i knew him.

With no real plan or destination in mind he somehow ended up in Bucharest, Romania. It wasn’t home, it wasn’t anything, but it was far enough and quiet enough.

He found a tiny one-room apartment on the fifth floor of a crumbling old building where the walls were thin, the plumbing whined at night like it was protesting its own existence, and the neighbors kept to themselves. He paid in cash. Nobody asked questions. Perfect.

He picked up work in construction. Long days of lifting, hauling, sweating under the sun. It was hard, even grueling sometimes but it was honest work. It dulled the edge of the nightmares, wore down not only the anger but even his relentless body until he could collapse into sleep. When people asked for his name, he said “James.” It felt OK, even natural or close enough to it.

He kept to himself, head down, barely speaking, always with a cap pulled over his eyes, and a glove on his left hand, even in the heat. He counted exits everywhere he went and slept with a knife under his pillow. And he stayed alone. Always.

Right up until you.

You lived two doors down. Your apartment always smelled of coffee and something sweet with music playing softly through the walls. You were kind in that spontaneous, organic way without being loud or nosy. You never lingered too long, but you always found a few minutes to talk to the old, wrinkled grandma from 6B, left extra cookies on the windowsill for the neighborhood kids, and smiled when you passed him in the hallway.

Still, Bucky saw you.

At first, it was how you moved in that gentle, unhurried way, as if you lived in your own rhythm and didn’t care about keeping up with the rest of the world. Then it was your laugh, the way you said “hi” to him on the stairs, always with that smile. You were the only one who did it with a smile. And of course the warm spill of light from under your door at night when everything else in the building felt cold and dim.

He tried not to look. Shoulders hunched, eyes down, always turning away before your gaze could catch his – that’s how you usually saw your new, quiet, broad-shouldered and handsome neighbor. But you noticed him anyway.

You noticed how he flinched when a door slammed too hard, how he never unlocked his own without first looking over his shoulder, how he scanned the hallway the way most people checked the sky for rain.

You saw the tight line of his jaw, the way silence clung to him, the way his deep, striking blue eyes always looked as if they were carrying something heavy.

But somehow, despite it all, you still thought he was... sweet.

Not just because he was handsome, though that didn’t hurt. It wasn’t about the broad shoulders or the sharp cheekbones or the low, hesitant “thank you” he mumbled sometimes. No, there was more than that. It was how you never saw him raising his voice, even when kids were screaming through the halls and bumping into him while running down the stairs. The way he helped the elderly woman from the sixth floor carry her groceries without being asked or the way he quietly brought down the stroller for the single mom on four like it was nothing.

And of course, you were aware of the glances, the ones he thought you didn’t catch. The quiet sighs, the way his gaze followed you sometimes, as if he was trying to summon the courage to speak but was unable to.

You were curious. Just curious, no more than that. Or at least that’s what you told yourself when one evening, after spending far too much time doubting yourself, you finally knocked.

It was a dumb excuse. You had sugar, but there you were, standing outside his door with an empty mug in your hands, heart flipping in your chest, trying to play it cool.

When the door creaked open, he looked at you like you’d just set off a fire alarm. With suspicion written all over his face, his eyes scanned you, then darted down the hallway before returning back to you.

“…Sugar?” he repeated, voice low and a little rough, touched with a slight accent.

You smiled. “I just realised I’ve run out of it and I’m already halfway through the recipe.”

There was a long pause and you could almost hear the gears turning behind his eyes, measuring, calculating, unsure how to react, but then he nodded silently, took a step back and disappeared into the apartment. A moment later, he returned, handing you the filled mug, his fingers brushing yours for just a second too long.

You opened your mouth to say something else, but the door shut gently in your face.

Yet you didn’t give up and the next night, you stood again before his doors with a plate of pancakes in your hands, wrapped in foil to keep them warm and fresh. You weren’t sure if it was bold or stupid, but you knocked anyway.

He opened the door quicker this time but looked even more confused.

“What’s this for?” he asked, brows drawn together.

“For the sugar,” you said with a shrug. “You saved my cake last night, it just seemed fair.”

There was a long pause, and when you already feared the door would just slam shut before you again, he reached out and slowly took the plate from your hands. You noticed his left hand was still covered in a glove. 

“…Is it… is it for me?”

You smiled: “Of course it’s for you.”

Something flickered in his eyes that looked almost like a smile.

“…Thank you,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it. His gaze dropped, his lips twitching into something shy and uncertain and before you could answer, the door clicked shut again.

Bucky stood in the middle of his kitchen for a long time, the plate of pancakes still in his hands, steam curling up. His palms were sweating and his pulse wouldn't settle. 

It wasn’t panic, it wasn’t the dread of being recognized or some buried memory clawing its way up from the dark. This was something completely new, something he wasn’t prepared for. 

Someone had knocked on his door with something warm and kind in their hands. No threat. Just... pancakes.

He let out a breath and set the plate down, gripping the edge of the counter.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more: that you’d done it, that he liked it or that the short interaction had left him so painfully hard he had to bite back a groan and focus on breathing just to stay in control.

He hadn’t even touched you, and yet the scent of you still lingered in the air, warm and sweet and maddening.

The water in the shower ran hot as he leaned into the tile with both hands, chest heaving as the spray poured over him. He let his head hang, jaw clenched, in a futile hope the hot water would wash that feeling off his skin, but it was already under it.

Your voice, your smile, the look in your eyes when you handed him that plate.

With a rough, broken sound, he wrapped a hand around himself, eyes squeezing shut as he was flooded with the images of your laugh and the simple way you’d said “of course it’s for you”, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It didn’t take long. It never did, not when it was you behind his eyes. He came with a sharp gasp, forehead pressed to the tile, hips twitching, breath ragged and uneven.

Afterwards, he just stood there, water pounding his back, heart hammering and shame settling low and heavy in his gut. Not because of what he’d done, but because he wanted more and for the first time in what felt like forever he didn’t feel numb and it was driving him mad. 

Bucky didn’t sleep much that night, not because of nightmares. No, those stayed mercifully quiet this time. It was you that kept him up this time – the sound of your knock, the scent of pancakes, the memory of your smile.

And somewhere deep inside him there was a quiet, reckless, stupid hope that you’d knock again. 

Fuck, no. Leave her out of it, he told himself for the hundredth time, tossing and turning over in bed but it didn’t matter, because his hand was already moving, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around himself with a desperate kind of frustration. His chest rose and fell faster, the air in the room suddenly thick, suffocating, but not as heavy as the heat pooling in his gut.

He tried to think of something else, anything else, but you were already there.

That stupid, sweet smile you gave him when you handed over that plate –  the one that said he wasn’t dangerous, that showed no fear, only warmth and kindness, the one you would never cast at him, if you knew who he really was. 

He groaned, low and raw, pressing the heel of his other hand to his eyes as if he could block out the image of you behind his lids. It didn’t work, it never did.  

His hips bucked up into his hand before he could stop himself, breath catching in his throat. It was fast and ugly and aching, and he hated every second of it, of how little control he had, how easy it was for you to undo him with a smile and a plate of pancakes.

White streaks of his cum splattered across his belly, his breath catching in a stifled gasp as he buried his face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sound. His hand stayed wrapped tightly around himself, fingers trembling, chest still rising and falling hard.

He didn’t move for a long time, just lay there, slick, spent, and sinking deeper into self-loathing with every second as each breath tightened the knot in his chest, each heartbeat a reminder that it didn’t matter how many times he came to the thought of your smile, as if he were entitled to it, as if he deserved to want you.

He didn’t. He knew that.

Bucky woke with a sharp cry, shooting upright as though struck. His heart thundered, blood roaring in his ears, that old familiar weight crushing his ribs while the echo of a gunshot rang through the hollow corners of his mind.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

The blanket was twisted and soaked with sweat. He shoved it aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting there with his head in his hands, trying to breathe, trying to remember where he was, when he was, who he was.

It took him a while to come back to his senses but finally he stood slowly and shuffled barefoot across the cold floor toward the bathroom.

The man staring back at him in the mirror looked like a stranger in his own skin – dark circles, hair damp with sweat, eyes wide and hollow. 

He splashed cold water on his face and scrubbed his hands dry on a threadbare towel, avoiding the mirror entirely now before moving into the kitchen where he stopped short.

The plate of pancakes still sat on the table, untouched, covered carefully with foil.

He stared at it for a long moment before reaching out, slow and unsure, still half convinced they weren’t truly meant for him, that taking one might somehow be a mistake.

He took a bite and damn… they were good, fluffy, with just the right amount of sweetness, soft in the middle and with a hint of crisp at the edge.

He stood chewing in silence, one hand braced on the counter, the other still holding the fork, and his mouth tugged at the edge, not quite a smile, but close.

Then he heard them – your footsteps in the hallway.

Your rhythm was familiar by now, light and easy, almost like dancing, full of quiet confidence and grace. The sound nudged something in his chest, made his pulse trip once, then again.

Bucky’s hand hovered over the door handle. He could stay inside, wait it out until your steps faded, until it was safe, or…

He moved before he could second-guess it.

“Morning,” you said, glancing toward the creak of the opening door and your voice carried that effortless brightness again, the kind that softened corners, that made this hallway, stale with damp concrete and flaking paint, feel almost inviting and warm.

Bucky swallowed. “Hey,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Uh …hi.”

Smooth.

You slipped your keys into your bag and looked up at him again. You didn’t seem surprised to see him, just genuinely glad and somehow, that made it worse.

Bucky shifted his weight, rubbed the back of his neck. “I…uh… about the pancakes. Just… thanks. For that.”

You smiled, bright and easy. “You liked them?”

He blinked, as if you’d just asked if he liked air. “Yeah,” he said quickly. Then quieter, almost sheepish: “They were really good.”

The second the words left his mouth, he looked away, his cheeks going a little red. It was kind of sweet, how fidgety he got, it looked as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his feet, or the fact that someone was actually talking to him, like part of him was still considering just bolting back into his apartment and pretending this conversation never happened.

“Well,” you said softly, “you’re welcome. I’m really glad you liked them.”

A pause stretched between you, as you waited whether he would continue the conversation. Bucky nervously shifted his weight as he desperately tried to come up with something else to say, but his mind had suddenly blanked out. 

You tilted your head, smiling just a little. “Hey, if you’re hungry again later… I work at my parents’ shop. It’s just a few blocks from here. We sell homemade food, nothing fancy, just soups, fresh bread, stews, that kind of thing, but if you’re around… come by. I’ll treat you to lunch.”

His eyes widened slightly, then he blinked, once, then again, as though his brain needed a second to catch up.

“Me?”

You laughed, soft and warm. “Do you see anybody else here?”

A faint, nervous smile tugged at his lips, and his gaze dropped to the floor, searching for something steady in the scuffed tiles beneath his boots.

“That’s... really kind of you,” he mumbled.

You grinned and gave him a little wave as you started down the stairs. “See you then, James.”

He stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where you’d just been, then remembered to breathe.

The shop was small, tucked between a laundromat and a florist, with hand-painted signs in the window and the smell of something warm and herby drifting out onto the street.

Bucky stood across the road, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, eyes fixed on the front window. He could see you through the glass. You were laughing with someone behind the counter, your sleeves rolled up, your hair pulled back – nothing special and yet it made his stomach twist.

He shouldn't have come.

He’d walked past the place twice already – once fast, pretending he was on his way to something else, and the second time, slower, casting side glances towards the window. And now he was just... standing there, rooted to the sidewalk, unmoving, a stranger to his own nerves, trying to convince himself to disappear before it was too late. 

You’d just been nice and probably hadn’t expected him to actually come, you’d probably already forgotten about it altogether... and then you looked up.

Bucky flinched, immediately stepping back, unsure whether to bolt or blend into the brick behind him but it was too late, your eyes had already locked on him. 

Your face lit up, and before he could make the snap decision to disappear around the corner, you were pushing through the front door, wiping your hands on your apron.

“Hey!” you called, voice bright and easy, full of that same warmth that always knocked the air out of him.

He froze as every instinct told him to run, but his feet stayed planted, pulse kicking up as you crossed the sidewalk toward him.

“I was starting to think you got lost,” you teased lightly, then nodded toward the shop. “Come in. Food’s still warm.”

He hesitated, staring at the doorway like it might bite him.

“I don’t want to…uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he mumbled. “You looked… busy.”

“I am busy,” you grinned. “Feeding people. You qualify.”

He gave a soft, awkward laugh, it seemed he wasn’t sure if it was okay to find you funny, then, slowly, cautiously, he followed you inside.

The shop smelled of rosemary and fresh bread. It was cozy, with mismatched chairs and a few tiny tables.

Bucky hovered by the door, unsure of where to go or what to do with his hands, as he tugged at the glove on his left one.

You gestured toward a table by the window. “Sit wherever you want. I’ll bring you something.”

He nodded, then quietly chose one in the back, easing himself into the seat with slow caution, as though afraid it wouldn’t hold him. He rested his forearms on the table and looked down, trying not to let it show how tightly wound he was, how he’d spent the entire morning telling himself this was a terrible idea.

Over the next couple of weeks, something started to shift between you and your shy but handsome neighbour. Lunch at your parents’ shop turned into a regular thing. He never said he was coming, but you always saved him a spot near the back, and without fail, he showed up – cap tugged deep, left hand covered in glove, like he needed a layer between him and the rest of the world. He didn’t talk much, mostly he’d just sit there quietly, eyes on you, listening to you talk while wiping down counters or restocking shelves.

One afternoon, when you mentioned in passing that your kitchen sink was leaking again, he offered to take a look, no hesitation, no awkward pause, just a soft, “I can fix it, ” as if being useful to you meant something important.

When you said yes, his shoulders relaxed in this barely noticeable way, as if you’d handed him permission to be here, to take up space in your world without needing to explain why.

He spent an hour under the sink, toolbox beside him, and even though you offered him coffee and tried to make small talk, he mostly just nodded or shrugged, cheeks a little pink the whole time and when the drip finally stopped, he looked so endearingly proud in his quiet way, not boastful, just relieved to have done something right.

You liked it, no this was not the right word, you loved this quiet pull, this thing that bloomed in your chest when he showed up for lunch, when his eyes found you from across the room, calm and stormy all at once, that ridiculous flutter in your stomach every single time and the way his steel-blue gaze stayed with you long after he’d left.

You didn’t know what to call it, not yet, but it was growing.

And you had no idea how much it cost him, how tightly he had to hold the reins just to sit across from you, how much effort went into every half-smile, every controlled breath, pretending to be calm while his heart was pounding like he was in a fight.  

Yes, he enjoyed it, more than he wanted to, more than he thought he had any right to. Your voice, your laugh, the way you always remembered how he liked his tea, the way you talked to him without flinching, without pity, without fear, as if he was just a guy, the way you looked at him so normal, so safe  – it tore something open in him – a soft, unfamiliar ache, a glimpse of something he hadn’t dared imagine could ever be his again. 

It terrified him. He wanted more, and he hated himself for it.

A part of him soaked up every second, fed on them greedily, clutching them like stolen treasures. These small moments had become the brightest part of his day, maybe the only bright part, but just as strong was the voice inside him – the cold, familiar whisper that told him to pull back, to keep a distance, to remember who he was, to never forget that people like him didn’t get to have this, didn’t get to be chosen.

Didn’t get to be loved.

The apartment was too warm.

Or maybe it was just him, pacing from wall to wall, jaw tight, skin buzzing like he couldn’t get comfortable in his own body. The air felt thick. 

Bucky dragged a hand down his face with a frustrated growl. 

Enough.

His thoughts had spiraled so far past the line of decency he didn’t even try to pretend anymore. He’d jerked off two times today and God knows how many this week, thinking about you, your mouth, your laugh, your fingers brushing his.

He hated how easy it was, how vivid it all felt even though you'd barely even touched him. His body ached, strung tight with tension, and still, nothing gave him relief, not really, because no matter how many times he came into his own fist, sweaty and breathless in the dark, it wasn’t you, it wasn’t your hand, it wasn’t your lips, it wasn’t your breath against his neck, it wasn’t your thighs parting beneath him.

He stared at the ceiling, searching for answers it didn’t have. 

He’d tried to be good, tried to keep his distance. You were kind, and warm, and safe, and he didn’t want to ruin that but he was losing his grip. His fists clenched and unclenched as he stood near the door, sweat at the nape of his neck despite the chill creeping in through the cracked window.

The guys on site had joked more than once about a place a few blocks away. Pretty ladies, not like some other places, not cheap, but tidy and quiet, no questions asked. He hadn't even looked up when they talked about it, but now?

“Fuck it,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket off the hook.

He didn’t stop to think, just yanked open the door and headed down the stairwell, boots hitting the steps hard enough to echo. The streetlights buzzed above, casting a pale yellow over the pavement as he walked, fast, shoulders tight.

He told himself he just needed to burn off the need and the heat, get it out of his system before he did something worse, before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from. Before he gave in to the temptation to knock on your door and beg for something he didn’t deserve.

The night air bit at his skin, but he welcomed it, let it sting, he just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking.

The brothel was tucked behind a small café, down a side alley with no street sign, just a dim red light glowing above a narrow doorway. Bucky stood outside for too long, frozen in place, jaw tight, stomach churning. He almost turned around. Twice.

The air inside was warm and perfumed, low-lit, with soft music playing from speakers tucked somewhere behind velvet curtains. It didn’t smell bad, just overwhelmed by too many scents competing at once, cloying and artificial. The front room resembled a lounge, with a wide bar, a few small tables, and plush armchairs arranged in soft pools of lamplight.

The girls were scattered around the room, some perched at the bar, others lounged in armchairs with some kind of detached stillness on their faces as if they were waiting for a train. Most wore lingerie or barely-there dresses, skin glowing under the amber light. They looked bored. Tired. Used to it.

The girls smiled when they noticed him, some with interest, others with habit, a few leaned forward a little, resting arms on crossed legs, their makeup was perfect, hair done and eyes expectant.

Bucky’s throat tightened, as he didn’t quite know where to look, so he kept his head down and moved further in, already regretting every step.

His hands stayed jammed in his pockets while every part of him whispered that this was a bad idea but just when he was about to turn around and walk back out his eyes landed on a half-lit figure seated near the corner with legs crossed and hands folded in her lap. Bucky’s heart instantly dropped somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

He blinked, dragging his hand over his face as if trying to dispel a vision, but there was no doubt that it was you.

You looked different, made up and dressed for the part with lips painted red, you were turned just slightly away, chin lifted, with an expression telling that maybe if you didn’t look directly at anyone, none of it was real, but Bucky knew you.

He knew that curve of your jaw, the shape of your mouth, the way your fingers curled when you were nervous and then you suddenly turned and your eyes met his, wide and stunned, recognition hitting you with the force of a slap.

Your mouth parted just a little but your face crumpled, eyes turning glassy and embarrassed, even beyond embarrassed, as shame hit your face in a wave, and you quickly turned away again, in futile hope it could make him unsee you. 

Bucky froze, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. He didn’t know what to do, where to look or how to breathe as his throat closed and chest collapsed inward like he had been struck.

So he did the one thing he was trained to do: react. He turned his head and nodded to the girl sitting closest to him, someone blonde, someone whose face he didn’t even register, and reached out, letting her take his arm.

"Come on, sugar," she said, voice smooth and low. “I’ve got a room free.”

Bucky didn’t look back at you, he couldn’t, he just gave a stiff nod and followed her, not even knowing why, not thinking. She led him quietly down the hallway without saying much. The door clicked shut behind them with a soft snick, and suddenly he was in a tiny room that smelled of rose perfume, cheap soap and dust.

The room was small but clean, the walls painted in muted tones that tried and failed to feel warm, the only furniture being a narrow bed and a dim lamp in the corner. The girl turned toward him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Tell me how you like it,” she said gently, reaching for his belt, as her fingers brushed lightly against his stomach. “Rough? Slow? You want me to talk, or keep quiet? From behind, maybe? Blowjob costs extra, but since it’s your first time here, I can cut you a deal.”

Bucky flinched, visibly, as if she’d slapped him.

The girl froze for a beat, her hand still hovering near his belt, eyes narrowing just slightly as she registered the shift in him, as Bucky stepped back, fast, like the air between them had turned toxic.

“I…” His voice caught, raw and hoarse. “I shouldn’t be here.”

She raised her hands in quiet surrender, backing off. “Hey, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to…”

Bucky was already moving, stumbling back toward the door with his heartbeat thundering in his ears, stomach twisting and hands shaking.

“Sorry... I’m so sorry, I…I can’t. This was a mistake,” he muttered, reaching for the handle without even glancing at her as he shoved the door open and fled.

He didn’t stop, didn’t look at anyone, didn’t even breathe.

He rushed down the hallway, past the bar and the velvet chairs, past the painted smiles, until the front door hit his shoulder and the night air his lungs. He turned the first corner he saw and slammed his back against a cold brick wall, gasping for air and dragging both hands through his hair.

He felt sick.

Not because of the place, not because of the girl, but because, even in that room, with a stranger’s fingers brushing his belt, it was you he’d been thinking about.

He didn’t just want you, he needed you, and there wasn’t a single part of him that believed he deserved to, not even after he’d seen you there.

But somehow, that wasn’t even the worst part.

It wasn’t that you had been there, it wasn’t that this was how you apparently got by, that made his heart ache in a thousand unfamiliar ways.

The part that truly gutted him was that he hadn’t seen it, not once. After all those lunches, after all those moments spent across from you, listening to your voice, watching the way your eyes softened when you smiled, he never saw it and never dared to ask anything. He actually didn’t know anything about you apart from that you made the most delicious pancakes in the whole world.

And worse, far worse than that, was knowing that you had seen him there.

You forced a smile on your face as you greeted the few customers. Your parents had left earlier today and the front was quiet. You were thankful for that, as you were not up to any conversation. 

You’d barely slept the night before, your eyes burned, and your head ached, but it didn’t matter. Because he wasn’t coming. Why would he?

He had every reason to turn around and never look at you again.

You’d ruined it, whatever it was, that quiet rhythm the two of you had slipped into, the steady presence of him sitting at the back table, always listening, always there. The way he’d started looking you in the eye more often, the way his smile had stopped feeling as  something he had to force. It had all felt like the beginning of something soft and unspoken, but real.

And now it was gone.

He’d seen you, dressed as someone else, sitting with other girls, waiting to be picked like a bottle off a shelf.

You felt sick just thinking about it.

He must think you’d been playing him this whole time, that your kindness was fake, that your stories were an act, that you were just another girl who sold herself. Yes, you were.

You hated that thought, hated that your chest felt hollow and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking as you wiped down the same counter for the third time. You hated how ashamed you felt, not for what you did, but for how he might see it, for how he might see you now.

Every time the door creaked open, your eyes darted up and your stomach twisted, but it wasn’t him. Until it was.

You looked up and there he stood just inside the doorway, still in his jacket, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside.  You froze and he didn’t move either, just stood there, jaw tight, hands buried in his pockets.

You swallowed hard and turned back to your stack of napkins.

Bucky stepped forward slowly, the bell above the door jingled behind him, but he still didn’t say anything. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unsure, … and lost, it seemed he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to begin.

You opened your mouth, no idea what you were going to say, but the words never made it out because the door swung open again and three men stepped inside like they owned the place. Cheap leather jackets, thick chains – the kind of guys who always talked too loud and wore smiles that cut. You felt your stomach drop as soon as you saw them.

Not again.

“Morning,” the one in front said, grinning as he tapped his knuckles on the countertop. “You know what time it is, sweetheart.”

Your blood ran cold.

Bucky turned slightly, body tensing.

“I already told you,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re not paying, not again. My dad said…”

“Yeah, well,” the man interrupted, leaning closer, “maybe next time Daddy should come out here himself instead of sending you, huh?”

One of the others chuckled darkly, and the third turned to Bucky, giving him a once-over. “This ain’t your business, man. You should leave.”

Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even blink.

The first man clicked his tongue and turned his attention back to you, eyes sweeping over you slowly, like he was sizing up something on a menu.

“Would be a shame if something happened to this cute little place,” he said, tapping his fingers on the counter. “Could start with the windows, you know… accidents happen… a fire could even break out if you aren’t careful enough or... maybe there’s another way to settle things.”

He leaned in closer, breath sour, voice dropping to something low and greasy.

“How about we knock a little off the price… if you treat us right.”

The others chuckled behind him, one of them muttering, “Heard she’s not a stranger to that kind of arrangement.”

The leader smiled, but there was nothing kind about it. “Yeah. Word around is you’re good at making things... personal, friendly even. That’s true, sweetheart?”

His hand inched across the counter toward yours, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer, while his other hand reached out stroking your cheekbone. 

You closed your eyes just for a heartbeat, taking a deep breath as you tried to pull your hand back with a hiss, it was when you heard it – a sharp groan of pain and your eyes fluttered open again. 

Bucky had grabbed the guy’s wrist and twisted hard, the sound of bone popping echoed in the shop like a gunshot, and the guy dropped to his knees with a howl.

The other two lunged, shouting, but Bucky was already moving – fast and controlled as if someone had flipped a switch, erasing the shy and hesitant guy who could barely meet your gaze and replacing it with someone else entirely, someone sharp, efficient, and dangerous.

One punch sent the second guy crashing into a chair, the other took a knee to the gut and went down gasping. No wasted motion, no hesitation, your friendly and kind neighbour moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

One of them scrambled back to his feet, pulled a knife from inside his jacket, and slashed out blindly. Bucky sidestepped and caught the man's wrist mid-swing – a twist, a sharp crack and the knife clattered to the floor with the man screaming.

The last thing you saw was the second one pulling a gun from his waistband. 

Bucky closed the distance in two steps, knocked the gun aside, grabbed the guy by the front of his jacket, and slammed him into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed menu hanging next to the register. The gun skidded across the floor.

The third was crawling for it but Bucky stomped his boot down on his wrist before he could reach it. There was a crunch, followed by a howl of pain. Another knife came out, flashing toward his ribs, but he caught that too, twisted the guy’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first onto a table, snapping the wood clean in half.

“You done?” Bucky growled and you didn’t even recognise his voice.

There was no answer, just coughing and groaning as the men scrambled to their feet and limped their way toward the door while one of them looked back, clutching his ribs, and hissed through broken teeth, “You’re dead, man. You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

Bucky found you behind the counter, curled up tight in the corner, back pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes squeezed shut, and hands clamped over your ears. You were rocking, small, rhythmic movements, like your body was trying to calm itself the only way it knew how.

Bucky carefully crouched down beside you. 

“Hey,” he said softly, “it’s me. You’re safe now. They’re gone.”

You didn’t see him and didn’t hear him, you didn’t flinch when he crouched beside you, didn’t move when he reached out but stopped short, afraid to touch you. Your chest heaved in ragged and shallow breaths, as if even the air had turned against you. 

You didn’t respond, just kept rocking, the same distant, hollow look frozen on your face. You weren’t fully there, your mind had retreated somewhere deep, sealed itself behind a door and refused to come out.

The soft rocking didn’t stop, your lips moved, but no sound came.

“Hey,” he whispered again. “It’s over.”

Nothing.

Bucky knew that place you were in. He’d lived there, knew what it felt like when your body stopped feeling your own, when your mind disconnected and drifted somewhere unreachable, with no promise of return. 

His hand finally dropped, slow and careful, resting gently on the floor beside yours, still not touching, waiting. You didn’t move.

“Please, look at me,” Bucky’s arm rose shakily and stopped just an inch from your shoulder before slowly brushing the back of his fingers against it.

You flinched violently, a choked, guttural sound bursting from your throat as you recoiled, arms flying up to shield your head, body curling in on itself, shrinking down, bracing for something awful.

“I’m not…I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said quickly, the words tripping over his breath, even as he tried to steady his tone. “Hey, it’s me. It’s just me.” 

You shook your head in sharp denial, lips parting in a frantic whisper – no, no, no – again and again.

At first, it was just pressure. Arms. Someone’s arms wrapped around you, slowly, hesitantly, carefully, as though whoever it was wasn’t sure they should be doing it. You didn’t register who it was, your body didn’t give you time, acting on pure instinct as it jolted and you screamed – a raw, cracking sound that tore out of you louder than you thought possible. 

“No, …don’t,” you gasped as you pushed against them, trying to twist away, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. You thrashed, tried to shove away the arms, the weight, the contact as your fists uselessly beat against something solid – a chest, a shoulder – hard, broad and unmoving. You felt fabric. A jacket. The scrape of a zipper. 

“Hey, hey…” the voice came low, just beside your ear. It was familiar, soft. “It’s me. It’s just me. You’re alright. You’re safe now. Just… just breathe, okay?”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. Your breath kept catching in your throat, your chest tightening as though it didn’t know how to work anymore.

“Can you hear me?” Bucky asked and your mind finally registered that it was really him. 

You nodded a little, barely.

His arm stayed wrapped around your shoulders, warm and unmoving while his other hand, the gloved one, settled lightly against your back. His touch wasn’t soft exactly, but it was gentle, like he’d thought about every place he could hold you and chose the safest ones.The pressure wasn’t hard, but it anchored you as his palm moved slowly, just a slight shift. Up, down. 

He was rocking you now.

“Try to match me,” he said. “Breathe in.”

With a sob trembling on your lips you sucked in air too fast. It hitched, ugly, useless, and you almost choked on your own breath

“It’s okay,” he said. “Try again.”

You could feel his chest against you, broad and muscular, but not crushing, just steady like he knew exactly how much weight to give and nothing more.

You didn’t mean to lean into it, you didn’t even realize you had, until your forehead rested against the curve of his shoulder and you could smell him – leather and sweat.

“Let’s do it together. Breathe in,” he repeated, inhaling slowly, his voice even quieter now. “There you go, in and out. Slow. You’re doin’ good.”

You followed it this time, barely, but it was enough, your fists slowly unclenched, but one stayed gripping his sleeve, you didn’t even remember grabbing it.

“Don’t think. Just breathe. In and out.”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell steadily, and you focused on that, on the weight of his arm around your shoulders, on the sound of his breathing.

His hand on your back… it felt strange, stiffer, harder, as if something hidden beneath the glove wasn’t quite right, but it wasn’t harsh. He kept it gentle, stroking your back, its movement rhythmic, but not touching more than he needed to.

“I’ve got you,” he said again.

You didn’t answer, not out loud, but your body gave in and you leaned into him a little more.

Your kitchen was warm and quiet, the light above buzzing faintly. You pressed a cotton pad soaked with antiseptic to the cut in Bucky’s forearm and he flinched, not from the pain but from the touch itself.

You weren’t sure how long you’d sat on the floor behind the counter earlier, folded into his arms, his grip steady and quiet and solid around you. He hadn’t rushed you, hadn’t asked if you were okay. He’d known you weren’t and that asking wouldn’t help. So he just held you, tucked awkwardly but securely against his chest.

He didn’t let go until your fingers finally loosened their grip on his sleeve, until your breath started to even out, until your body, still shaken, had come back to itself. 

After that, he helped you clean up the mess the fight had left behind including the broken chair and table. He locked the door, flipped the sign, turned off the lights. Neither of you said much beyond the basics. Where’s the mop? Where should this go? You didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t seem to, either. He walked you home, in silence. 

It was only at your door, just as he turned to leave, his sleeve shifted and you caught the smear of red blooming through the fabric on his forearm, and now he was here, sitting in your kitchen, jacket off, sleeve rolled up. 

His eyes were on you, watching, tracking your every move, but you didn’t look up. Not yet. The silence started getting heavy, but you still didn’t know what to say.

“I just wanted…”

“About last night…” both of you spoke at once and both stopped.

Bucky looked down at the floor, then up, then back down again, rubbing the back of his neck.

You folded the gauze you’d used, just to have something to do. 

Bucky cleared his throat. “You go.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. “You first.”

He nodded, but didn’t speak right away, just stared at his hands, the one gloved, the other freshly bandaged.

“I, uh… I wanted to say I’m…” He paused, swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked. “For what?”

His eyes darted to yours, then away again just as fast. He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

“For… being there. Last night.” The words came out rough. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean… I didn’t even…” He stopped himself, ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have been there.”

You didn’t say anything as you were still trying to make sense of what he was actually apologising for.

“I mean, I wasn’t…shit…,” he dragged a hand down his face, cheeks slowly turning crimson. “I didn’t know, I swear, I didn’t know that’s…,” he cut himself off again, voice trailing into a frustrated sigh.

His leg bounced under the table, his fingers tightening into a fist.

“I just… I was stupid. I shouldn’t’ve gone and then I saw you and…” he shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do.”

You watched him unravel, slow and quiet and real, his usual stillness gone, replaced by a boyish, nervous energy you hadn’t seen before. 

Bucky looked up, slowly. “It wasn’t about that, not really. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

His eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, a flush crept into his cheeks as he immediately dropped his gaze again.

“I mean – not like that or not just like that. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.” He groaned and stood up suddenly, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape. “Shit…sorry. I think I should go.”

“No, James,” you said quickly, reaching out to him but he wasn’t looking at you. He stood there, arms hanging somewhat awkwardly by his sides, eyes locked on a spot on the floor.

“I just wanted something to make it stop,” he said, quieter now. “The wanting. The… whatever it is I feel around you. It messes with my head, makes me forget myself and I thought if I just... took the edge off, maybe I could look you in the eye again without…” He shook his head. 

You stood still, heartbeat in your throat. The words sank in slowly, as if your mind had to replay them twice just to believe what you’d heard. He wanted you, not just in passing or by accident, but enough that it scared him, enough that he’d gone looking for ways to make it stop.

“I wasn’t trying to replace you,” he continued. “That’s the thing. I know that now. I didn’t want anyone else, I just didn’t think I had any right to want you and… and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I went there. I’m sorry you saw me, I’m sorry I let you see how messed up I really am.”

He finally looked up at you. “Please don’t hate me,” he said as if the words hurt coming out.

Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table as you stared at him. 

You looked down at his hand, hanging by his side, his bare one, not the gloved one, and slowly, carefully, you reached out. Your fingertips brushed his knuckles first, feather-light and when he didn’t pull away, you gently curled your fingers around his.

He froze and you heard the sharp breath he sucked in, saw the way his jaw tightened.

“Hate you?” you echoed softly, eyes still on the wound you were tending. “James, you just risked your neck taking on men no one else even dares to argue with.” Your thumb brushed faintly across the skin of his forearm. “You sat with me while I fell apart… helped me clean up, walked me home and now you’re sitting here asking me not to hate you?”

You gave a small, sad smile and leaned back slightly against the table behind you. “I thought you’d never come back after last night. That you’d seen me there and decided I wasn’t…” You hesitated. “Wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Bucky blinked, his mouth parted slightly, then shut again, and his brows drew together like the words physically pained him.

You took a breath, steadied yourself, and kept going.

“I’m not proud of it,” you said, voice low but sure. “But I’m not ashamed either.”

His eyes snapped up, surprised, not at your confession, but at the strength in your tone. There was no bitterness, no apology.

“This is what it takes,” you said. “My mom’s got a heart condition. She needs medication every month just to keep things steady. It’s expensive and not covered. And we try, God knows, we try to make the shop work, but it’s never enough. Rent, bills, food – there’s always something.”

You paused, mouth dry, your other hand nervously fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth.

“She doesn’t know,” you said finally. “If she ever found out how I’m paying for it… she wouldn’t take the pills. She’d rather die than let me… do this.”

Your voice cracked, just barely, as you looked down.

“So I’m asking you,” you murmured, “please don’t tell anyone, especially not her, and please… don’t hate me.”

There was a beat of silence, then Bucky’s head snapped up like you’d struck him.

“What?” His voice came out stunned, almost breathless.

You gave a small, bitter laugh. “You asked me not to hate you, remember?” You glanced at him. “So I guess… now it’s my turn.”

His brow furrowed, deep, as he shifted closer. “You really think I could hate you?”

Your gaze dropped again. “I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes I think I’d hate myself, if I were someone else, if I found out the way you did…”

You stood there, so close you could feel the heat of him, your hand still holding his, the tension in his fingers making your own tremble slightly.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to yours, then back down again.

“It’s Bucky,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Call me Bucky.”

The way he said it, it wasn’t casual, it wasn’t just a name, it was an offering, a piece of himself handed over to you as if something fragile.

“Okay,” you whispered, your lips tugging into a soft, surprised smile. “Bucky.”

He looked down at you, the sound of his name in your voice changing something in his expression, softening it, unraveling some quiet thread inside him. His features eased, and he leaned in, just slightly, until your breaths met in the narrow space between you, until your noses nearly brushed. 

But then, at the very last second, he paused and pulled back, and you had a feeling he was bracing for rejection, for punishment, for something to crash down and ruin this before it even began.

You didn’t let him retreat. 

“I like that name,” you murmured, rising to your tiptoes, your hand lifting to his face, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw as you tilted his chin toward you and pressed your lips to his.

Bucky exhaled sharply, it seemed almost the air had been punched from his lungs, but he didn’t pull away. His lips parted and he kissed you back, hesitant at first, then deeper, his hand tightening gently around yours.

When your tongue brushed his, he inhaled sharply through his nose, then kissed you deeper, his mouth parting to let you in and his tongue met yours with careful pressure, tentative at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed this much of you, but when you didn’t pull back, when you kissed him harder, he let go of the reins.

You leaned in closer, your hand still cradling his jaw, the warmth of his stubble beneath your palm tickling and grounding you simultaneously.

And that was the moment something inside him gave out, he groaned low in his throat, his free hand finding your waist, fingers curling tight into your shirt, seeking to hold onto something. You barely had time to catch your breath before he deepened the kiss, searching and hungry, mapping your mouth with his tongue with a kind of need that felt older than memory, the kind born from years of wanting nothing but to stay alive.

His hands moved, one sliding down to the back of your thighs, the other bracing your spine, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he lifted you.

Your breath hitched as he picked you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his hips without thought. He stepped forward, guiding you gently backwards and setting you down on the table, not breaking the kiss for a second.

You gasped softly as Bucky moved between your legs, hands firm at your hips, his body was warm and solid between your thighs, his mouth eager and relentless.

You could feel the tremble in him, even as he held you. Every kiss carried a storm of want, fear, and aching restraint, each touch told you he'd been waiting for this for far too long, that closeness had always come with pain, either his own or someone else's and yet, in this moment, he let it happen, he let himself be there, with you, without pulling away.

A soft, guttural sound escaped him, low in his throat, muffled against your lips. It made your stomach twist and heat spread low and fast.

You tangled your fingers in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and his hands moved without hesitation now, one sliding up the curve of your waist to your ribs, thumb brushing beneath the edge of your shirt, the other gripping your hip, firm and anchoring, keeping you where he wanted you.

You arched into him instinctively, and you moaned softly, feeling his arousal pressing against you, hot and hard even through the layers between you. He groaned softly, the sound lost against your mouth, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help it.

Your breath caught, fingers curling into his shirt, but just when it seemed he might give in completely, he froze. Something inside him slammed shut, his hands went still, breath stuttering against your cheek, and his forehead dropped to your shoulder.

He stayed that way, silent, unmoving, chest heaving as though dragging himself back from some invisible edge while the tension in him buzzed under your hands, his whole body wound into hesitation, caught between fear and want.

Slowly, he pulled back.

You blinked at him, lips still parted, heart hammering in your chest as his gaze searched your face, looking for something, maybe for a sign, or for a reason not to do what he was about to do.

“I need to… show you something,” he said hoarsely.

You blinked, startled. “Okay.”

He stepped back a fraction, as if putting even that tiny bit of distance between you made it easier to breathe, and looked down at his left hand – the gloved one. Without another word, he began to peel it off, slowly, as if it cost him. 

You hadn’t thought much of it before, he always wore it, even when it was warm, even when it didn’t make sense.You knew he was working in construction, and the most reasonable thing to assume was that the hand was damaged, may be broken and healed wrongly, may be something else. 

The leather creaked until it finally slipped free and there it was. Metal – seamless and gleaming in the low light. 

Bucky didn’t look at you, his jaw was clenched tight, eyes fixed on the floor as if he couldn’t bear to see your reaction.

“This is what I am,” he said, voice low and bitter. “A monster. You must have heard the stories. They are all true.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out yet. You were too stunned, not by the metal, but by the pain in his voice.

“I don’t deserve this,” he went on, motioning vaguely toward you. “Not you, not your kindness, not the way you look at me like I’m – like I’m good.” His voice cracked slightly, and he turned, as if he meant to walk away.

“Bucky,” your voice was sharper than you intended, but it stopped him cold, he froze, half turned away, shoulders stiff.

“Don’t,” you said, more quietly this time. “Don’t walk away from me. Don’t end this, whatever this is, before it has even started.”

He turned, slowly, reluctantly, eyes flicking to yours and then down again, still expecting to see fear or disgust there. The metal arm hung at his side – a weight he had long ago grown used to carrying, but never learned how to stop hiding.

“Take off your shirt,” you said softly.

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Your shirt,” you repeated, a little more firmly now. “I want to see you.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, he looked stunned, like you’d asked him to strip off his skin, not a shirt. “You don’t… you don’t want to see this.”

“I do,” you said, your voice steady. “All of you.”

He took a breath, shallow and shaky. “Why?”

“Because you’re standing in front of me, waiting to be punished for existing, and I just want to see you, Bucky. Not the name. Not the stories. You.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and for a moment, he didn’t move, but then you reached for him, gently, fingers curling around his metal ones, the other hand sliding along his waist, tugging him back between your thighs until he stood close again. You let your hands find the hem of his shirt, pausing.

Still nothing from him – just breath, warm and unsteady against your cheek – so you tugged it upward.

He flinched, only slightly, but then lifted his arms and helped you pull it over his head.

The shirt hit the floor with a soft sound and there he was – lean muscle and scarred skin, the broad lines of his chest, the pale stretch of his stomach, the gleam of metal where it fused to flesh at his left shoulder with an angry seam.

Your fingers moved almost reverently, trailing across the curve of his human shoulder first, then down across his chest, then, carefully, you lifted your hand to the place where skin became steel, the place they had remade him.

You brushed your fingertips there, light and gentle, and Bucky shuddered beneath the touch.

“This must have hurt,” you whispered. “Beyond reason.”

He didn’t speak, but his eyes – dark, glassy, locked onto yours – said enough. 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like this – like he wasn’t broken, like he could be wanted , like he could be seen.

Your palms settled at his shoulders and you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the scarred edge, right where the line blurred between man and machine.

His breath caught sharply.

Then another kiss, just a little higher, and then another, trailing gently up toward the curve of his neck. 

You felt him tense, just slightly, as if unsure what he was supposed to do with this kind of tenderness, but then his hands came back to your waist – hesitant, as if he was asking for permission – and you didn’t pull away. 

Instead, you leaned your forehead to his and whispered, “You’re not a monster, Bucky. Not to me.”

Your fingers curled lightly at the back of his neck, drawing him closer. His lips brushed yours once, barely there, then again, with a little more pressure, slowly letting go of all the hesitation that had built up inside him.

You felt his hands shift, slide around your back, palms large and warm as they pulled you gently against him. His chest rose against yours, so solid as if made of rock. Your mouths moved together, deeper now, his tongue swept tentatively against yours and he moaned softly into the kiss, so quiet, like it slipped out before he could stop it, making your stomach twist with heat.

You let your hands roam up his arms, across his shoulders, down the ridges of his back, feeling the way he trembled under your touch, as if he was holding himself together by sheer will.

He leaned into you more, his body fit between your thighs like it had always belonged there, and still, his lips never left yours. Bucky’s hands roamed, unsure at first, hovering, almost afraid to hold too tight, to want too much, but when you tangled your fingers in the back of his hair and pulled him closer, another quiet sound escaped him – something between a sigh and a moan – and he gave in.

His hands slid down to your thighs, grounding himself there, his touch still careful even as he pressed in closer between them. 

You let your lips leave his just long enough to catch your breath, your forehead pressed against his again. His eyes were still closed, his long lashes brushing his cheek, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded, barely. “I just… I didn’t think this would ever happen.”

Your thumb traced a line down his cheekbone. “Me neither.”

You kissed him again, slower, deeper. His hand found your lower back, fingers splaying out, warm and strong, pulling you flush against him. There was nothing rushed in the way he moved, just longing held back too long, finally finding air.

Your hands slid up over the ridges of his chest, over the warm skin and hard muscle. When you touched the metal shoulder again, you felt him tense for a second, but he didn’t pull away. 

Then, slowly, he bent to kiss your neck, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. Your fingers slid to his waistband, testing the boundary, and he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching like the air had just gotten thinner.

“Hey,” you whispered, your lips grazing his. “It’s just me.”

He let out a broken sound that might’ve been a laugh or a prayer. “What are you…? Wait… I…” is voice cracked, low and raw as your fingers deftly unbuckled his belt, undid the zipper and slipped inside, wrapping around him. “Oh, God.”

You gave him a slow stroke, feeling him instantly getting rock hard and pulsing.

“No… no… God, no…” he breathed, but his hips betrayed him, stuttering into your touch. “I… I can’t… oh fuck…it’s too much… I’m…”

His words dissolved into a strangled breath, hips jerking once more despite himself, his one hand clutched the edge of the table, the other buried in the fabric at your lower back, holding on for dear life.

“Shit,” he hissed, head dropping to your shoulder, forehead pressed into your skin, slick with the heat rising in him too fast and too strong as your touch sent shivers down his spine. 

His forehead rested against your shoulder, damp with sweat, his eyes shut tight, fingers trembling where they gripped your back, and every exhale sounded more like a broken moan.

You could feel it in the way his breath faltered, how it hitched, caught, and broke somewhere between your collarbone and the soft space behind your ear. He was shaking now, as if his body couldn’t quite keep up with what he was feeling, as if it was all too much, too fast, and somehow still not enough.

You gave his pulsing cock another slow and gentle stroke, as you felt it twitching and warmth spilling over your hand, quiet and sudden, followed by a low, broken groan that tore from somewhere deep in his chest. You didn’t pull away, you kept your touch steady, gentle, letting him ride it out, but Bucky froze.

His breath hitched sharp, and he pulled back, horror already creeping into his eyes before he’d even looked at you fully. 

“Hey,” you murmured, your thumb brushing across the edge of his hip before he could say a word. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not… I’m…shit…” He swallowed hard, hands fumbling as he tried to fasten his pants. “You must think I’m…”

“Bucky,” you said softly, cutting him off, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Please, look at me.”

He hesitated, but slowly, his eyes found yours. 

“Can you just… for one moment,” you whispered, “accept that I really like you? And that I want you. I’ve wanted you since the day I knocked on your door asking for sugar and that hasn’t changed. Not because we owe something to each other, or what you think I expect.” 

Your thumb brushed along the line of his jaw, and your voice dipped a little, quieter now, but still honest. “I don’t think anything. I know how it feels to be broken, to be used and casted away. I know how it feels to be lonely and starved for love.” 

He stared at you, unmoving, his breath faltered, not sharp or dramatic, just a quiet stutter, and his eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if checking again, making sure this was real. 

“I didn’t think…” he started, then stopped, his brow pinched, and he shook his head slightly, trying again. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

You smiled gently, thumb stroking his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

But he did, he lifted his hand slowly, uncertainly, like you might vanish if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed your jaw, calloused and warm, then settled against your neck, hesitant but tender. 

“I’ve imagined this – you saying something like that. Me… being allowed to hear it, but I thought if I got too close, I’d ruin it…and I did…”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you said, holding his gaze – those impossibly blue eyes that still made your heart stutter every time they landed on you. Eyes that had followed you quietly, gently, from doorways and reflections, across rooms and silent hallways. They didn’t just watch, they had always made you feel seen and wanted. Not in a way that burned or demanded, but in a way that was steady and sweet, the kind of wanting you’d half-convinced yourself didn’t exist anymore.

Bucky’s thumb traced your cheek. “You’re the only good thing I’ve got,” he whispered, almost ashamed of how much he meant it. “You walked into my life and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”

He leaned in, slower this time, and his lips found yours again in a soft, searching kiss, trembling at first, betraying how much he still didn’t trust it, but then it got deeper and more certain.

He exhaled against your mouth, a shaky sound so soft, so full of relief it made your heart ache.

“Then stay,” you breathed against his lips. “Stop running, and stay.” 

His forehead came to rest against yours, his eyes still shut, his hand cradling your cheek, as he whispered back. “Tell me this isn’t just a dream.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. “It’s not.” 

It did feel like a dream though, hours later as you lay in your bed with sheets tangled around your legs, warm and soft and smelling faintly of him – soap, sweat, something deeper, something his. Your body felt heavy and pleasantly sore in the best way as every inch of you had been touched, worshipped, held like something precious.

You’d lost count of how many times he’d pulled you over the edge, how many times he’d made you unravel with his hands, his mouth, his cock, his whispered name on your lips.

Your body still hummed with how he had touched you, like every inch of your skin mattered, how he had pushed inside you, like he was learning you by heart, afraid to miss a single detail, kissing every moan, every stuttering breath from your lips, reading your every expression.

You lay on your side, curled toward him, one leg slung loosely over his. Bucky was half-asleep, his breathing deep and steady, one arm slung protectively around your waist, his bare chest rising and falling against your cheek. You could feel the smoothness of his dog tags where they rested between your collarbones, cool against your skin.

His metal hand, surprisingly gentle, rested on the small of your back, fingers twitching now and then almost as if he had to keep checking you were still here. You’d half expected him to pull away after, to retreat into himself, but he hadn’t, not even for a second. He’d held you like you were safety, like you were home.

You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, and the scruff there scraped lightly against your lips.

“I’m not dreaming, right?” you whispered, not expecting an answer.

But his voice came anyway, low and hoarse from sleep. “If you are,” he murmured, “don’t wake me.”