put right next to someone named Josh,” she tells him, watching for any recognition of the other name she thought was his twin.  

“Oh, sweet!” Jace exclaims, running with his Pokémon bag.  

She gets up from her squatting position, her knees far too achy for doing it continually like she still is. “So, there’s another Munson on the class list, would you know anything about that?” 

Dylan chuckles, sighing. “Well, about that–” Dylan is interrupted by a little boy with dark hair hugging him, exclaiming his name. “Hey, Josh, we were just talking about you!”  

Josh laughs, tugging on Dylan’s arm. “Is Jace here?” 

“Yeah, he’s playing with the dinosaurs, if I know him.” 

“Cool!” Josh runs straight off, meeting his supposed relative at the play carpet.  

Kayla turns around in confusion, questioning what just happened.  

As if answering her, in comes another familiar face, holding a bag that looks comically small compared to his tall stature. “Ah, Kayla. I was wondering if you were still here.”  

“Eddie!” She greets him, giving a very frank hug. “I have to admit, I am very confused.” 

“That’s okay, you wouldn’t be the first,” Eddie comments, crossing his arms. “Me and my wife had Josh at the same time Dylan had Jace. They’re assholes, they like to gang up on adults, but don’t let them intimidate you, they can’t with their adults anymore, so they try it on teachers.” 

“Takes a lot more than that to intimidate me,” Kayla answers, looking back at the boys who gained ownership over the carpet with dinosaurs and cars. “I appreciate the warning, though.” She looks back to her old friend, seeing the smile lines on his face, still carrying his son’s things. “I’m happy you found someone, though.”  

“Thanks. His mom will pick him up after school,” Eddie tells her, going to the cubby with his kid’s name on it. “She’s not as bad as Brooke, so there’s no worries, there.”  

“Alright, can’t wait to meet her.”  

Eddie and Dylan share a look, one that Kayla misses as she starts to welcome in a few new classmates.  

- 

The bell rings for lunch for the rest of the elementary school and end of day for the kindergarteners. Mrs. Franklin, or Miss. Thompson, as Dylan knows her, helps all her students with their backpacks and jackets. It’s one thing to manage five-year-olds, it’s another to get them to stop wrestling and help them simultaneously.  

The Munson boys are certainly no help, Josh trying to stick his finger up Jace’s nose, pinning him down on the dirty floor as Jace wiggles underneath him. Kayla wished Josh would stop telling Jace he’s his uncle and he has to listen to him, that way she wouldn’t have to hold back her laughter so hard.  

“Okay, Mr. and Mr. Munson, break it up, your parents will be here any minute now. Get up.” They both switch their glances up to her, eyebrows raised over wide eyes. “Get up.”  

They roll their eyes, Josh reluctantly getting off Jace slowly and helping him up. Slowly but surely, parents start to pick their kids up, both Munsons waiting for their parents anxiously. You wonder in with your youngest, a little three year old by the name of Stevie. She holds onto your pointer and middle finger anxiously, eyes darting around at the unfamiliar noises and faces.  

Your son is seemingly nowhere to be seen, usually seen with his counterpart but you can’t see him around the crowd of parents kneeling with their kids and asking how their day was. The teacher,  someone both Dylan and Eddie insisted is the best in the school, approaches you kindly to ask which kid is yours.  

Before you can even answer Josh runs into you, happily glancing up at you as he wraps his arms around your legs. “Hi, baby,” you greet him, kneeling down as you pet his sweet face.  

You miss the peculiar look Mrs. Franklin, or Kayla as Eddie referred to her as, gives you. Surprised to say the least that the Mrs. Munson she has yet to meet is so young. Her brows furrow even further when Jace notices you, yelling, “Grandma!” as he also runs for a hug.  

“Were you boys nice to Mrs. Franklin today?”  

“Of course!” Josh smiles, and you squint through his bullshit.  

“Well we’re gonna make sure to be nicer or we’re gonna have to lose our tablet privileges, won’t we?”  

You get back up, smiling at their grumbly faces. They never listen to new adults, it was a field day at their first day of preschool. One glance to their teacher’s observant face told you all you needed to know. “Eddie didn’t warn you, he?”  

“No, but they did have a peculiar look on their faces when I mentioned meeting you. Should’ve known better, with those two,” you tilt your head, curious at what she meant. “Seriously, your husband needs to tell you more. I taught Dylan when he was in kindergarten.”  

“Oh!” you exclaim, somewhat surprised. “That’s really cool! Were you surprised to see Eddie wi–” 

“With another kid,” she interrupts, laughing, “yes, I was. I’m happy to see that he found someone else, Brooke, was, well, she was not a nice person.”  

Your eyebrows raise at the mention of your husband’s ex-wife, this being the first person she meets outside Eddie’s inner circle to having even mentioned Brooke. “So, I’ve heard.”  

“Hey mom,” you hear behind you, you shove the owner before you even see him, rolling your eyes.  

It’s very recently become a silly habit of Dylan’s to call you mom, due to your son asking why his brother calls his mom by her real name and not mom like he does. After the best attempt at explaining Dylan has a different mom who is no longer around, Josh is still confused and insists that you still act like his mom, so therefore, are Dylan’s mom. 

It was awkward at first, but now it’s a little inside joke. If you were told when you first got together with Eddie that Dylan would be referring to you as a maternal figure, you probably would’ve hit them on the head for fucking with you.  

“Hey, kiddo,” you tease back, mocking his twisted face expression. “They were apparently giving her a hard time today.”  

“Of course they were. You know we can ask one of you to switch classes, right?” Dylan asks, an aura of authority in his voice.  

Their eyes go wide, even though it was a threat in their preschool room, they have yet to consider this. You didn’t want to resort to threats but with their shenanigans, it's literally one of the only things that will work.  

“C’mon, your dad is making your favorite for dinner,” your shoulder cascades around Josh’s shoulder, telling him to say bye to his nephew and that he’ll see him tomorrow.  

Two years later, Stevie shows up with her dark curls down to her shoulders after her father, giggling as she says hi to the teacher.  

That was the last time Kayla taught one of Eddie Munson’s kids. Or, so she assumed.  

- 

The double doors to the high school flew open, big black boots echoing as the large leather jacket trails behind a slim torso. He takes the immediate left into the office, his presence large, with grey streaks leaking into his roots and an angry look on his face.  

The kind administration lady looks up to his expectant face, the curiosity quickly melting into confounded terror. “Can I help you?” 

“Apparently Stevie Munson is in the office right now?” Better be a damn good reason for peeling me away from one of the only moments I have left alone with my wife, he thinks, eyes observing around the office.  

“Yes, she is, uh, are you her–” 

“Her father, are you going to let me in the office or do I have to let myself in?” 

The surprise that fills her features would be charming if Eddie wasn’t so fucking annoyed. He’s used to the assumption by now, but for the moment he just doesn’t have any patience in his body.  

“You can go right ahead, Mr. Munson,” she peeps out, gesturing to the door marked Principal. Eddie’s not sure why he even asked, or how he had the foresight to ask, first. He’s surprised, honestly.  

The door opens to face the school principal, his daughter and a boy sitting two seats away from her nursing his face with an ice pack. “Mr. Munson, welcome in! Have a seat.”  

“No thanks,” Eddie answers, polite, but curt. He looks at his daughter, “What happened?”  

She opens her mouth to answer but is interrupted by the bald principal, “I didn’t ask you, I asked her. What happened?” He directs his attention back to his daughter.

She smiles at him, the same sweet smile his wife bares. “This guy touched my ass under my skirt, so I punched him in the face.”  

Eddie’s brows raised, teeth gritted as he sends a daggers at the boy he is now aware assaulted his daughter. “I’m sorry?” He asks, now directed to the principal.  

“So she says,” the principal says, eyes widening at how Eddie manages to look murderous. “Granted, even if Mr. Jackson did do that, it’s not a good enough reason to assault him. She will be suspended for two days.”  

Eddie laughs, loudly, shaking his head at the gall, the fucking nerve. This principal is extremely lucky it was him who answered his phone and not you. “Really? My daughter got sexually assaulted and your reaction to her defending herself is suspending her? Are you fucking kidding me?”  

“Mr. Munson, if you could please calm down and have a seat,” he starts, gesturing to the chair, yet again.  

“Oh, I am calm. You don’t want to see me angry,” Eddie answers, the Hulk flashing through his mind. “You deciding to punish her tells me exactly why this little shit felt confident enough to lay his hands on her, to begin with. I just think about all the other girls he’s done this to, too afraid to speak up, I wonder how many times he’s done this with no consequence to feel confident enough to touch under a skirt. What the fuck is this place? No-tolerance bullying policy? Utter bullshit.”  

“Mr. Munson, calm down before I call security–”  

“Don’t make me laugh. Seriously. Don’t.” Eddie sighs, pinching his nose. “If you do suspend her, I will press charges against him and I will sue this fucking school. If you punish him, like you’re supposed to, take him off his team for the season, put him in detention for a month, I don’t care, something with fucking consequences, I won’t. You decide.” 

He looks down at the little shit, whimpering as he still nurses the barely there bruise. “You better hope I don’t hear you doing this shit to any other girl in this school, or you won’t get into any college in the country.” He pauses, opening the office door to an audience. Maybe he was louder than he thought he was. “C’mon Stevie, let’s go get some fucking ice cream.”  

When you heard about how your husband stuck up for your daughter like that, you got on your knees for him in the bathroom. That might’ve cheered him up a bit.  

- 

The sounds are familiar yet foreign when you wake up to the blindingly white room, the chatter in the hallway and some heart monitor beeping. Two people immediately come into focus, Josh, sitting at the end of the bed on his phone, Stevie sitting concerned by your head.  

You moan, sitting up in your bed annoyed at the stark contrast of the back of your eyelids. “What the hell?”  

“Mom!” Josh shouts, getting up and standing on the other side of his sister.  

“Mom,” Stevie runs out of the room, calling for a doctor.  

You look to your son, brows furrowed. “What happened?”  

“You passed out at the grocery store. You fainted and you didn’t wake up until just now.”  

Your brows raise, because you haven’t felt off even the slightest. The dizziness hit you out of nowhere, going from fine to woozy in two seconds and falling flat on your face. “How long ago did that happen?” 

“Like twenty minutes? The ambulance got there pretty quickly,” he admits, turning his head to his sister and the nurse coming in the door. 

“Mrs. Munson! So glad to see you awake. I’ll let the doctor know and he should be able to give your results,” she says, sweet smile as she turns away.  

Stevie’s bottom lip is stuck out, quivering as she grabs the hand containing an IV line. You thought that was a bit much. “Stevie, I’m okay.” 

“Are you sure, because I heard the nurses saying it’s not normal to stay out that long after fainting. What if you’re sick?”  

“I’m okay,” you insist, watching both their worried faces. “Fuck, you called your dad, didn’t you?” 

“Uh, yes! He would’ve killed us if we didn’t!” Josh laughs, leaning back in his chair.  

As if summoned, your husband pokes his head in, his eyes wide as he walks in the room, hands out to you as his long legs take him to the head of the bed. “Fucking Christ.” 

“Hi, baby,” you greet him, leaning into the forehead kiss that he gives you. “I’m okay.” 

“Fainting in the fucking grocery store, fucking hell. My god, baby.” He looks over to his kids, “What tests have they done, so far?” 

“Just a blood test, I think,” Stevie shrugs. 

“They might do an MRI but that could take weeks of waiting.” Josh offers no comfort to his dad despite his best efforts.  

“I’m okay, really.” You insist to all their worried faces. “You didn’t call anyone else, did you?”  

“Uh, we called Dylan,” Josh says, wincing at your annoyed face. “And Jace.”  

“Fuck,” you mutter, intertwining your hand with Eddie’s rough one.  

The doctor doesn’t come as quickly as the nurse promised, but he comes within two hours. “Oh, hello, you have quite the visitors, don’t you?”  

You shrug, rubbing his thumb as it anxiously rubs your hand.  

“We have the results, inconclusively.” The air is tense, every one of the family seemingly expecting terrible news. “Congrats! You’re pregnant.”  

You knew nothing was wrong, but this was not what you were expecting. You’re forty-two, Eddie is nearly seventy. You weren’t even sure he could still get you pregnant. You meet your husband’s eyes, sharing a bewildered smile.  

In the meantime, shouts of disgust from your teenage kids fill the room, standing up with tense shoulders.  

“Gross!” 

“Ew! I didn’t even know you guys still did it! Oh my god! Ew!!!!”  

You bite your lip, shrugging. “Are you wanting to be a father to a newborn at almost 70?”  

Eddie smirks, leaning in for a kiss that makes your kids jeer again. “Bring it on, baby.”  

Steve calls an hour later, concerned for the text his name sake sent him. When Eddie informs him, you’re pregnant, twenty years of karma hits tenfold.  

When Steve and Jocelyn said they were pregnant with Eliza fifteen years after having Dustin, Eddie spent the pregnancy making fun of their oopsie baby. Asking if they knew what protection was, joking how they still had sex, telling them to keep it in their pants, the works.  

Now, Steve was more than happy to return the favor. “A baby at 70, you old bastard? What was that you told me twenty years ago? God, I’m surprised you two still do it, considering how low Eddie’s ball sack must be hanging.”  

“You wish you could see my ball sack, you asshole,” Eddie teases, laughing with you as you sigh. “You’re just jealous I can still keep it up, you geriatric bastard.”  

- 

Five years later, when Eddie and Kayla are older, he wanders into classroom #3 for the last time, holding his third son who ends up being notoriously clingy towards his older father.  

It’s ironic to the both of them how Eddie has a son for both Kayla’s first and last year of teaching, keeping tabs on one another for the duration of forty years.  

Eddie doesn’t say anything, letting Tommy down and dismissing her questioning look. Don’t wanna talk about it.

By the time Tommy is 18, Eddie is too old to give a shit, wondering constantly what Wayne’s opinion will be when he ends up knocking on heaven’s door.  

When you got into your sixties, Eddie was full of gratitude, thankful that you will no longer be confused for one of his kids despite his actual kids all calling you mom. He makes fun of your vision, stealing his reading glasses constantly despite his constant insisting that you get your own pair.  

Despite the smile lines by his lips and his eyes, the sunspots decorating his skin, you still stare up at him like you did when he was forty-seven.  

Your lives were forever intertwined from the moment you saw him, from the moment he saw you. He lies down in your bed next to you for the millionth time, his hand caressing your side, pressing kisses on whiskered lips, it doesn’t occur to you to ever be anything less than woefully in love with him.     

———————-

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It’s a mess, an explosion of loose-leaf paper and empty beer bottles across every room within view – the living room, the kitchen, the hallway. Not one, but two ashtrays filled to the brim sit patiently on the coffee table. You can make out butts of cigarettes, as expected, but there’s also plenty of roaches to catch your eye. Burnt down to the filter, sucked dry for all they were worth. You swear you see broken glass, and when you find the strength to stumble forward one more step, you confirm it. 

Not broken out of anger, but seemingly having slipped off the edge of the coffee table. 

“Fuck,” the expletive falls from your lips before you can think better of it. The longer you stare at the scene, the worse it all comes to light. 

Pens thrown astray, plenty of glasses laying on their side on both the floor and couch.  Sticky rims, sparse ashes flickered about. You see one empty bottle of whiskey, and have no doubt there’s another – possibly multiple – scattered throughout the apartment. 

“I told you,” Gareth says weakly, placing an attempt of a comforting hand on your shoulder, “It gets bad.”

How can so much damage happen over four measly days? 

You try to shrug off Gareth’s hand, but he tightens his grip, “Look, maybe we should leave. Matt and I can handle this-” 

“No,” you snipe, pulling far from him, taking several steps into the wreckage. “I told Matt that Eddie was my problem now, and I meant it. You can leave if you want, but I’m staying.” 

Eddie’s clearly not out here in the living room. There’s a deep imprint on the couch that looks like he may have been there recently, but he’s long gone. All that’s left is the mess, and a sinking feeling in your gut as you spy another terrible item on the coffee table. 

Gareth spots it just as you do, as well. 

“Listen, I really think we should leave.” 

The magazine with that blurry, candid photo of the two of you on the cover, bold and bright letters obscuring it. Those, and the little white line you can spot remnants of across the shiny paper. 

“I’m not fucking leaving, Gareth.” 

What the fuck happened in the last four days? 

Had you said something wrong that night? One wrong step, in a fatal direction, sending Eddie right into this crash out? Had it been the contract, and how hastily you had signed it, that sent him straight into spinning out of control? 

You lean down to snatch up one of the glasses discarded onto the floor, unphased by the residue of alcohol that clings to your fingers. The overwhelming and nauseating scent of pure whiskey almost makes you sick. 

“Does this happen every time?” you ask, trying to keep your voice even, almost too quiet to be heard over the drumming in your chest, “Does this- is this fucking normal to you guys?” 

He gets this way.

You kick a pile of papers, eyes wandering over deeply scratched words in black ink. 

This is sort of normal for him.

“Do you guys just-” you struggle to find the words, looking around at this mess. All the red flags, all the reasons to run, and all you feel is a terrible pull towards Eddie. The need to find him, the need to refuse to leave him alone through this all, is rampant in your chest. “Do you guys really just leave him during times like this? When he clearly needs you most?” 

You swear, you’ve started to see red. 

When you turn to face Gareth, he’s holding his hands up, face twisted in defensiveness, “Hey, listen, it’s not like that-”

“Then what is it like?” 

If Eddie’s in this apartment, he can surely hear you. Your voice is no longer quiet and timid, wavering with each syllable. Loud and clear, ready for a fight. 

“You haven’t been here this last year!” Gareth raises his own voice to match yours, seeming more desperate than agitated, “It’s not like we just- just- gave up on him!”

And yet, that’s exactly what it looks like has happened. 

Every single person that has become a staple in Eddie’s life has seemingly given up on him. They’ve given up fighting for him, on pushing him, on offering a helping hand. They claim to have grown weary, broken bones and patience alike in the battle of forcing Eddie to be a better person. And standing here in this apartment, seeing what they so clearly try to cover up and ignore, you know they’re going about it wrong. 

You don’t have to force Eddie to be a better person. He already is a good person, somewhere deep down. 

“That’s exactly what it looks like!” you laugh coldly, waving about the apartment, “You all clearly knew what to expect, what- what this place was going to look like. You knew what was happening, and you’re doing nothing.”

Gareth’s nostrils flare with one deep breath, and you already know what he’s about to say is going to cut deep, “Aren’t you the one that simply vanished on him? On all of us?” 

He’s right. The blow of the truth would have jarred you more had you not been prepared. 

“I didn’t know,” you say lowly, narrowing your eyes at the boy before you, “I had no idea he had gotten this bad-”

“Oh, c’mon,” Gareth shakes his head, turning and walking carefully through the damage, gesturing about just as you had been, “You’re not stupid. We both know you aren’t. What else did you think was happening?” Another step, and you can hear the crunch of glass beneath the sole of his shoe that has you cringing, “That Eddie was just… having the time of his life? That everything was perfect?” he pauses on the other side of the couch, and you can see a world of hurt behind his big brown eyes. “You knew better than that. You knew him better than that.”

What had you thought was going on when Eddie pulled away so suddenly?

Had you really known Eddie as well as Gareth is assuming right now? 

Your eyes flutter shut as your throat tightens, because the hard pill to swallow is that’s exactly what you had thought. That Eddie’s life was finally perfect. That he was living his wildest dreams. That there was only one bump in the road to his otherworldly success, in the terrible shape of you. 

“You…” You don’t know what those last months were like. You don’t have the sound of Eddie’s voicemail memorized. You don’t wake up from nightmares to the sound of a dial tone in place of future plans bursting into flames. You don’t know the silence. “You’re right.”

You could spend days standing here as you made excuses. One after another, a list longer than the miles once put between you and Eddie. Dissect every possibility you’d deemed possible, and drudge up all the ones you’d simply refused to see in the daylight. 

Fighting with Gareth doesn’t make this right. Fighting with one of the boys you’d grown up with doesn’t erase the situation at hand. 

“Everything was going to shit a long time before you left, y’know,” Gareth’s voice finally breaks a bit, and you look up to find the rims of his eyes pink as they hold back tears, “I don’t know why you left, none of us do, but I’m willing to bet all the blood money I’ve made from this band that it’s because of something an awful lot like this.” 

“I did what I had to do,” you defend yourself so weakly that even you don’t believe the words. 

“Exactly. Just like we have been since you left.” 

There’s more to say and more to argue about, but it’s enough for now. You don’t want to waste another second here, pointing fingers at who’s in the wrong and who’s to blame. Really, all you want to do is find Eddie. 

So you do just that. You decide to make a beeline for the hallway.

“I-” Gareth takes a few steps towards you, but you don’t slow down. He has the common sense to follow, “Where are you going?” 

“He’s obviously not in there,” you say through heavy breaths, fighting tears and pausing between the two doors at the end of the hall. The in-house studio, or the bedroom. “We can fight about it later. I don’t care, I just-”

You choose the bedroom. 

All your words die on your tongue as you throw open the door and see him, all the oxygen in your lungs expelled forcibly to make room for a hole like never before in your chest.

He’s sprawled out across the bed, still in a t-shirt and jeans that look eerily similar to what he had worn Sunday. 

“Eddie.”

You’re not sure if it’s your voice or Gareth’s that echoes through the room as you throttle forward, body in autopilot. 

What happened to him? Is he okay? Is he breathing? Is he alive?

The bed jumps from the weight of you as you crumble beside him, quick to press your ear to his chest. 

Is he alive?

The first thing you notice is the warmth of him beneath your palms. A good sign. 

Please be alive. 

The next thing you notice is the shaky breaths resonating within that chest you cling to. A heartbeat mingling somewhere beneath the press of your cheek as you slump in relief. A grunt as the weight of you pins him down. 

“What the-”

The words are croaked and slurred, as if Eddie hadn’t spoken out loud in days. You feel him start to shift beneath you, and the moment of serene relief that had overcome you from him just being alive evaporates as quickly as it had momentarily lived within your chest. 

Please stay alive.

You sit up straight, eyes finding his, “What did you take?” 

Blown out pupils. Whiskey breath. Powder residing at the tip of his nose, barely noticeable until you were as close as you currently were. 

“I-” Eddie blinks up at you slowly, mouth ever so slightly agape, looking confused as ever, “What do you mean?” 

I need to keep him alive.

“I mean,” you hiss out, sitting up fully and dragging him with you. You can’t focus on the fear creeping up at seeing him this way; it’s as though he might not be within his body, like he’s vacated the premises and you’ve been left with an uncoordinated vessel. “What the fuck did you take, Edward Munson?”

“Maybe we should give him a sec-” Gareth starts, but he’s cut off when you stand up entirely, Eddie in tow with your hands around his biceps. 

The boy makes no move to help you, clearly shocked, but Eddie is pliable. He lets you toss him around like a ragdoll, no protests to be heard beyond ragged breaths that you can’t quite be sure you aren’t just imagining joining your own. 

I need him to stay.

You’re not giving him a second. Depending on what he’s taken, that second could be the line between life and death. 

“Tell me,” you grunt with persistence, working your way under Eddie’s arm to support his weight against your body properly, “What you’ve taken,” Gareth takes a step forward but pauses at your sharp glare, “So I can make sure you don’t fucking die on me, Munson.” 

Your voice is terribly fragile as you start dragging him along towards the bathroom. His feet are moving, stumbling right along with you, but he remains mostly slumped against your side. Head lolling, eyes closed every time you sneak a glance through your struggle.

I need him to stay with me. Please.

Gareth is a foreign stranger, a mere on-looker to the catastrophe. 

That’s fine. It’s fine. It’s becoming abundantly clear that he doesn’t recall any of Eddie’s speeches, lectures, regarding the mixing of drugs that he gave once the group had discovered his side gig back in Hawkins. 

Which drugs did he warn against mixing? Which substances should I be worried about getting out of his system first? What symptoms should I be watching for? 

You rack your brain with each step towards the bathroom, only being able to remember one thing crystal clear. If nothing else, you recall Eddie telling you the easiest way to sober someone up a great deal, across most substances they might have taken. 

The shower. You need to get him in the shower. 

It’s not the cold water you need, although it’ll certainly help. Maybe it can shock him out of this trance just a bit, doing away with his droopy lids and any lingering substances on his body. Sweat, cocaine, alcohol – it’ll clean him up, surely, but that’s not your only goal. 

“Anytime Rick has seen someone try to mix the harder stuff with alcohol,” Eddie had once drawled to you in his van after a party he’d let you join him in attendance of, a milkshake in both of your hands as you’d reminisced on the night, “He makes ‘em chuck it all up. It’s gross. But efficient. Gets ‘em in a shower, or out in the yard, and just… makes it vomit town. Doesn’t do much but does somethin’, I guess.” 

All your movements are robotic, your mind hardly your own as you go through the motions. You don’t know how you’ve dragged him fully into the bathroom so quickly, no help from Gareth – but you have. You don’t know how you kept him upright, pressed tightly to your side as you turn on the water – but you have. You don’t know how you manage to situate him on the floor of the tiled shower, water soaking his knees and calves – but you do. 

Your body isn’t your own. Just like Eddie, you’ve become a witness to the events, no longer feeling as though you’re actually partaking in them as you take the final step. 

It’s not a pretty sight.

You don’t register the feeling of you shoving your fingers down Eddie’s throat, but soon enough, his head is hanging between his knees and Gareth is hovering behind you in sheer distress. 

“Did he just-” he starts to question, trying to peer past your kneeling figure to get a better look.

You don’t make him finish the sentence, doing the honors, “Throw up all that shit in his system? Yes.”

Look at me. Stay with me. Stay alive. 

Your chest feels two sizes too tight as you look at his heaving shoulders, a hand hesitating in mid-air as it reaches out to land on his back. That space between your palm and his shaking back. Two inches of space as your skin constricts a bit tighter. 

Stay with me. Please. 

Gareth is saying something, probably having a complete meltdown as you should be, but it’s static noise. Nothing else matters as you completely destroy that final bit of distance, and you let your palm fall against his back. Feather-light, so unsure, quivering even more than his figure as you go deathly still. 

You can feel every breath. Every little hiccuping gasp he takes as he regains composure. 

Look at me, please. 

Your pride, your fear, and your panic all collide as you give in. Your still hand is now in motion, palm rubbing his back feverishly with desperate comfort. You collapse entirely on the ground, letting yourself fall half into the shower to be close to him. You don’t care about the metal railing digging into your thighs and hip, you don’t care about your clothes growing damp as you enter the edges of the stream of water now washing away all the vomit. 

You only care about him. 

You’re about to open your mouth to say his name, surely being your voice this time as Gareth continues to hang back in shock, when umber brown eyes are finally looking up at you. 

The rivers of blood below the surface of your skin run far colder than the stream of water coming from his shower ever could. 

It’s simple syllables, the quietest of noises, and it has the power to absolutely crush you – all he does is sigh your name, and the world stops. 

You can’t speak. He slowly leans back up, back colliding harshly with the tiled wall of the shower, and you can’t speak. You hardly even move that pathetic attempt of a comforting palm out of the way in time.

He’s squinting as he groans, eyes darting between you and Gareth, “What the fuck happened?” 

You lean back out of the water a bit, unaffected by the feeling of wet jeans sticking to your skin, as Gareth scoffs out, “You went on a fucking bender. That’s what happened. Again.”

“It wasn’t a bender-”

“Bull-fucking-shit.” 

All his words are still slurring. His pupils are still just a tad bit too big for those whiskeyed eyes. 

“I was just having a bit of fun-”

“What about this is ever fun?” Gareth’s voice raises, louder than he had even been when fighting with you in the living room. “The part where we find you high out of your mind, half-dead in your apartment? Or the part where we’ll be cleaning up your mess?” 

I just wanted him safe. Alive. With me. 

You can’t join in the fight, because you weren’t looking for a fight. You had been so focused on simply finding Eddie, making sure he was okay, that you’d never considered what would happen once you did. 

“Oh, fun,” Eddie laughs coldly as his head throws back carelessly, and you flinch at the way he lets his skull bounce against the tile. Your fingers twitch, aching to have stopped it, to prevent any further damage, “We’re gonna have this argument again.” 

I just needed him alive. 

Your palms are sweaty against the tops of your thighs, pressed down tightly to prevent from reaching out to Eddie. There’s a ferocious need to clean him up further, to kick Gareth from the bathroom, to focus more on getting him sober than scolding him right now, but-

“Damn right, we are!” Gareth’s sneakers narrowly miss your lower back, and you’re looking over your shoulder with shock as he begins pacing, “Yeah, we fucking are having this fight again. How many times is it going to take? How many times am I going to have to explain to someone new how this is your normal now? How many times is someone going to stare at me like I’m the asshole here when I don’t do anything to prevent it, because I can’t?” 

“Gareth-” you whisper, trying to calm him down, moving to stand up when Eddie laughs again. 

“I don’t even fuckin’ know why she’s here,” you aren’t looking at him when he says it, and you’re almost glad for it. It’s in the way he says it – words easily mistaken for the ringing of a blade being sharpened, “What’s the point? Go ahead and do it now, Sugar.” 

Slowly, ever so slowly, you turn back towards Eddie, “Do what?” 

Dagger in hand, eyes so cold, he finally hits his mark, “Leave. That’s what you do, right? So just do it. Leave.”

Just how much blood can the human body spill? 

There must have been a time you learned that fact. 

Some time long ago, in a faraway classroom, the fact fell from the lips of a high school teacher in a droning tone. But you can’t remember it, because somewhere in that mystifying glimpse of the past, you’re sitting in a chair beside the man in front of you. You’re not bothered with facts of the human body or blood loss, because all you know is passing notes and giggles covered with coughs, the gentle tickle of knuckles brushing and knees bumping beneath desks. Your mind was on afterschool plans, which diner you’d meet up at and which of you would be picking the flavor of the milkshake you two would share. Who would claim they don’t want fries, and who would be sliding their plate across the table to let the before liar have easier reach. Who would be dozing off on the other's shoulder, as the other one finally brought up the responsible topic of homework. 

Trivial things. Things taken for granted. Things that fall out of reach when you finally extend yourself towards them, with the whisper of never being able to go back. The weight of Eddie’s cheek pressed to your bare shoulder over the roar of summertime cicadas outside a diner window, or the flat tone of a teacher informing their students of a fact they’ll seemingly never utilize again in their life.

You don’t remember, because back then, you’d never expected the man before you to make you bleed. 

You start to shake your head, but he prevents you from defending yourself, “You can’t deny it. You did it – it happened. We wanna air out all my dirty laundry? Cool, let’s start with yours.”

“Eddie,” Gareth has quieted down as you’d wanted, but you wish he hadn’t, “Give her a break, man.” 

Every atom in your body is hardening to try and prepare itself for his next blow. All expression drained from your face, the life fading from your eyes. 

“Why should I?” When he leans forward, you don’t even worry if he might get sick again all over you. He levels you with a wintery stare, and it’s the eyes of a stranger looking into yours now, “Why should I give her a break, or get my hopes up, when we both know how this ends? I’m saving us both some heartbreak, ain’t I, Sugar?” 

The way each word bleeds into one another should lessen the blow. The haze over his eyes should make everything feel a little more dull, a little less precisely sharpened. The sluggish movements and the constant sway of his body even when frozen in place should make it all less painful. 

But drunken words are honest thoughts, and you can’t help as the first crack of emotion bursts in the form of burning eyes. 

Stay with me. I need you to stay with me.

You don’t have it in you to defend yourself, to defend whatever this is that you two have pulled out of the rubble. 

All you can do is meet his stare, so vacant and so chilling, as you say, “I’m not leaving.” 

And then, ironically, you do exactly that. You leave. 

Shoulder bouncing against Gareth’s, you move as quickly as you possibly can out of the suffocating bathroom, the tables turning entirely. The roles have switched, and now you’re the one gasping for air. 

“Hey, hold on,” Gareth tries to reach out for you, but you’re quicker than him in pulling yourself away from the two of them entirely. 

“Clean him up,” you instruct flatly, unwilling to look at Eddie. You’ve seen enough, bled enough, for one day. 

Neither man replies to you verbally, and all you hear as you exit the room is the pattern of water breaking against the tile. It almost sounds like your heart, if Eddie Munson hadn’t already done the honor of tearing it apart in his current state.

—

You stay true to your word.

You don’t leave.

Not the apartment, at least.

For the next hour, you put yourself to work, digging under Eddie’s kitchen sink and finding a large enough trash bag for the current task you busy yourself with. You never let a single tear fall as you glide around the living room, the kitchen, the hallway. 

You don’t go near the bedroom. Near the bathroom. Near Eddie. 

Gareth only shows his face once the entire duration, stepping outside of the room briefly but never glancing your way. You can only assume it’s to let Eddie get dressed, his clothes probably needing to be washed after the entire ordeal. 

If he flinches as he hears you toss all the trash within reach of your hurricane in the bag particularly violently, you don’t say a word. 

By the time there’s any sign of life on Eddie’s part, you’ve already cleaned up most of the apartment. Ashtrays emptied, all glasses not broken in the sink, a semi-neat pile of any pages you could decipher his handwriting upon. You were cruel, if Eddie’s presumption of knowing how this ends was anything to go off of, but you weren’t so cruel as to toss away anything he might have written for his career. 

This time, you don’t snoop. You know better than to read a single line on the pages. If Eddie has something he wants to say to you now, he’ll have to say it to your face. 

There’s a creak from down the hall as you’re finally collapsing onto the couch, a photo frame in hand as the overflowing trash bag is discarded to the floor temporarily, fingers already working nimbly at getting the back of the frame off before whoever it may be enters the room. 

Just as the creased photograph is in your grasp, a throat clears from behind you. 

“I…” he sounds smaller than he had in the bathroom, voice a bit clearer, “Uh, thank you. For…. for earlier.” 

Slow, steady steps. No longer blundering, or needing the support of another body to guide him. 

“I’m-”

If you were to turn around, you know you’d see the Eddie Munson you swear you know. The one who had sat beside you in science class, the one you would kiss under the bleachers every Friday night. You’d see the boy you’d followed across states, followed all the way to New York, sprinting to catch up with him as he’d trailed ferociously after his dream. Clear eyes, somber face, not a single blade in hand. 

But you can’t keep chasing after that boy. You think before Eddie ever turned his daggers towards you, he had taken them to that boy first, and he was buried long before you could even think to say goodbye. 

“Don’t apologize,” you force out, letting the words leave you as easily as the breath you were holding. The air in your lungs, however, stays put. “You were fucked up. It’s fine.”

Over the edge of the photograph you hold, you see his bare feet. New tattoos on unfamiliar ankles, the hems of pants he’d bought without you at his side. 

“It’s not fine, and I shouldn’t have said that,” Each word drips with sincerity. Then again, his accusation in the shower had as well, as you recall it now, “Will you- Please look at me.” 

Please look at me.

Please look at me.

Please stay with me. 

You can’t say that you break. Because, truthfully, you hadn’t been whole to begin with. Some sort of chasm had torn you apart the moment you walked into this apartment - no, the moment you had walked into that damned meeting room and seen his face for the first time in years. 

Two years. Twenty five months. One hundred weeks. 

Your brain has no capacity to break down the hours, minutes, seconds. All the time spent without him, unknowing that the man you had loved was rotting away in the ground six feet under, as the ghost of him haunted stages across the world. 

“I need to finish cleaning,” you say suddenly, jumping up off the couch, keeping your vision downwards. 

What if you look at him, and you decide to leave?

What if you look into his eyes and see the picture once painted by dial tones and automated voices announcing an electronic mailbox was full? 

What if you just weren’t as strong as you were determined to be?

“I have all the cups in the kitchen sink,” the words slip over a frantic tongue, one hand twisting at the plastic material of the bag until your nails are piercing right through the thin veil to prod painfully at your palm as the other won’t let go of that damned photograph, “I emptied all the ashtrays, and-”

Why should I give her a break, or get my hopes up, when we both know how this ends?

When we both know how this ends? 

How does it end? You want to scream at him, ask him the question that chokes you up now. Is this how it ends, with awkward encounters and coming to the rescue recklessly? Does it end with hurtful words said out of spite over the stench of intoxication, or does it end more quietly, over the whispers of apologies and thanks that should never have been necessary to begin with? 

Does it ever really end? Because surely, it didn’t end for you two years ago. Twenty five months ago. One hundred weeks ago. 

Why does this love of yours insist upon being a weapon, just as Eddie had written in his song? 

“Sugar, please,” he tries to stand in your way, force you to look up, but you won’t, “Please, stop cleaning, and-”

“I can’t.”

“You can, just sit down, let’s talk about-”

“I can’t.” 

“Gareth can get the rest of it all, it’s fine-”

“I can’t!”

You both stop all movements, Eddie’s shuffling and your attempts to escape him, as the yell falls off your lips. Finally, you look up at him, shocked to find red-rimmed eyes.

They weren’t that pink when you’d found him. Even when intoxicated. 

The tears gathered proves it. 

“I almost lost you, Eddie!” It feels good to scream. Feels good to watch him crumple right along with you as your voice bounces around the hollow room. “You almost left me this time, okay? And not- not in the- you wouldn’t just be somewhere out there!” At some point, your hands begin to curl into shaking fists, and you let them fall against Eddie’s chest in a broken pattern. Thump, thump, thump, “You’d just be fucking gone! There would be no contracts to fix it! I can’t make a deal with the fucking Devil or God to bring you back!” His fingers wrap around your wrists, fists still in motion. Not stopping you, simply holding onto you, “Gone!” Another smack to his chest, “No second chances!” Tears had started to fall, finally, but you pay your blurry no vision any mind as sobs tear out of your throat along with every weak toss of your fists, “De-”

You can’t finish the word. It’s coiled up at the back of your throat, a stopper to all the sobs you’ve started choking out. 

A chest two sizes too small, a heart with a hole in the center of it. 

Maybe you had been born with the hole in the shape of the man that catches you when you collapse against him. It was always there, nothing to be done about it, except to let him fill it. Slot himself right into your life, place himself over it just like a bandage, wrap his arms around you as small shushes fall from his lips. 

It’s selfish – terribly, terribly selfish – that he’s comforting you now. 

But he does. He lets you cry out, slumped against him without complaint. As though simply holding you might fix this. As if this entire day may be capable of being erased by this very moment. 

At some point, you have no sobs left in you. Your entire body has been pressed into Eddie’s chest, and he’s clinging to you as though his life might rely on it as he buries his cheek against the crown of your head, but not a cry is left to give. 

“I’m not leaving,” he repeats your words from earlier in the softest of tones. 

They hold an entirely different weight on his tongue. 

But the entire Universe holds its breath as it’s set into stone – neither of you are leaving. You’re both here, headstrong with feet cemented where you stand, and you are not leaving this time. 

Your fist still homes the photograph, albeit adding new wrinkles to the picture as it curls within your hold. 

Carefully, you start to pull back from Eddie, and he lets you. Arms dropping away as you take one step backward, sneakers crunching on the broken glass scattered about the rug below. 

There, in your palm, there’s a lifetime you think you may always miss. A time that you’ll always remember like a sore ache in your back molars. 

You, and Eddie, and Gareth. Even Dustin Henderson is in the photo. 

“What’s that?” Eddie asks as his eyebrows wrinkle and he attempts to get a closer look at the treasure you stare blankly at now. 

“A photo,” you blandly explain, another step back before you can collapse onto the couch once more. Eddie joins you this time, “From that first big show at the Hideout.”

There’s more words turning stale on the tongue, but you don’t need to reminisce anymore. You get it now. Sort of. 

It hurts, it might hurt for a while, but it’s over with. It’s never going to be fair to continue to compare the two of you to what once was. You can’t go back, you can’t change a past already written. Two graves need to be laid to rest now, after one hundred long weeks, and it’s time to leave the cemetery. 

That chapter was closed. The book wasn’t. 

“I meant what I said, you know,” Eddie whispers. You swear you can hear noises from down the hall, suddenly remember that Gareth was still here, “I… I didn’t say it the way I should have, but I meant it. If you want out, I’ll let you go.” 

Maybe the Universe had gotten the memo, but Eddie hadn’t. 

You look at him with wild eyes, “What? I don’t-”

“I know, I know. The contracts and stuff. But I could get them nullified. If it’s what you want, I’ll force them to let you out,” you’re stunned into silence as he smiles sadly at you, “You didn’t sign up for this shit, Sugar. I can scrap the album, too, if you want. The guys can help me write new stuff, stuff not about us, and we can just-” 

You toss that photo right onto the ground, let it flutter down to settle beside the trash can. Like flowers on a grave. 

“Do you want to know what my first thought was when I came in here?” you interrupt him, staring up at the front door as you fight back tears. He doesn’t respond, so you continue on, “Please be alive. My first thought was for you to just be alive, be okay.”

That’s what it had been. No care for nostalgia or all that once was. Simply needing him to be breathing inside this apartment.

The callous laugh that escapes him isn’t quite as cold as the ones he’d let out in the bathroom, but there’s still no trace of humor, “Can I be honest? I’m definitely alive, and some of that credit belongs to you, but… Jury’s still out about being okay.”

You turn your body towards him, blinking your sore eyes slowly, “Then talk to me about it.” 

His shock proves that this has clearly become a foreign concept. 

“What?” he tries to chuckle, tries to force a little laughter into the tone rather than sheer nerves, but it’s useless when it comes to you. He used to laugh like that any time that he lied to Wayne – it was always his giveaway. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but like I said, you didn’t sign up for any-”

“I did,” you stress, almost reaching out to grab each side of his head, shake some sense into him if possible. Just make him understand. “When I signed Matt’s contract, I signed up for it. When I agreed to get just a cup of coffee with you, I signed up for it,” you pause, taking a deep breath, eyes shutting for only a moment to compose yourself. It’s hardly a second, a long blink if anything, just so you can keep him in your sights, “You keep acting like you’ve forced me into this, but I’ve always been able to walk away if I really wanted to. Every step of the way. I could have refused to take Corroded Coffin on as a client, I could have told you to go to Hell and meant it. I could have laughed in Matt’s face when he suggested the contract. But I didn’t. Get it through your dense skull, please, Munson – I’m here, I’m staying, and I signed up for it.”

He’s quiet, dead silent as he stares at you with red eyes. You can see the bags shadowing beneath, all the damage done over four days that you can’t clean up with a trash bag and enough anxiety to fuel you for days. Things that take longer to heal, things that eat away at someone if they don’t talk about it.

You remember all that anger you’d felt when you’d realized this wasn’t the first time that Eddie had done this, that this was his new normal. 

How it had stunned you that none of them had ever just offered to talk to him. 

‘You knew him better than that.’

Gareth had been right. You do know Eddie better than that. 

“I can’t force you to talk about it all,” your voice drops, something for just the two of you, “But I can ask you to stop bottling it up. I can ask you to stop self-destructing. Because, trust me, I’ve been there – and look where it left us.” 

He tilts his head as he opens his mouth, but you’ll never hear his argument as Gareth finally enters the room. 

“I, uh, cleaned up the room and bathroom,” he holds up a smaller trash bag, free hand rubbing the nape of his neck, “I just tossed his- your old clothes into the laundry basket, but…. Yeah. It’s clean.”

A small correction, a shifting of the eyes to acknowledge not just you, but Eddie. 

“Thank you,” Eddie says, terribly earnestly, twisting his body to settle his arm along the back of the couch. You’re still thinking about that tilt of his head, and whatever he had to rebuttal you with, “I… I appreciate it.” 

The words sound uncomfortable on Eddie’s tongue, as though he hasn’t said them in a while. 

“I also called Matt and let him know you’re alive,” Gareth breezes right past the gratitude, but it moves as though a weight in the air has finally been lifted as he circles around the couch to drop his bag of trash beside yours, “He said to take a few days to recover, but… Keep in touch. Not specifically with him, if you don’t want to, just- Anyone.” 

Gareth’s eyes catch yours as he says it, and you know exactly what he means. 

Eddie won’t, can’t, speak to them – but maybe he can find a way to talk to you. 

“Thanks, Gar,” you can’t fight the slightest twitchings of smiles on the corners of your mouth as you say it, and Gareth is quick to roll his eyes. It almost feels normal. It’s almost enough to forget what’s happened. 

“If you’re going to start calling me that, I might just have to tell the guys that the pizza date is cancelled,” Eddie’s head snaps from Gareth to you, not angry but simply confused, “They still haven’t stopped talking about that, by the way. Better be good on your word, Hellfire.” 

All you can do is nod, and try to not sink too deeply into the warmth sparking up in your chest at the nickname. 

“Hellfire?” Eddie, for the first time since you’ve found him, is laughing genuinely. It’s a tired sound, a little breathless, but it’s actual laughter. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.” 

“Haven’t had her around in a while,” Gareth is quick as he nods in your direction before finally moving towards the front door, “I’m heading out now, but… Call me if you need me. Or if you start craving pizza. Or… Don’t. I don’t know, I don’t control you two.” 

You almost ask him to stay, but you’re starting to suspect Gareth had heard more of your private conversation with Eddie than you’d like, and that it might be better for him to leave before you two can continue talking.

Before you ask Eddie about the tilt of his head, the argument on his tongue. 

“See you around, Gareth,” you hum, waving as you sink back further into the couch. Already preparing to settle in for a long night, a long talk. 

“See ya,” he makes the effort to not just nod in response to you, but Eddie as well. Just as his hand is on the door, though, he suddenly turns back around, “Oh, and before I forget - catch.”

Your hands move faster than your mind, thankfully, as a shining object flies through the air from Gareth’s palm and into your chest, “What the f-”

“Matt can make a new copy if he really wants one. I think you’ll make better use of it than us for now.” 

You look down at the silver key that Gareth had produced right as you had been on the verge of getting inside the apartment, of getting to Eddie. 

Eddie sees it too, and his brows furrow quickly, “When the fuck did Matt get a key to my place?” 

“Who cares?” Gareth shrugs, “Just be glad he did, or else you’d probably be replacing your front door from her kicking it in.”

It’s your turn to let out a sincere scoff, pocketing the key regardless. He’s right – your ankle almost screams out it’s thanks as you think about whether you would have tried (you would have) and if you would have been successful (you wouldn’t have been).  

With that, Gareth leaves. 

The front door doesn’t slam shut as you and Eddie are left properly alone. A new key to add to your own chain heavy in your pocket, and a million questions weighing down your mind. 

You and Eddie turn back to one another in sync. Something simmers in the air – something hopeful, something promising. The rosy glow of sunset outside the skyline windows illuminates the room just so. 

“Now that we’re alone, I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want you to be honest,” you start strong, sure, ready. Eddie nods along with each word, never shying away from your gaze, “Are you okay?” 

Instead of answering immediately, Eddie suddenly shuffles around his position on the couch. You’re taken back, freezing up, but don’t dare protest once you realize what he’s doing. 

His head falls into your lap with minimal hesitancy, and suddenly, big brown eyes are staring up at you. 

“Honestly, Sugar? No. I feel like shit,” you can’t fathom how he manages to do it, delivering it with a boyish grin that doesn’t feel condescending, only slightly teasing. It should be inappropriate, but if this is how he needs to be in order to open up, then it works. “Got any preference on where I start?” 

Your fingers find home in his scalp on instinct, “Wherever you want, Rockstar.” 

You can bury the old versions of yourself all you want – some habits will never die. Some things will never change. 

“Great,” he sighs, letting his eyes flutter shut for just a moment. You both bask in all the serenity that traces the edges of his face as the dipping sunrise continues to paint his cheeks gentle shades of pink and orange. “Then let’s start with promising I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m never mixing cocaine and whiskey again. Totally cancels out for me. A real buzzkill.” 

“Not funny.”

“I know,” his eyes shoot open, and half his mouth raises at a sorry attempt for a grin. Still tired, still truly looking like shit, but there’s promise behind those twisting vines of amber and chestnut looking up at you, “But I mean it… Gotta start somewhere, Sugar.”

He’s right – it’s a start. And you hope he means it. Because, whether it be fortunately or unfortunately, you’re not leaving.