Carry On My Wayward Son

You were balancing on a stool, arms stretching overhead as you carefully wrestled a carton labelled 1912-1915 fromthe highest shelf. Your gloves itched slightly under the fluorescent lights, but you didn’t mind. They were the only layer between your skin and someone else’s past—a thin cotton promise to preserve the stories that time tried to erase.

You didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Just the gentle click of the heavy door creaking open, followed by a hesitant voice breaking the silence like a dropped glass.

“Uh… hi? Excuse me—I might be really lost.”

Your fingers froze around the edge of the box.

You turned slowly, stepping off the stool with care, the carton still cradled against your chest. The man in the doorway blinked at you, equally frozen, framed by the sterile hallway light behind him.

He looked… bewildered. Not panicked, not demanding. Just like someone who’d taken one wrong turn too many times and realized he was no longer anywhere near the gift shop.

“I was supposed to meet someone,” he said, a little sheepish now, his voice low and rough in a way that didn’t seem forced. “Dr. Koenig? He told me to check out some old historical stuff but… I think I might’ve gone too far.”

You adjusted your grip on the box, eyeing him with a touch of amusement. “You’re about two staircases and a hallway past where you should be. This is the archives department.”

His brows lifted. “And I’ve clearly entered the sacred chamber.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you said, and despite yourself, a smile tugged at your mouth. “Most people don’t make it this far. It’s usually just me, a space heater, and a few hundred boxes of old letters.”

He stepped into the room cautiously, as though expecting some trapdoor to open beneath him. The movement allowed the light to catch his face more clearly—warm brown eyes, an unruly scatter of dark curls, a slightly crooked nose that somehow made him look more familiar, not less. There was something in the way he carried himself, like he wasn’t trying to be noticed, but you couldn’t help noticing anyway.

“This place is…” he turned in a slow circle, eyes skimming the endless rows of shelves, “kind of magical, in a dusty, paper-cut kind of way.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “that’s one of out taglines. Right behind ‘where sunlight fears to thread.’”

He looked back at you, smiling like you’d just shared a secret. There was something warm in that gaze. Curious. Unpretentious.

“I’m Pedro,” he offered, extending a hand before glancing at your gloved ones. “Or, uh… I guess shaking hands is against protocol here?”

“Only if you’re handling materials,” you said, setting the box gently on the nearest table. You pulled off one glove before accepting his handshake, his palm warm against yours, firm but not forced.

You told him your name, and he repeated it back under his breath, like he wanted to remember it.

“I swear, Koenig just said to ‘go down to the lower level.’ He didn’t mention the librarian guardian of time and mystery.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Guardian?”

“Definitely,” he said with a mock-serious nod. “You look like someone who knows the weight of centuries.”

You huffed a small breath of laughter, not quite used to people talking to you like this—like you were fascinating instead of just useful.

“You’re lucky I’m not more territorial,” you said dryly. “Or I’d demand a toll.”

He tilted his head. “What kind of toll?”

“Historical appreciation. Maybe some decent questions. Bonus points if you can name a labour movement from before 1920.”

He squinted, mock-pained. “That sounds a little academic. Got anything easier?”

“I could show you something,” you said before you even fully thought it through. “Something most people never see.”

His eyebrows raised. “Is that another trap?”

“No,” you said with a smirk. “That comes later.”

You gestured to a nearby table, carefully untying the cotton ribbon around a faded folder. The paper inside was fragile, yellowed but not crumbling—handwritten letters in dark ink that curled like ivy. You slid one out and placed it beneath the protective sleeve.

“This is from 1914,” you murmured, your voice softer now. “He wrote to her every week for four years. She was engaged to someone else. Said she couldn’t love him back. But he kept writing.”

Pedro leaned in, his breath hitching slightly as he read over your shoulder without touching anything.

“She ever wrote back?”

“Eventually. Right before the war ended.” You looked up at him, your chest tighter than it had been moments ago. “They got married in 1920. Lived to their nineties. She kept every letter.”

Pedro exhaled. “Jesus.”

You didn’t respond. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was reverent. Still. Like the old words on the paper had pulled something still-beating into the room with you.

He looked at you then, more intently. “You really love this, don’t you?”

You nodded slowly. “It’s like listening to people whisper across time. Like proof that something mattered, even if nobody else remembers it now.”

He looked away for a moment. Like he was trying to find the rights words to say. “That’s… really beautiful.”

No one had ever looked at the archives that way with you. Not even your coworkers. And something about the way he lingered—not for show, not out of politeness—made something deep in your chest shift slightly off-centre.

“Let me walk you to Koenig,” you said eventually, gently closing the folder. “Before you end up in the preservation lab and get chased out by Gwen.”

He chuckled and followed, still casting glances over his shoulder at the rows of secrets behind you.

“Hey,” he said as you reached the elevator. “If I wanted to see more… would that be okay?”

You looked at him—this stranger who’d wandered in from the wrong hallway, who listened like every word mattered.

“Maybe,” you said softly. “But only if you stop calling me a guardian.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

——

It started innocently enough.

Pedro came back the following week—not with an entourage or anything remotely flashy, just with a takeaway coffee cupped in both hands and a hopeful look in his eyes. He paused at your desk like he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome, but there was something about the way he leaned in, casual and tentative all at once, that told you he’d hoped to find you here again. You raised an eyebrow when he gently slid the cup across the desk toward you.

“Got anything sad and beautiful today?” he asked, his voice as soft as the faded paper between your gloved hands.

The corner of your mouth tugged upward. “Bribing archivists now?”

“Only the best ones,” he said with that crooked smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes just a little.

You studied him for a second—longer than you meant to—and nodded toward the empty chair across from you. “Fine.”

That was the beginning of something neither of you had a name for.

Over the next several weeks, Pedro started sowing up during his downtime—always respectful, never assuming too much. Sometimes he brought coffee, sometimes pastries from bakeries he said had charmed him that morning. Other times he came empty-handed, just genuinely curious and quiet, content to sit across from you and ask questions that weren’t about your personal life, but somehow still made you feel seen.

He asked about the paper—why it felt so soft in some letters, so brittle in others. He asked about handwriting styles, about the way ink bled on wartimes parchment. He asked what story had stuck with you the most, and when you hesitated, uncertain whether to answer or deflect, he simply waited, as if silence didn’t make him nervous.

You didn’t tell him much at first. You weren’t in the habit of sharing. But something about the way he listened made you want to fill the space between words. You told him about a letter from 1916, how the writer had drawn tiny hearts in the margins and sealed it with dried violets. He asked what happened to her. You told him the war took her husband before the letter ever arrived.

He looked down for a long time and said quietly, “Feels like holding someone’s heart in your hands.”

The way he said it made you ache a little. Not because it was dramatic—but because it was honest.

And that’s what he was. Always.

He never mentioned who he was, not even once. Not in the way that people with notoriety often do, quietly slipping their resumes into conversation. You wouldn’t have known he was famous if not for the way people sometimes stared when you passed him in the little café in the corner of the library. Or the hushed murmurs you started to notice after a while, the quick, whispered mentions of his name.

But Pedro never acted like someone who needed attention. If anything, he looked almost relieved when you treated him like he was just another curious soul fascinated by the lives left behind on paper.

Then one afternoon, when he was thumbing carefully through a fragile bound ledger of Depression-era depts, he went very still. His eyes softened at the worn ink and tired, shaky handwriting, and his voice, when he spoke, was quiet and laced with something old and personal.

“My Abuela used to write like this,” he said, almost to himself. “Not ledgers. She kept notebooks—full of stories, prayers, bits of poems. Her pen would skip in this same kind of rhythm. I haven’t seen it in years.”

You glanced over at him, unsure whether to say anything, but you turned the page gently, letting the silence wrap around the moment. There was something reverent about how he looked at the page—like the paper itself might carry her voice if he listened hard enough.

He exhaled and looked at you, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You remind me of her.”

You blinked. “Because I hoard forgotten things and whisper to ghosts?”

He laughed under his breath, then shook his head. “Because she never spoke unless she meant it. But when she did, it was always something worth remembering.”

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t expect. You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you simply let the quiet stretch between you, warm and unspoken. It wasn’t awkward. It was easy. Familiar.

And maybe that’s what scared you a little.

Pedro started waiting for you after work on the steps of the building sometimes, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. He never pushed, never sked for more than you were ready to give. Sometimes you’d go for walks through the quieter parts of the city, and he’d listen as you talked about forgotten writers or the smell of old glue in t1930s bindings. Other times he’d tell you about the places he’d travelled—his description rich and textured, filled with colour and warmth.

One rainy evening, when you were both tucked into the back corner of a tiny, hidden wine bar he’d found, you realized you hadn’t looked at your watch once. He was talking about the way Madrid smelled after a summer storm, how the rain clung to the orange trees, and you found yourself staring at his hands as he gestured, warm and expressive, then at his mouth as he smiled, and for a moment the realization hit you like a shiver down your spine.

You liked him.

Not just like—you felt something for him. And it terrified you.

You tried to pretend it wasn’t real. That he was just a friend. A comforting presence who felt too good to be true. But the truth unravelled quietly.

The day it all clicked was when you were walking down a quiet street, sipping coffee from mismatched cups he’d convinced the barista to let you take just this once. He’d said something absurd—something about how you probably secretly trained pigeons to deliver forgotten letters to you like a historical Batman—and you laughed so hard you had to lean against a streetlamp to catch your breath. When you looked up, he was already watching you with this soft, almost reverent smile. And he said, “I love seeing you like this.”

Your heart stuttered.

He realized he’d said it out loud a second too late, eyes widening just slightly, his mouth opening to soften the words—but you didn’t let him.”

Right there on the sidewalk, the wind threading through your coat and the sound of distant traffic humming behind you, you kissed him like the last page of a story that had been building chapter by chapter.

His hand rose to your jaw, gentle but certain, like he’d imagined this a thousand times and still couldn’t believe it. When you pulled back, your lips trembling and breath shallow, he looked at you like the world had just tilted on its axis.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” he whispered. “I just didn’t want to rush it. Not with you.”

And just like that, something inside you gave way.

The quiet turned into something intimate. The waiting became a shared rhythm. And the distance you’d both carefully kept dissolved like mist between your hands.

From that night on, everything changed—but not in a way that disrupted what you had. It just deepened. Solidified. Like the slow layering of paint on a masterpiece, stroke by patient stroke.

You didn’t rush into titles or declarations. You didn’t need to. What you had was steady and slow and honest, like the work you’d built your life around.

He kept coming back. He stayed.

And little by little, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—you were enough for someone like him.

——

Three years didn’t rush by. They unfolded—soft, deliberate, and rich with the kind of comfort that never needed to announce itself.

The early days of being together felt like slipping into a song you’d somehow always known the words to. You didn’t have to explain much to Pedro; he just seemed to know when silence was needed, when a look said more than words, and when to reach for your hand without making a show of it. He didn’t flood your life with grandeur or spectacle—he wove himself into it, piece by piece, like he was stitching something permanent, something sacred.

He learned your routines like second nature. He knew that Sunday mornings were your time—tea, blankets, the soft hum of something classical playing in the background as you read or worked on research for no one but yourself. And instead of disrupting it, he found his way in quietly. He’d come by with something warm from the little bakery two blocks away, curl up next to you without needing to speak, and read a dog-eared paperback he kept forgetting to finish. He was content just to be near you, to exist in the quiet alongside you.

You grew used to finding notes in your jacket pockets—little things, scribbled on old receipts or the backs of museum flyers. You’re the best part of my day. Can’t stop thinking about the way you said “phonograph” today, you absolute nerd. Home smells like your shampoo now. Never leave. They made you laugh, blush, ache in the sweetest way.

And then came the nights.

Not always perfect. But soft. Full of unspoken tenderness. The first time he cooked for you, he burned the rice and cursed in a mix of English and Spanish until you doubled over laughing at how seriously he took it. He swore to redeem himself, and when he did—slow, roasted comfort food he said his mother used to make—you kissed his cheek and whispered that he didn’t have to prove anything. Not to you.

Eventually, you started travelling with him when you could. Just small visits—set weekends here and there, when your work allowed. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That you were just being supportive. But there was something different about those trips. A strange tension that curled low in your stomach, quiet and persistent.

He was still Pedro—the same man who laughed at your sleepy mumbling, who carried your bag without asking, who called you mi corazón like it was just part of breathing—but the moment you stepped into his world, something shifted.

You’d arrive on set, and the air around him changed.

It wasn’t him, not really. He was still kind. Attentive. He kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were okay, that you’d eaten, that you weren’t too cold or bored or tired. But he was surrounded by people who looked like they lived in magazines. Effortless beauty. Confident charm. Charisma that dripped from every angle.

The women on set were striking—graceful and poised, wearing casual tank tops that still looked designer, laughing too loudly at things he said. Some of them had known him for years. You saw the way they touched his arm when they talked to him, leaned against him as they laughed. It wasn’t his fault. He was friendly. He didn’t notice. But you did.

You weren’t jealous of them—not really. It wasn’t about them. It was about the way you started to feel smaller in those spaces. Like you were out of place. Like you were the quiet shadow in the corner with nothing in common with the world around him. You weren’t glamorous. You didn’t have a personal trainer or stylist or a face that people stopped to recognize. You were just… you.

Pedro never made you feel unworthy. Not once. But the longer you stood next to him in those glittering places—on red carpets where you clung to his arm and smiled politely as cameras flashed in your eyes—the more the voice in your head began to whisper: You’re holding him back.

You buried it. For as long as you could, you buried it.

He took you to premieres. You wore dresses you were never sure looked right. He told you they were perfect, that you were breathtaking. He held your hand like it grounded him, and when he looked at you in his interviews, his eyes never strayed. But still—there were moments. Quiet ones. You’d catch your reflection in the mirror beside him, in the corner of some behind-the-scenes photo, and your heart would falter.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t want to make it about you. He had enough pressure on him without your fears spilling into the mix. So you smiled. You stayed quiet. And the weight of that silence began to grow, pressing in at the edges.

Then came the night of the latest premiere.

You had arrived separately, He’d had press duties earlier in the day, and by the time you entered the venue, the room was already buzzing. The energy was thick with champagne and nerves and smiles that didn’t quiet reach the eyes. You found him near the back, flanked by a group of castmates, all mid-conversation.

That’s when you saw her.

She was stunning in that almost untouchable way—eyes lined sharp, hair cascading down in perfect waves. An actress from the film. She was standing far too close, laughing just a beat too long, touching his arm every time she made a point. Pedro, to his credit, was nodding, smiling politely, completely unaware of the attention curling around him like perfume.

You stood still for a long moment, watching. Telling yourself it didn’t matter. That it didn’t mean anything.

But something in your chest cracked a little.

You didn’t bring it up. Not that night. Not the day after. Instead, you carried it with you like a stone tucked in your pocket. He noticed something was off—of course he did—but you waved it off. Said you were tired. Said work was stressful.

And then, days later, he showed up at your little kingdom—his familiar knock against the frame, hopeful smile curling at the edges of his mouth—and everything in you gave out.

You looked at him, standing there like he always had, coffee in hand, gentle and warm and yours, and something splintered. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out—sharp, breathless, final.

“I don’t love you anymore, Pedro.”

His face froze. The smile fell. The silence that followed was heavy, stunned.

You wanted to take it back. The second it passed your lips, you wanted to scream. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because if you said what you really felt—that you were scared, that you felt like you were standing in the wrong life, that you didn’t know how to be enough for someone like him—you were afraid you’d fall apart completely.

So you let him believe it.

You let him leave.

And then you collapsed into yourself, wondering if you’d just made the biggest mistake of your life.

——

The days after the breakup unfold like pages soaked in water—warped, unreadable, dragging time through a haze of quiet misery.

Each morning starts the same: you wake up before your alarm, still tangled in the sheets you used to share with him, the impression of his body in the mattress long gone but still imagined. The room is silent in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful—it feels abandoned. You lie still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the grief to crest like a wave. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it just hovers beneath your ribs, thick and unspoken.

You still go to work. Still carry yourself like a person who isn’t unravelling. Your coworkers don’t ask questions, and you’re grateful for that. They only know the version of you who was dating a celebrity. They don’t know about the quiet mornings, the shared coffee cups, the way he would press a kiss to the back of your neck before leaving for set. They don’t know how he would whisper stupid jokes just to make you laugh when you couldn’t sleep. They didn’t see how gently he held you when you were anxious, how fiercely he loved.

They don’t know what you lost.

And you try not to think about what he must be doing now. Whether he’s back in L.A., or in New York already, preparing for SNL. Whether he’s sleeping. Eating. Laughing.

Whether he’s thinking about you.

You’ve left everything of his untouched. His toothbrush still sits in the bathroom drawer, tucked behind yours. His favourite sweater—the one you always teased him for because it was hideous but soft—lies draped over the back of the chair in your bedroom, exactly where he left it the last time he stayed over. You should put it away. Or throw it out. But you can’t. Your body won’t let you. It’s like every cell is still trying to hold onto him.

You check your phone too often. Not because you expect him to text. But because a part of you wants to imagine that he’s on the other side of the silence, typing and deleting. Feeling the same ache in his chest.

When your phone finally buzzes, you’re curled on the couch in a hoodie two sizes too big, eating cereal from the box because you can’t be bothered to make anything real. You wipe your hand on a napkin, reach for the phone, and nearly drop it when you see the name:

Javiera.

It’s like a stone in your stomach. You stare at it, heartbeat slowing to a crawl. For a second, you’re too stunned to react.

You haven’t spoken to her since… well, since you ended it. Since you tore everything down with a lie you still taste on your tongue.

When you finally accept the call, your voice is a whisper.

“Hello?”

“Hola, cariño,” comes the familiar warmth of Javiera’s voice, soft and rich, like a cup of something hot pressed into cold hands. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, not at all,” you say to quickly, sitting up straighter on the couch like she can somehow see you.

There’s a pause. You hear the city faintly behind her—traffic, wind, maybe the sound of her keys jingling in her purse.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” she admits. “But I’ve been thinking about you. And I just… I wanted to reach out. Not to pry. Bot to get in the middle. Just… to talk.”

You close your eyes. A lump forms in your throat.

“I appreciate that,” you say, your voice thick. “Really.”

She hesitates for only a second before saying. “I have an extra ticket to SNL50. Pedro has been rehearsing all week. It’s going to be a big night. I’d like you to come with me.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I—Javi, I don’t think that’s—”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” she says gently but firmly. “I won’t push. I know you’re hurting. I know you needed space. But I also know you still love him. And I don’t want you to wake up one day wishing you had gone. Even if it’s just to see him shine.”

Her words strike somewhere deep inside you, cutting through the armour you’ve built over the past week.

“I don’t think I could handle seeing him,” you murmur. “Not when it’s still like this.”

“I understand,” she says. “But cariño, you don’t have to stay invisible just because you’re in pain. Come with me. If it’s too much, we leave early. No pressure. No expectations.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. A part of you screams no. But another part—a quieter, trembling part that hasn’t stopped loving him for even one second—whispers yes.

And that voice is the only one you listen to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll come.”

There’s a soft smile in Javiera’s voice. “Good. I’ll send you the details. And I’ll be right beside you the whole night. Promise.”

You nod, swallowing the emotion that’s started to rise. “Thank you.”

“Of course, mi amor. I’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up, and the apartment goes quiet again. Only this time, it doesn’t feel quite so cold.

——

The city vibrates with its usual frenetic energy as you’re escorted by Javiera in a sleek black car, making your way to the venue for SNL50. Every passing block blurs into the next, the lights from the streets creating an almost surreal atmosphere. Your stomach twists with anticipation, a knot of unease lodged deep in your gut. The air outside is crisp, the night carrying a bite of winter, but your nerves simmer beneath the surface, warmer than they should be. You’ve barely said anything in the car, lost in your own mind, and Javiera seems to sense it, occasionally glancing at you with a soft, understanding smile.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says, her voice light, but you can hear the concern in it. “It’ll just be us. We’ll enjoy it together. No pressure.”

You nod faintly, though the truth is, your mind races with worries you haven’t voiced. That aching, nagging feeling is still there, lurking just beneath the surface. You’ve been holding it in foe day now—weeks, even—and tonight is no different.

Once you arrive, the energy shifts. The bright lights and the excitement of the crowd surrounding the entrance to the studio give the whole evening a sense of overwhelming, so larger than life. You feel a tightness in your chest that you can’t shake. The photographers and assistants rush about, and even though you’ve been to similar events with Pedro before, tonight it feels different. The hum of the crowd feels louder, the whispers and flashes more intense.

Javiera walks with you through the back entrance, leading you past a sea of dressed-up stars, all impeccably groomed, their smiles perfect, their laughter like music, but it doesn’t ease the weight on your chest. Your mind circles in the same direction it always does.

What am I doing here?

You don’t belong. The realization stabs at you like a bitter truth you’ve known all along. You don’t belong in this world, where every face is brighter, more polished. But then you see him.

Pedro.

He’s standing at the bar, chatting with someone, but your eyes lock instantly. The familiar warmth of his smile spreads across his face as he laughs, his eyes crinkling, the softness of him radiating across the room like a magnet. It almost feels like time slows as you watch him. His effortless charm, the way he’s so at ease, his body language welcoming to everyone around him—it all reminds you of everything you’ve lost.

God, I miss him.

You’ve avoided him for weeks, kept your distance, but now he’s here, so real, so tangible, in a place full of people. His presence fills the space in ways that make everything else fade into background noise.

The weight in your chest grows, and you feel yourself retreating back into the shadows of the room. It’s not just that you feel lost in this overwhelming environment—it’s that now, in this moment, standing in front of him again, you feel like nothing. Not in a self-loathing way, but in the sense that you don’t fit. You don’t measure up. He’s in his element, surrounded by people who adore him. And you, well… you’re just the one who loved him. The one who couldn’t handle it.

Javiera’s gentle hand touches your arm, grounding you for a moment. “Hey, you’re okay,” she murmurs, her voice soft but firm. “You’re not invisible. You’re not nothing. He’ll be happy to see you.”

But you’re not sure you can handle it. Not sure you can handle him being surrounded by all of this—by his world.

You take a breath and try to steady yourself.

“We should get a drink,” you offer, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears. You need to find something to hold onto before you break under the weight of everything.

Javiera leads you to a quieter corner of the room. The low murmur of conversations around you, the clink of glasses, and the rhythmic hum of music helps you calm the rapid beat of your heart, but only slightly. She orders something light, and you sip slowly, trying to focus on the citrusy tang of your drink, trying to convince yourself that you’re okay, that it’s all fine.

But then, like fate itself is out to make things harder for you, you feel a gaze settling on you. A presence too close, too lingering.

You look up, and there is a man you don’t know, but who’s clearly been eyeing you for longer than you’d like. His smile is charming, though it feels a little too practiced, his eyes far too intense. His gaze travels over you in a way that feels invasive.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low, a little too smooth for comfort. “Is this seat taken?”

You blink in surprise. “Um, yes, actually,” you reply, hoping to get rid of him without confrontation.

But he’s insistent, sliding into the seat beside you before you can protest. “You sure? Because I don’t see anyone else with you.” He leans just a little too close, his presence crowding you like a heavy fog.

“I’m waiting for my friend,” you say, your tone firm, trying to assert yourself without being rude.

The man only laughs, a soft chuckle that you can’t quite place. “She’s taking her time, huh? I don’t mind keeping you company.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, but before you can speak up again, he places his arm on the back of your chair. The walls inside you go up immediately.

“Look, I’m not interested,” you say, your voice clipped. But it’s not enough. His smile only widens.

You look desperately over at Javiera, but she’s still by the bar, talking with someone you don’t know. You’re alone with this man, and it makes your skin crawl.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” he persists. “Just let me—”

Before he can finish you hear it.

“Hey.”

The sharpness in his voice cuts through the noise, freezing you in place.

Pedro.

You almost don’t believe it. You turn your head slowly, and there he is, standing in front of you, his face tight, his brow furrowed as he looks at the man who’s still too close for comfort.

“I think she said she’s fine,” Pedro says, his tone controlled, but there’s something fierce beneath it.

The man immediately stiffens, looking up at Pedro with wide eyes. Recognition flashes across his face, the pieces clicking into place.

Pedro doesn’t flinch. His gaze doesn’t waver, and his posture remains firm, protective.

The man stammers a half-hearted apology, too embarrassed to even try anymore. “Sorry, I didn’t know…”

Pedro doesn’t say anything else. He just steps forward, his presence creating an invisible barrier between you and the stranger, effectively sending him on his way with nothing but a few muttered words.

And just like that, only the two of you remain.

Pedro doesn’t look at you right away. He watches the man disappear into the crowd, jaw tight, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of his barely restrained anger. You’re still holding your breath when his eyes finally turn to you, softer now, but still heavy with emotion.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gentler this time. But you can hear what’s layered beneath the question. I’m sorry. I’m here. I shouldn’t have let things get this far.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I just… didn’t expect that.”

Pedro hesitates for half a second, then takes a step closer, his voice low enough now that only you can hear it. “He shouldn’t have touched you. Shouldn’t even looked at you like that.”

His protectiveness catches you off guard. It always has. Even now, after everything, it tugs at your chest in ways you’re not ready to face.

“I handled it,” you say, trying to sound steady. “But thank you.”

The words hang awkwardly between you, too formal for everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. You look down at your glass, fingers tightening around the stem. You can feel him watching you, feel the heat of his presence, so close and yet so far from where you used to be.

Pedro shifts slightly, like he’s unsure if he should stay or give you space. “Can we talk?” he asks after a beat. “Somewhere quiet?”

Your heart twists again, but you nod.

He leads you away from the noise, the buzz of the party fading as you walk down a side hallway. It’s quieter here. The lighting is dim, warm, soft enough that it almost feels like you’ve stepped outside of time. He pauses beside a closed dressing room door and gently pushes it open. It’s empty. A private space with a couch, a low coffee table, a few scattered scripts and makeup brushes—quiet and far enough away from the laughter and lights.

You step inside first, and Pedro closes the door behind you, sealing the room in a thick, aching silence. You don’t sit. Neither does he.

For a moment, the air is filled only with the low hum of distant soundproofed music and your breath catching just slightly in your chest.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says softly, breaking the silence. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders tense. “I was hoping, but I didn’t think—after what happened…”

He trails off, leaving the rest unspoken. You know what he means. You’ve lived it every single day since.

“I didn’t think I could come,” you admit, voice quiet and raw. “I almost didn’t. But… something told me I had to. That I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

Pedro nods slowly, taking a step toward you. “I thought about you every single day,” he says, his voice tight. “I wanted to call. I wanted to ask you what I did wrong, where I went wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt suddenly, the words sharp and raw and unfiltered. Pedro’s brows furrow slightly, surprised. “For how I ended things. For not telling you how I really felt. I thought… I thought I was doing the right things. I thought I was protecting both of us.”

His expression shifts, softens, but his body stays still.

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice trembling. “Scared that I wasn’t enough. That one day, you’d realize you wanted someone who could be more for you. Someone who wasn’t scared every time a camera turned her way. Someone who could glide through all of it beside you, instead of clinging to the edges. Someone who fit better into your world. And when I saw how easily she flirted with you, how effortless it seemed… I panicked. I convinced myself I was holding you back. That letting you go would give you a chance to be happy.”

Pedro takes a slow step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. “And you thought I’d be happy without you?”

Your chest tightens. “I didn’t want to think that. But I kept hearing it in my own head. All the doubts I tried to bury for the past three years. They just got louder. I didn’t want to break up with you, Pedro. I just… didn’t know how to stay when I felt so small.”

He looks at you like his heart is breaking all over again.

“I never wanted someone to glide beside me. I wanted someone real. Someone who tells me when I’m being and idiot, who doesn’t care about cameras or premieres or any other bullshit—someone who looks at me like I’m still the guy who spills coffee on his scripts and loses his keys three times a week.” he says, voice low and thick with emotion. Your lip trembles, and he reaches for your hands. His grip warm, grounding.

“I don’t need someone polished and perfect. I need you. The woman who reads in bed with one leg out of the covers. The one who leaves me voice messages during the day about stray cats she saw. The one who makes everything feel like home—even the worst hotel room, even the loneliest night.”

He steps back a little, just enough to reach into the inner pocket of his jacket. Your heart stops. You watch his fingers wrap around something.

“I’ve had this with me for months. I was hoping you’d come tonight,” he admits, voice quiet but steady. “I kept telling myself I was waiting for the right moment. Some perfect backdrop. But the truth is, every time I thought about asking, I got scared.”

“Scared?” you repeat, stunned.

He nods slowly. “Scared you’d say no. Not because you didn’t love me. But because I hadn’t done enough to make you feel like you were safe with me. Like you belonged, not just beside me—but inside this whole messy world of mine.”

He drops to one knee, not dramatically, but with a kind of reverent softness. He pulls a velvet box out of the little pocket and opens it with a quiet snap. The ring inside is timeless—delicate, graceful, the kind of beauty that doesn’t shout, just shines.

“I love you,” Pedro says, voice trembling now. “I love you so damn much it knocks the wind out of me some days. And I never want to go another morning without hearing your voice first thing. I never want to walk into a room and not know whether you’ll be waiting for me at the end of the day.”

Your eyes fill with tears. He looks up at you, and there’s no glitz, no performance. Just love—raw and endless and unfiltered.

“I want to build a life with you that isn’t built on red carpets or scripts or premieres. I want late Sunday mornings and burnt pancakes and quiet walks where no one sees us. I want laughter in the kitchen, arguments about what to watch, lazy evenings tangled up on the couch. I want you. All of you.”

Your breath shudders out.

“I know I’m not perfect,” he continues, barely holding it together, “but I swear to you—I will spend the rest of my life trying to be the man who deserves to stand next to you. The one who lifts you when you’re falling. Who sees you when the world forgets. Who reminds you every day that you are never, ever a shadow. You’re my sun.”

His eyes are glossy now, a trembling smile on his lips as he raises the ring slightly.

“So,” he finishes, his voice barely above a whisper, “will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life proving to you that you were never holding me back—that you were the one carrying me forward all along?”

You’re already crying, knees giving out beneath you as you sink down to meet him. Your hands wrap around his face, your forehead pressed to his, your voice thick with emotion.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

Pedro pulls you into his arms, laughter and relief escaping his chest as he buries his face in your neck. The ring is forgotten for a moment still nestled in the box on the floor beside you, because right now nothing matters more than the way you’re holding each other like the world had just started over.

——

The hallway hums softly behind you as you and Pedro step out of the quiet dressing room, the door gently clicking shut in your wake. Your hand is still wrapped tightly in his, the warmth of his skin grounding you even as your heart floats several inches off the ground. The diamond on your finger catches the light with every step, a small, breathtaking promise nestled against your skin. You glance down at it, then up at Pedro—and he’s already looking at you, eyes wide with awe and love and something unspoken that glows like starlight in his expression.

Neither of you speak. You just walk slowly, the sounds of the party growing louder as you approach the main area again, laughter and music swelling like a heartbeat.

That’s when you hear her voice.

“There you two are.”

Javiera stands just a few feet away, a half-full glass of white wine in her hand, her dark eyes sharp as she looks between the two of you. The curve of her smile is suspicious, her gaze flicking from Pedro’s flushed face to the way his hand clutches yours like it’s a lifeline. And then she sees it—the ring.

Her wine glass lowers. Her mouth parts.

“Wait…” she says, blinking once, then again. “What’s… what’s going on?”

Pedro doesn’t answer her with words. Instead, he lifts your intertwined hands, palm up, and lets her see it clearly: the quiet shimmer of the ring nestled against your skin, the unmistakable intimacy of it. You don’t say anything either, your breath caught in your throat, a small, stunned smile blooming helplessly on your face.

And then Javiera gasps. Loudly.

“You didn’t,” she breathes, eyes going wide.

“She did,” Pedro replies, his voice warm and steady. “She said yes.”

Javiera’s response is instant. She lets out a sound that’s halfway between a squeal and a laugh and sets her wine down blindly on the edge of a nearby console table. Then she launches toward you, her arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders, pulling you into a hug that’s so fierce and joyful it nearly knocks you off balance.

“Oh my God,” she whispers against your ear, voice shaking. “You guys—oh my God. You really did it.”

You’re laughing, a little breathless, your eyes prickling. “We really did.”

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, cupping your cheeks with both hands. “You made him so happy. You make him so, so happy, do you know that?”

You nod, heart swelling with something that tastes like gratitude and disbelief all at once. She turns then and gives Pedro a light smack on the chest. “And you—you didn’t even tell me you were gonna do it tonight!”

“I wasn’t sure I was going to,” Pedro admits with a sheepish half-smile. “I’ve had the ring for months. It was just… something about tonight felt right. I saw her waiting for me, and I thought, why am I waiting?”

Javiera gives a small huff, but it’s fond. “You dramatic bastard. Of course you would propose at the SNL 50th.”

“Gotta keep things memorable,” he says with a grin. You laugh and hook your arm around his waist, leaning into the solid warmth of him. Javiera’s eyes soften again, and she shakes her head with a gentle, overwhelmed expression.

“I’m so happy for you two,” she says sincerely. “You already feel like family, but now it’s official.”

Pedro clears his throat. “You think we can skip the afterparty and celebrate somewhere quiet? Just us?”

Javiera arches an eyebrow. “Already reading my mind. Come on—I saw a quiet corner near a dressing room upstairs. We can raid the minibar and drink champagne off the network’s dime.”

Pedro snorts and mutters something about that being that real dream, and the three of you sneak away like teenagers skipping curfew.

——

The room is warm and quiet when you arrive, tucked high above the noise of the afterparty. Javiera kicks off her heels and flops dramatically onto the velvet sofa. Pedro follows behind with a bottle of champagne he charmed off a staff member and three mismatched glasses he dug up from the cabinet.

“No fancy toast?” you tease, settling beside him.

He grins, popping the cork and catching the foam like it’s second nature. “Only this: to love, to surviving premieres, and to you agreeing to marry my dumb ass.”

“Cheers,” Javiera chimes, clinking her glass against yours then Pedro’s before sipping. “Seriously though, I’ve never seen him this happy. Like, ever.”

Pedro leans back, stretching his arm behind you on the couch, pulling you in closer until your head rests against his shoulder. “That’s because I wasn’t.”

You glance up at him. His eyes are on you, deep and fond and full of things you don’t have words for. But his hand squeezes your shoulders, and it’s enough. You know.

For the next hour, you talk and laugh and let the world fall away. Javiera tells stories about Pedro when they were teenagers—how moody he got when he went to high school, how dramatic he was in college theatre when he called her up on the phone. Pedro groans and groans, but he doesn’t stop her. He just keeps sneaking glances at you. Like you’re a secret he still can’t believe he gets to keep.

Eventually, Javiera tops off her wine, toasts the air, and says, “I always knew it would be you.”

You blink, a little flushed from the champagne. “Me?”

She nods. “You anchored him. Not in the way that held him back. In the way that reminded him where home is.”

Your throat tightens. Pedro reaches for your hand again. You let your fingers thread through his without a second thought.

“Well,” Javiera says, standing and stretching, “I should probably leave the lovebirds alone before Pedro starts making out with his fiancée in front of me.”

You laugh. “You mean again?”

She points at you with a grin. “See? She gets me.”

Pedro just throws his head back and groans, but you can see the light in his eyes—soft, safe, proud. The second the door clicks shut behind his sister, he turns toward you, both hands now cradling your face.

“You sure this is real?” he whispers, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You sure you want all of it—me, the chaos, the cameras, the weird hours?”

“I don’t want all of it,” you murmur. “I want you. And that just happens to come with the rest.”

His lips part like he’s about to say something—then closes them again. Instead, he kisses you slow and long, and when he pulls away, you’re both breathless and smiling.

“Then let’s go back to the hotel.”

——

The city had quieted, its pulse dimmed to a slow, golden heartbeat. New York at night was always full of chatter and laughter, but here—on this particularly little street—it felt like the whole world had paused just for the two of you.

Your heels tapped softly on the pavement, your arm tucked securely into Pedro’s. The scent of rain lingered on the breeze. The streets still shimmered faintly from earlier rainfall, reflecting the haloed glow of streetlamps and the soft lights from windows overhead. Everything around you felt suspended in amber, dreamlike and impossibly still, except for the warmth radiating from the man beside you.

Pedro swayed ever so slightly with each step, not drunk, but warm and light in that way that only a couple glasses of champagne, good company, and the high of love can make a man. His fingers brushed against yours over and over until he finally laced them tightly, like he couldn’t stand the space between you even for a breath.

You caught yourself glancing again—at your hand in his, at the ring that glinted beneath the streetlight with every tiny movement. Your chest fluttered every time your gaze landed on it, like it was still sinking in. That it was real. That it happened. That he happened.

Pedro noticed your silence and slowed slightly. “You okay?” he asked softly, tugging your joined hands toward his chest.

You nodded, lips curling into a stunned, dazed smile. “Yeah. Just… it still doesn’t feel real.”

Pedro stopped walking entirely.

The sudden stillness made your pulse skip, and you looked up at him, curious. He was watching you with that soft, unreadable expression—like you were some incredible piece of art that he’d stumbled upon and was trying to memorize before it disappeared.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “That it doesn’t feel real.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Like—like someone actually chose me. Wants me.”

Pedro reached for your other hand and held them both between his. “I didn’t just choose you. I found you. The realest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You felt the prickle of tears press against the corners of your eyes, but Pedro leaned in, kissed your knuckles, and said, “But you know what? I get it. Sometimes when something feels that big, that good… it’s hard to believe it’s really yours.”

He smiled, crooked and conspiratorial. “So I think we need to do something about that.”

“Like what?” you asked, blinking back emotion.

Pedro looked around, then—without warning—stepped out into the middle of the street, planting his feet right beneath the glowing streetlamp. You froze on the sidewalk, watching him in stunned disbelief.

“Pedro… no,” you warned, already sensing what was coming.

“Yes,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes. “Absolutely, yes.”

He the raised both arms wide to the sky and shouted from the top of his lungs with unabashed joy, “Hey, New York! She said yes!”

The words echoed through the street, bouncing off brick walls, slipping into alleyways, startling a bird from a nearby tree.

You covered your mouth, heart leaping in your throat.

“I’m gonna marry her!” he yelled again, spinning once in the street with outstretched arms. “She said yes to me!”

You half-ran to him, trying to grab his coat sleeve. “Pedro! Stop!”

But he was grinning too hard, his voice still ringing with giddy disbelief. “I’m gonna marry the love of my life and I want the whole world to know!”

Your laugh escaped before you could supress it, bright and surprised and full of love.

He turned toward you, his voice dropping into something warmer and quieter. “You’ve been wondering if it’s real?” he asked. “Well, now the entire city knows. The whole damn world, if I have anything to say about it.”

You looked up at him, heart nearly bursting. “You’re impossible.”

Pedro stepped closer, cupped your face in both hands, and whispered, “I’m yours.”

Then, from above, the creak of a window made you both glance up.

An elderly woman with a crown of silver curls appeared in a second-story window, bundled in a pale blue robe, peering out into the street with a sleepy but intrigued expression.

“What on earth’s going on down there?” she asked, squinting slightly.

Pedro waved up at her like a kid caught sneaking cookies. “Sorry, ma’am! I proposed to the love of my life and she said yes. I got a little too excited.”

Her face slowly broke into a wide, toothy grin. “Is that right?”

Pedro nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

The woman chuckled and leaned out just a bit further. “Well then—congratulations to you both. That’s a beautiful thing.”

“Thank you,” you called up with flushed cheeks.

“But maybe…” she added with a soft twinkle in her eyes, “…save the yelling for the honeymoon, alright?”

Pedro threw his head back and laughed, genuine and unashamed. “You got it.”

She gave a playful little salute before pulling back inside, and the window eased shut once again. The warm glow behind the glass flickered off, leaving you both in the quiet golden hush of the streetlight once more.

Pedro turned back to you, hands out. “See? Even she thinks it’s a beautiful thing.”

You walked into his arms without hesitation, your face burying into the space between his shoulder and neck. He held you tightly, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more,” he murmured. “You’re it for me. Always have been.”

You leaned back, hands curling into the lapels of his coat. “I was really scared, you know. When we weren’t… when I thought I lost you.”

Pedro’s thumb brushed your cheek. “I was scared too. But I’d lose everything before I lost you again. I won’t ever stop showing you how much I love you.”

Your throat felt thick again, voice catching. “Then don’t stop.”

He kissed you softly, slowly, reverently—beneath the soft glow of the city, as a new chapter began with nothing but love, the night, and the echo of joy in your joined hands.

——

The door to the suite whispered shut behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet like the final note of a song. Stillness settled around you like a silk sheet, thick with anticipation and warmth. Pedro didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers, strong and a little rough from years of training and working out, curled tightly around yours—like letting go even for a moment wasn’t an option.

The light from the streetlamp slipped into the room through the open curtains, soft shadows dancing on the walls, but Pedro’s eyes never left your face.

He studied you as though you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. As if the whole night had led to this moment—just the two of you, no red carpets, no camera flashes, no careful interviews or tailored suits. Just him, in his slightly wrinkled brown long sleeves under his brown jacket, and you, now barefoot on the hotel carpet with your heart thudding like a second heartbeat in your throat.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, lifting your joined hands and brushing his lips across your knuckles.

“From what?” you whispered.

He smiled, barely, a quiet tug at the corner of his mouth. “From everything. From me asking you to be mine forever. From you saying yes.”

Your breath caught at the sound of it again—yes. That word had never felt like enough before, but tonight, it had cracked your world wide open.

Pedro stepped forward, one hand reaching to cup the side of your face, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. His touch was reverent, feather-light, as if you might vanish if he pressed too hard.

“Can I take care of you tonight?” he asked, voice deep and low, a little hoarse with emotion. “Not just touch you… but love you. Slowly. Fully. The way I’ve been wanting to all night.”

You could only nod. You were already melting from the look in his eyes alone.

His kiss was soft at first—just a meeting of lips, a shared breath, a question. But when your arms slid up around his neck and your fingers aliped into the curls at the nape of his neck, he deepened it, tilting your head, kissing you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life.

The kiss turned unhurried and tender, his lips moving with purpose, coaxing yours open with a slow, aching sweetness. His hands moved—over your back, your waist, your hips—tracing familiar paths with new intensity. Every brush of his skin against yours sent heat coiling low in your belly.

When he stepped back to unzip your dress, it wasn’t rushed. He held your gaze the entire time, dragging the zipper down slowly, like each inch was a revelation. The fabric slipped off your shoulders and pooled at your feet, and Pedro’s breath caught audibly in his throat.

His eyes trailed down your body, hungry but awed—like he was taking in a painting he could never quite believe was real.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered, brushing his hands along your sides, as though grounding himself in your warmth.

You helped him out of his jacket, his long sleeves, his pants with his belt—each layer discarded with purpose, not urgency. When your hands met his skin, he shivered. His body was warm and solid beneath your touch, and you traced every plane and dip with slow curiosity, like you were memorizing him all over again.

When he finally lowered you on the bed, it wasn’t with dominance or urgency, but with something softer. He followed you down, his body hovering over yours, his gaze locked on your face.

“I don’t want to go fast,” he whispered against your lips. “I just want to feel you. Every single part of you.”

You nodded, voice lost. Your legs parted to cradle him, and he settled between them, his chest pressing to yours, skin on skin. The heat of him made you stutter, your body already aching for more.

His kisses trailed down your neck, your collarbone, the soft rise of your breasts. He took his time—kissing, stroking, murmuring soft words of love against your skin. Each touch was like a promise. Every kiss felt like it carried years of devotion behind it.

When he took one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue slow and warm, your back arched instinctively, a moan spilling from your lips. Then he soothed it with his hand, worshipping you with the kind of patience that made you ache.

“Let me take my time with you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to hold anything back. Not tonight.”

When his mouth moved lower, pausing at your navel, your thighs trembled underneath his touch. With a questioning look he held his hands on your hips, not going further without your permission. When you gave him a slow nod, he pulled your underwear down with careful movements, and as the piece of garment fell on the floor next to the bed, he was already between your legs again. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, his beard brushing sensitive skin and making your whole body shiver.

Then his tongue met you—gentle, slow, savouring. He moved like he knew every sound you’d make before you did, every place to kiss and lick and flip to bring you closer, then pull you back, only to start again. His arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, holding you steady, as he coaxed you to the edge with infinite care.

When you came, it was with a cry of his name and your fingers tightening in his curls. He didn’t stop until the tremors passed, until your breath started to even again. He kissed his way back up your body, the taste of you still on his lips, and you met him with a kiss that was more desperate now, full of need and gratitude and love.

“Please,” you whispered against his mouth. “I need you inside me.”

Pedro reached between you, aligning himself slowly, and when he pushed in, your whole body curved into him. The stretch was delicious, the pressure grounding, and the groan he let out as he sank into you made your head spin. He stayed still for a long minute, just holding you, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard.

“You feel like everything I’ve ever wanted,” he whispered.

Then he began to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that made your body hum. He kissed you between every roll of his hips, told you how much he loved you with every stroke.

The build was slow. Deep. He never lost eye contact. His hand stayed laced with yours, his body cradling yours as if he needed you as much as he needed air.

When your second high came, you felt it rise like a tide, sweeping over you as you clung to him. Pedro buried himself deep, his movements growing a little more urgent, his voice shaking as he whispered your name into your neck.

He followed you seconds late, pulsing inside you with a low, shuddering moan, his body trembling with the force of it. When he collapsed against you, it was with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, like he couldn’t let go. His breath warmed your skin as he kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your jaw.

“You’re going to be my wife,” he murmured softly, reverently. “God, I’m so lucky. I love you so damn much.”

You turned your face to his, pressed a kiss to his temple. “Forever,” you whispered. “I’m yours.”

And wrapped in his arms, you believed it. Down to your bones, you believed it.

Your fingers move absentmindedly across the puzzle pieces, but your mind isn’t fully there.

You keep glancing at the phone.

Jason said he’d pick you up after Clint got back. Some burger place he liked across town, nothing fancy. You’d worn the dress because he said you looked good in it once. He’s not a bad guy, not really. Just… scattered. Fast car, fast words, slow follow-through.

You never asked for much. You figured that made it easier.

But you’ve been sitting here a while now, and the phone’s still quiet. Your chest tugs. You hate that you feel like this, embarrassed and exposed before the night’s even started.

And then you feel it.

That presence. That warmth behind you.

You turn slightly and see Clint in the doorway.

You didn’t hear him come in.

He’s standing there with a beer in one hand, the other crossed over his chest, watching you in that quiet way he does, eyes dark, unreadable. You offer him a small smile, one that’s more breath than joy, but it’s something.

“Hey,” you say softly.

Clint nods once. “You headin’ out after?”

“Yeah. Kind of a date.”

You brush your palms along your thighs, smoothing down fabric that won’t stay where it’s supposed to. Glance at the phone again like that might make it ring.

“Jason’s picking me up after you get back. Supposed to go get something to eat.”

You try to keep it casual, but it lands like an apology. Even you hear it.

Clint doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps watching you with that same quiet intensity. You always thought he was handsome, in a gruff, unapproachable way. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, hands that always look like they’ve been busy doing something that matters. There’s something about the way he moves, economical, restrained, that makes you feel small and seen all at once.

He intimidates you. And maybe that’s part of why you keep coming back.

Clint leans in the doorway, beer in hand, trying not to let his face show what his chest is doing.

Jason Delaney.

Of all the cocky little pricks to get her attention.

Clint’s jaw ticks as he watches her, all bare legs and glossed lips, in that soft dress that clings every time she shifts. No bra. He knows. He noticed the moment she sat down. And now she’s waiting around for a kid who sells dime bags out of his Camaro and forgets birthdays unless they come with head.

And she’s dressed up for him.

If that dumbass leaves her waitin’...

Clint’s eyes flick to Mae, still humming softly, placing the last piece of the puzzle. She’s happy. Relaxed. Unbothered by the tension quietly humming through the room.

But he sees the way you rub her back, gentle, instinctive, maternal. Like she’s yours. Like this house is yours.

She doesn’t just watch my kid. She cares for her. Like I would. Better than I ever could.

His chest tightens with it, not jealousy, not exactly. Just something close. Something primal.

He sets the beer in the sink. Grabs his keys. Shrugs into his leather jacket, fingers catching briefly on the cuff before he turns back.

“You good with her till 9?”

“Always,” you say with a smile. “We’re gonna finish the puzzle and maybe throw The Little Mermaid back on.”

Your laugh is soft. Clint feels it somewhere low in his stomach.

“She likes what she likes,” he says.

You tilt your head, that glint in your eye returning. “So do I.”

He freezes for a beat too long.

She’s flirting and don’t even realize it. Or maybe she does.

His eyes drag from your mouth down to the hem of your dress, where it’s bunched up around the top of your thigh. And then back to the kitchen phone. Still quiet. Still nothing.

She’s not just sweet. She knows what she’s doin’. Maybe not all the way. But enough. Enough to make me wanna keep her from every punk who thinks she’s just something to waste time on.

She’s not.

She’s made for slow mornings. For a hand resting on her leg while the coffee brews. For nights that end with someone staying.

And he wants that. Wants her.

But tonight, tonight he’s got one job.

His voice is low when it comes. Measured. Rough.

“Don’t wait outside alone. And don’t wait too long if he don’t show.”

He leaves without waiting for a reply.

And when the door shuts, she’s still sitting there, same soft dress, same sweet smile dimmed a little at the edges.

Mae hums. The puzzle’s finished. The movie rolls on.

And Clint drives into the night, already thinking about whether he’ll see that rusted-out Camaro in the driveway when he gets back, and what he’s going to do if he doesn’t.

The truck rumbles to life, but Clint doesn’t turn the radio on.

Doesn’t need the noise.

He drives in silence, the kind that settles low in his chest like smoke, thick and waiting. He turns down 35th to meet a client, tires crunching over loose gravel as the street narrows. The sun’s dipping low now, making the liquor store glow burnt orange at the edges. He pulls into the side lot slow, deliberate, parking just far enough to watch.

But instead of his client, he sees someone else. 

Jason Delaney, leaning on the hood of that rust-red Camaro like he’s posing for a fuckin’ magazine. Cigarette in hand, one boot kicked up behind him, laughing like the world owes him something. He’s not alone. That girl from the gas station, tight jeans, big earrings, is all over him. Twirling her hair, giggling, running a hand over his chest.

Clint watches, unmoving. Blank.

His jaw tightens when Jason leans in and says something low in her ear, probably some bullshit pickup line that he thinks sounds cool. Clint’s heard his type too many times. Bragging when he should be grateful.  

By the time Jason slips behind the store to light another smoke, Clint’s already out of the truck.

He moves fast. Controlled. Steps crunch over broken glass and cigarette butts as he rounds the corner.

Jason doesn’t hear him coming,  not until Clint grabs him by the collar and slams him hard against the wall. Brick to shoulder. His head snaps back, eyes wide, breath caught.

Clint leans in, voice low. Cold.

“That girl you left sittin’ on my couch tonight?” he says, calm as a gun cocking. “She ain’t yours to fuck with.”

Jason chokes on the air. “What the—who the fuck—”

Clint doesn’t give him the chance.

SNAP.

Two fingers. Fast. Clean. The sound echoes like a firecracker in the alley.

Jason howls, folding forward instinctively, clutching his hand like it might fall off.

Clint doesn’t blink.

“Next time,” he murmurs, leaning in just close enough that the kid can smell the Marlboro on his breath, “I won’t leave your hands intact.”

He lets him drop, a crumpled heap against the bricks, bleeding, whimpering, gasping between curses. Clint turns without another word. Doesn’t look back.

Some men think sweetness makes a girl small. Disposable.

Clint knows better.

You don’t leave a girl like her waiting. You don’t make her doubt herself. 

Not while he’s breathing.

The side door creaks open at exactly 8:56 PM.

You barely register it at first. Just the sound of boots on cracked tile, steady and familiar. The smell of wood polish, faint cigarette smoke, and something else, maybe shampoo from Mae’s bubble bath or the air freshener Clint keeps meaning to replace. It all blends into the background, the way it always does here. Safe. Familiar.

You keep your eyes on the TV, even though you’re not really watching it anymore.

The Little Mermaid is replaying again. Ariel’s silhouette washes over your bare shoulder in flickers of blue and purple light. Your sundress sticks slightly to your thighs where the heat and the waiting have soaked in. You hadn’t planned on staying this long. You hadn’t planned on crying either.

But here you are.

Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded. Shoes kicked off and tucked under the couch hours ago.

You feel stupid.

Stupid for the dress. For the soft perfume you picked out. For brushing your hair and glossing your lips like any of it mattered. No bra. A little hope. And a lot of waiting. Stupid for believing Jason when he said he’d come. For thinking this time he’d show up when he said he would. That he’d see you sitting here and actually feel something.

Your chest tightens again. Not a fresh wave of sadness, just the quiet ache of realizing you let yourself hope and hope betrayed you.

Again.

You almost don’t notice Clint until you hear the sharp clink of keys on the counter.

He moves through the house like gravity. Controlled. Certain. Heavy in a way that makes your heart stutter.

You look up, startled, like you’d forgotten anyone else existed in the world.

He’s standing by the doorway now, pulling off that worn black leather jacket he always throws on like armor. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath the sleeves of his gray tee. His knuckles are scraped. His shoulders look even broader than usual, like something’s still sitting on them.

Clint Flood is not a soft man. He’s not delicate or particularly gentle, but there’s something about the way he moves, the way he sees you, that makes you feel like maybe you’re not completely invisible.

Your voice cracks before it even forms fully.

“Guess I overdressed for disappointment.”

You try to laugh. It comes out thin and watery. You wipe under one eye with your knuckle before he can look too long.

“He didn’t show,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Probably forgot.”

You say it like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t sting. But it does.

Clint walks toward you, slow and deliberate. Each step like a question he’s already answered for himself. He lowers himself onto the couch beside you, not too close, just enough to make the cushion dip beneath his weight.

You glance sideways at him.

He’s too composed. Quiet in a way that makes your pulse pick up. His thighs are wide apart, forearms resting heavy on his knees. His hand is loose, relaxed, but you notice the tension in it anyway.

There’s blood on the edge of one knuckle.

And then he says it, voice low, calm, but firm enough that it still makes your spine straighten.

“He’s not gonna bother you again.”

Your head snaps toward him.

You study his face, that hardened brow, the set of his mouth, the storm in his eyes. Your heart stutters.

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just shake your entire world loose with six words.

“Saw him,” he says. “He was busy.”

A pause. Barely a breath.

“I made sure he got the message.”

You go completely still.

Not because you don’t know what that means, you do, but because of how easy he says it.

“Clint…” Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “What did you do?”

He turns his head now. Meets your eyes without flinching.

“What needed doing.”

You stare at him. There’s heat rising in your chest now, not panic, not fear, but something else entirely.

“Why?” you ask, and your voice shakes. “Why would you… why would you even care?”

He exhales through his nose. His fingers rub slowly over his palm, like he’s grounding himself.

“Because I care.”

The words land heavy between you, heavier than anything Jason ever said. He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to earn anything from you. Doesn’t say it to be sweet.

He says it because it’s true.

Clint leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes straight ahead.

“Because I see the way you get treated, and it makes me fucking sick.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

“You walk in here week after week,” he continues, voice lower now but no less steady. “Taking care of my kid like she’s yours. Laughing like you don’t got pain in you. Being good. Good to people who don’t see what they’ve got.”

Your throat tightens. Your chest aches.

“And that bastard, that boy, gets your time like he earned it.”

You blink quickly. Your bottom lip trembles. You want to say something, but your breath is caught in your chest.

Because he’s right.

And somehow, he saw you when the person you were waiting on didn’t even bother to try.

You swallow hard.

Your voice is barely a whisper when you ask:

“You think you could give me more?”

The air in the room shifts. Grows thicker.

Clint turns to look at you, really look.

His gaze drops to your mouth. The curve of your cheek. Your bare shoulders. The soft cotton of your sundress where it’s still bunched high on your thighs. Your feet tucked up beneath you, vulnerable, curled in like you’re trying to disappear.

Something passes behind his eyes. Something quiet and unspoken.

And in that moment, you realize it.

You’ve been wanting him this whole time.

Not in some loud, dramatic way. But in the quiet way your eyes always flicked toward him when he walked through the door. The way you noticed the veins in his hands when he wiped down the counter. The way your heart picked up when he smiled at Mae like she was the only thing that mattered.

You’ve been wanting someone steady. Someone who shows up.

And Clint Flood, scraped knuckles, leather jacket, rough voice, and all, just did.

You don’t know who moves first.

But suddenly, everything’s changed.

The line between you and him, whatever it was, no longer exists.

It starts with the kiss.

Clint leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

Your lips meet his, and it’s heat right away. His mouth is rough and warm, kissing you deep and steady. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, the other gripping your thigh tight enough that you feel it in your bones. You let him pull you closer, knees to either side of his leg, your sundress bunched high on your hips. The friction makes you gasp.

His tongue licks into your mouth with a low sound in his throat, and you moan, hips shifting, grinding just barely against his thigh.

You’ve never wanted anyone like this. Never felt wanted like this.

Your fingers curl around his wrist and guide his hand beneath your dress.

“Touch me.”

He groans like it physically hurts him not to have done it sooner.

His fingers slide up, finding the edge of your panties, dragging them to the side with practiced ease. His middle finger runs through your folds, slow and slick, and his jaw clenches when he feels how wet you already are.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “You were sittin’ on my couch like this?”

You gasp when he slides two fingers into you without warning, thick and steady, pushing deep. He curls them just right and your hips jerk forward. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and desperate.

“Listen to that,” Clint whispers. “You’re soaked.”

He fingers you slowly, deliberately, drawing it out while his thumb circles your clit, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. The stretch of his fingers is intense, thick knuckles dragging in and out, his palm heavy against your cunt. You can feel yourself clench around him, the buildup already tight in your gut.

“You gonna come like this?” he asks, voice hot in your ear. “Just from my fingers?”

You nod, breath caught.

“That's right. Let me feel it.”

You break with a soft cry, thighs trembling around his hand. He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless and twitching, and even then he keeps them inside you for a moment, like he doesn’t want to leave just yet.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“Bedroom,” you breathe.

He lifts you up without hesitation, arms strong around your waist, and carries you down the hall. You cling to him, thighs still slick and trembling.

He lays you down gently on the bed. You reach for the hem of your dress, but he stops you with a shake of his head.

“I’m takin’ this off,” Clint says. “I want to see you.”

You sit up slowly as he kneels in front of you, hands dragging up your thighs. He pushes the fabric of your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the side. His eyes move over your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

He pulls your panties off slowly, watching the way the wet cotton clings before slipping free. His voice is quiet, but thick with something rougher.

“Been dreamin’ about this.”

He moves closer, mouth brushing your knee, your thigh, your hip. When you reach for him, pulling him in by the collar of his shirt, he finally strips it off. His chest is solid, thick with muscle, hair dusting down to his waistband.

You palm over the bulge in his jeans and he groans into your skin.

You look up at him, flushed and needy.

“Clint. Please.”

He unbuckles his belt with slow, deliberate movements, and when his cock springs free, your breath catches.

He’s big. Thick. Long. Heavy against his hand as he strokes himself once, then twice, just to see the way you look at it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You like that?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“Gonna stretch you real good, sweetheart.”

He kisses you again as he settles between your thighs, not hurried, not fumbling. He lines himself up, dragging the tip through your slick before pressing in slow. Inch by inch. You gasp at the stretch, your walls tightening around him.

“Fuck,” he grits out, eyes fluttering shut. “So tight.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt.

Clint doesn’t move at first. He holds himself there, letting you feel all of him, letting you catch your breath.

When he does start to thrust, it’s slow at first, deep and measured, each one pressing right against that spot inside that makes you moan into his mouth. He cups your thigh and pushes it higher, opening you wider.

“This is mine now,” he whispers. “You understand me?”

You nod, nails dragging lightly down his back.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe. “All yours.”

That flips something in him.

He groans low, thrusts harder, his hand sliding down to rub your clit as he fucks into you.

You come again with a cry, clenching hard around him, and he doesn’t stop. His hips keep driving into you, deeper, rougher, chasing his own edge now.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Wanna come so deep you feel it all night.”

You pull him in tighter, wrapping your legs around him.

“Do it,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clint grunts, low and guttural, and pushes deep one last time as he spills into you, thick and hot, hips jerking with each pulse. You feel it flood you, the warmth between your thighs unmistakable.

He collapses against you, chest heaving, one hand cradling your jaw as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

Neither of you speak for a moment. Just the sound of your breathing, the creak of the mattress, the fan in the hallway spinning slow.

Eventually, Clint pulls out gently and reaches for the towel on the dresser, wiping between your legs with soft care. He doesn't rush. Doesn’t say a word about it. Just takes care of you like it’s something he’s always meant to do.

He tosses the towel aside, then pulls the blanket up and lifts you against his chest.

You settle there, warm and exhausted, your head on his shoulder, one arm draped across his chest.

His fingers trace slow circles into your hip.

“You stayin’ tonight?” he murmurs.

You nod without opening your eyes.

“Good,” he says. “That’s real good.”

He doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t leave space between you.

And as sleep starts to settle in, you realize it’s the first time in a long time someone followed through.

You feel safe. Seen. Wanted.

And Clint Flood holds you like he’s not letting go.

The cardboard box dug into your hip as you eased yourself down onto the curb outside the building. It was lighter than expected, somehow. A handful of pens. A few notebooks. A ceramic mug with the hairline fracture. A basketball you didn't even know how you got. A small trashcan. A few frames. Your department’s awards plaque with your name misspelled—a  year had gone by and no one had fixed it.

All of it now sat in the open air under the gray slant of an afternoon sky, like it meant nothing at all.

Eleven of you were let go. You weren’t the first. Wouldn’t the last. 

You had been good at what you did. Demanding, soul-eating work, but you had carved a space in it. Made decisions that mattered. Signed off on budgets with seven digits and stood your ground in boardrooms filled with men twice your age. You had outlasted three managers. And then, without warning, it was over.

You’d looked at your phone three times since sitting down. Debated sending Bucky a text—just something simple, maybe a “rough day, talk later?” But you couldn't. Not because you didn’t want to hear his voice. You did. You wanted it like breath. But today, it would make it real. Saying it out loud meant admitting you weren’t fine. And right now, you needed to pretend just a little longer.

He was probably still stuck in some windowless chamber with six other men in suits, talking military appropriations and liability clauses anyways. You could almost hear it: the tight line in his voice when he got frustrated, the clipped cadence when someone said something idiotic and he had to pretend he didn’t want to punch through the table. 

He didn’t need this right now.

You didn’t want to explain that your job, the one with the long hours and the six-figure salary and the team you had built from the ground up, had vanished like a glitch in a system update. That your severance was exactly three months’ worth of polite corporate apology, and a generic link to “transition resources.”

By the time you finally stood and flagged down a cab, your fingers were stiff from the cold, even through your gloves. The driver wasn’t chatty. You were grateful. You pressed your head to the cool glass and watched the city blur by—steel and smear, people with purpose.

Your building greeted you like it always did, polished lobby floors, some overenthusiastic lobby music playing from recessed speakers, the doorman’s familiar wave. You returned it without a word and crossed to the elevator, phone vibrating in your pocket as the doors slid shut behind you.

Bucky. Of course.

You stared at the name. Your finger hovered. Part of you wanted to ignore it. Just one afternoon to fall apart in peace before he got home.

But you couldn’t do that to him. He’d assume the worst. And deep down, beneath the pride and numbness and hollowed-out shell of composure, you needed him.

You answered before you could talk yourself out of it. “Hey.”

His voice filled the line instantly, low and concerned, threaded with something you couldn’t quite place. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”

The elevator hummed. You blinked at the numbers counting up.  “Yeah. I’m fine. Just working away.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just enough. “You sure? I just got a ping that you're heading home.”

You closed your eyes. The location sharing. You’d forgotten.

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sigh. “Right. Forgot about that.”

Another beat. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. You could already feel the gears turning in that tactical brain of his. Congressman Barnes was too practiced at listening for what wasn’t said.

Your voice came quieter this time. “I didn’t want to bother you. I know you had meetings.”

“Fuck the meetings.” His voice was steady, but sharp at the edges. You knew that tone. It meant he’d already cleared the next hour in his head. Maybe more. “I’ve been looking at numbers all day, trying to keep the country from gutting itself from the inside. I can handle hearing about you.”

The elevator chimed.

You stepped into the hallway, box still in your arms. Your feet moved automatically toward the apartment, but your throat felt too tight for words.

You fumbled with your keys as you unlocked the door and stepped over the threshold, nudging the door shut with your hip. The box hit the entryway console with a muted thud. The place smelled like laundry and cedar. Lived-in. Safe. Familiar. It made the pressure in your chest worse.

You still hadn’t said anything.

On the other end of the line, Bucky was quiet. You could hear the soft rustle of fabric, maybe his jacket coming off, maybe him turning away from whoever had been in the room with him before he called.

You imagined him pacing. You always imagined him pacing when he was on the phone, voice low, body tense, like he was preparing to go somewhere he didn’t want to be sent.

But this time, it sounded like he stayed still.

“You in the apartment?” he asked, gentler now. Voice like smooth stone, worn down but solid. It hadn’t lost its edge—never would—but he’d learned how to make it softer for you.

You swallowed. Took off your shoes. Left them at the door like always. “Yeah.”

Another pause. A small one. But he filled it with something else.

“You want me to come home?”

He didn’t mean should I? He meant say the word. And he would. No matter what it cost him.

You set your phone on speaker and leaned against the hallway wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. There was a hum behind your eyes, something sharp and wrong and rising. You pressed your thumb into your palm to push it down.

“No,” you said, and your voice was too calm. Too normal. “It’s fine. I just… it’s been a long day.”

You didn’t lie. Not exactly. You just left out the part where your whole life collapsed by 10:23 AM.

Bucky let out a slow breath. Not frustrated. Measured. Calculated. You’d been with him long enough to know what it meant: he was shifting gears. Moving from partner to tactician.

“Okay,” he said, voice like he was drawing a circle in the sand. “Then tell me where it hurts.”

The words struck somewhere you weren’t ready for. You pushed off the wall, trying to shake it. Walked into the kitchen like a sleepwalker. The box on the console stayed behind, unopened. You reached for a glass, filled it halfway, set it down without drinking.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky said, softer now, like he could feel you slipping through the cracks. “I know that silence. It’s the same one I used to make when they told me to smile for the cameras after a mission that went sideways.”

You gripped the edge of the counter.

“You gonna tell me, or do I need to start guessing?”

A beat. Then another. Then—

“I got laid off.” You said it like it was someone else’s line. Like maybe, if you delivered it right, it wouldn’t hit as hard.

The silence on the other end wasn’t empty. It was bracing. Controlled.

You heard the creak of his chair, the familiar click of his pen—he always had one in meetings—and then a low murmur of “I need another five,” before something muffled, like his hand covered the receiver. When he came back, his voice was clear. Focused.

“Who else?”

You let out a breath. “Eleven others. My whole team, basically.”

He didn’t answer right away. You knew he was cataloguing names, positions, likely budget justifications, probably already considering who he could call at the Department of Labor or the industry oversight committee or someone else who owed him a favor.

“I got severance,” you said, quickly, defensively, like it helped. “Technically generous. Still felt like hush money.”

The words caught in your throat.

You finally drank the water. It didn’t help.

“I didn’t even cry,” you added. “I just—kept moving. Like I didn’t know what else to do. I still don’t.”

A pause. Not silence this time—just space, careful and reverent.

Then: “You don’t have to cry to be grieving.”

You closed your eyes. That hum behind your eyes got louder.

Bucky didn’t speak again until you opened the fridge and stared into it like the answers might be between the condiments.

“Where are you?” he asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“In the apartment. Where are you?”

You turned your head. “Kitchen.”

“Go to the couch.”

You furrowed your brow. “Why?”

“Just—trust me.”

You obeyed. Crossed the room slowly, still on speaker, your socked feet soundless against the hardwood. You sank into the cushions like they might swallow you.

“Now put the phone next to you.”

You did.

There was a pause. Something shuffled on his end—a chair leg scraping back, paper rustling. Then his voice again, a little lower, like he was ducking out of a room to speak freely.

“You remember that movie you made me watch when we first moved in together? The black-and-white one with the awful ADR and the detective who couldn’t light a cigarette without monologuing about the death of America?”

Your brows furrowed. “You hated that one.”

“Yeah,” he said, a small smirk threading into his tone. “But you didn’t. You watched it every year in college like it was sacred. Said it reminded you of your dad.”

You blinked hard. That one hadn’t come up in years. Wasn’t on any major streaming platforms, hadn’t been rerun on cable in a decade

"Turn on the TV," he said. "Channel 77."

You frowned. “That still exists?”

“Just do it. I paid an absurd amount for something I knew you’d need someday.”

You found the remote. Turned it on. Changed the channel. And there it was—grainy and perfect: the ridiculous old comfort movie you hadn’t seen in years. A cult classic you only ever caught on cable during odd holiday marathons.

He continued. “Watch it for me. I’m finishing up here and heading home. Hour, tops.”

You choked on something halfway between a breath and a laugh.

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause. A meaningful one.

Then, gently: “I love you.”

He said it like he’d meant to say it earlier but waited for the right opening. Not to fill the silence. To anchor you in it.

“I know you’re bleeding out and trying to keep it clean, but I’ll be home soon.”

The call ended before you could answer.

You stared at the TV for a long moment before setting the remote down. The old movie played, voices echoing across the room, lighting flickering over the walls like a memory that wasn’t yours.

Fifteen minutes passed. Maybe twenty. You didn’t time it. Long enough for you to forget to pretend it was helping.

Your eyes slid to the console table.

The box still sat there like it was waiting to be opened. You stared at it long enough for the weight in your chest to shift, not soften, but harden. Like sediment packing in over something rotting.

You stood, walked over, and dragged it back with you to the couch. Set it on the coffee table like a corpse on a slab.

The top flaps peeled back with a soft cardboard groan.

The cracked mug that said Running on Coffee & Deadlines in peeling gold foil stared back at you. A folded Post-it from one of your team’s interns that said You’re a badass, even when you’re scary. You smiled at that. Briefly.

Then the plaque.

It was black glass, polished, heavy. Executive Director of Strategic Communications. Your misspelled name etched in chrome. The year below it. Last year. They gave it to you at the holiday party—the one where they ran out of vegetarian appetizers and the CFO got wine-drunk and called you “the most brilliant investment they’d ever made.”

You turned it over in your hands.

All that time. All those extra hours. All that advocacy and damage control. All that pressure to be perfect and unshakeable and sharp enough to slice through a room of hedge funders—

Gone. With one fifteen minute meeting.

Your hands shook.

You’d kept it on the edge of your desk. Told yourself you didn’t care about it. That it was meaningless, just corporate flattery. But you did care. You always had. It had meant something when you still believed they saw you.

Your hand curled around the edges of the plaque before you could stop yourself.

Then you stood. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think.

And threw it with all your might.

It hit the wall with a sickening thud, dented the drywall next to the bookshelf, and landed with a hollow clack on the floor.

It didn’t break. Of course it didn’t. Nothing ever broke when you needed it to.

You stood there, breathing hard, eyes on the dent like you could fill it with all the things you hadn’t said or felt today.

The apartment went quiet again, the movie still playing, absurd in its old, easy rhythm. And you—

You sank to the floor.

Knees drawn in, back to the couch, palms over your eyes, not crying, not screaming—just holding it all in like if you let go for even a second, you might never stop.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that until you heard the front door lock click.

You didn’t move.

The door opened—not fast, not loud. Bucky never slammed things. You used to think it was discipline. Later, you realized it was because he’d spent too many years in places where loud noises meant someone was about to die.

Keys landed on the dish by the door. A coat rustled. Then silence.

You could feel him clock the room without saying a word. The TV still on. The box open on the coffee table. The plaque face down on the floor beside a fist-sized crater in the drywall. His shoes tapped once against the wood, then stopped.

And then his voice.

Quiet. Not tentative—just low, like it was meant for you and only you.

“…Sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your throat felt like it had been sewn shut with wire.

His footsteps moved toward you—slow, intentional. Not rushing to fix, not trying to soothe with some half-assed solution. 

He crouched, knees cracking the way they always did. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the weight of his stare.

He looked at the dent in the wall. Let out a breath through his nose.

“That yours?”

You nodded.

“Good,” he said simply, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. The way he did when giving testimony. When he needed his voice to carry without raising it.

“I don’t know what they said to you,” he started. “Or how they packaged it. But whatever it was, they were wrong. About all of it.”

Your eyes burned.

Still, you didn’t speak. But something in your silence must’ve shifted, because he went on.

“You weren’t just a name on some spreadsheet. A line item with a cost and no name. And whatever story they told themselves to make this easier—it wasn’t the truth.”

Your head tilted toward him. Not all the way. Just a sliver.

His profile was sharp in the low light, jaw tense, a small crease between his brows. His tie was loose. His sleeves rolled. There was a smear of ink on his knuckle—always writing notes on policy briefs because he didn’t trust anyone to summarize it right.

“I had to let six hundred people go last year,” he said, voice flat, like he hated the memory. “Budget vote came down to the wire. We lost the majority by three. I signed my name on that sheet, and I still hear about it every goddamn day. So when I tell you I know what just got taken from you—I’m not guessing.”

That hit something deeper than pity.

It was understanding. It was guilt. It was the knowledge of being complicit in a system that chews people up with a smile.

A beat. Silence washed over both of you and you had no idea how to break it.

“I was going to make dinner tonight,” Bucky said finally, voice low. “Figured I’d roast something. Those weird little potatoes you like that look like meteorites.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“That’s plan A,” he said. “Plan B is ordering that soup from the place with the cranky owner who only likes you.”

Still nothing. But your breathing had shifted. Not easier, exactly. Just... not locked.

He nodded slightly, like he saw it. Like that was enough to keep going.

“I was halfway through writing a speech when I got your call,” he said. “It was garbage anyway. Full of shit I didn’t believe. Something about economic resilience and market elasticity.” A pause. “Didn’t feel right saying any of it when I knew what happened to you today.”

You finally dropped your hands.

Looked at him through the mess of your hair.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t fill the air. Just held your gaze.

And said, quietly, “You want me to shut up?”

Your throat moved, but no sound came out. You tried again.

“I don’t know what I want,” you said.

And then the words didn’t stop.

“I—I keep thinking I should fine, like I’ve got it handled, like I could’ve come home and maybe made lunch and sent a few resumes and be normal about it. And then I blink and I’m back in that conference room, listening to them say my name like it was some kind of casualty report, and they were so calm—like they weren’t cutting off my fucking life.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, a split—hairline at first, then deeper.

“And I just—” You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “I just sat there. Like a fucking robot. Nodding. Saying thank you. Like it wasn’t a...a betrayal.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loudly. Just let it come.

“I gave everything,” you said, the words rough now, bitten off. “I carried entire quarters on my back. I did shit outside my job description, covered for three goddamn execs who couldn’t even use Excel, and when they announced it? They didn’t even look me in the eye. They just—” You stopped. Inhaled sharply. “They just moved on.”

The silence was trembling now, taut and dense.

“And I was so quiet. I didn’t yell, didn’t argue, didn’t slam anything, didn’t even fucking cry. I walked out with my shit in a box like I was carrying groceries. I smiled at the receptionist.”

Your breath started stuttering. “I smiled at her, Bucky. Like it was any other Tuesday.”

He moved only when your shoulders began to fold in on themselves.

You reached for him—without even thinking and he was there in half a second.

He shifted off the floor and onto the couch with practiced precision. Strong hands slid around you and pulled you into his lap like he’d done it a thousand times before. 

You curled in, knees to chest, arms around his shoulders, face buried against his collar. The tears came quietly at first. Then harder. Ugly. Messy. Full-body sobs that cracked through you like ice fracturing under pressure.

Bucky’s arms locked around you. His hand just moved slowly up and down your back, his breath calm against your temple, anchoring.

When your fingers tangled in his shirt, tight, needing something to hold, he pressed a kiss just above your ear. 

“I know,” he murmured, so low it barely registered above your breathing. “I know, sweetheart.”

You felt the vibration of his voice in his chest, deep under your cheek.

“They used you,” he said after a long moment. “And they made you thank them for it.”

Your jaw clenched.

“But you don’t owe them your silence. Or your composure.”

The tears didn’t stop, but they changed—less desperate, more raw. The kind that came from somewhere older, deeper.

His hand never left your back.

“You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re grieving. This is grief. Don’t let some bullshit job title make you think otherwise.”

You nodded, barely, into his shoulder.

“And when you’re ready,” he added, “we’ll figure out what comes next. But tonight, I want you to cry. And don’t apologize for it.”

The room settled.

Muted movie light flickered over the walls, casting long shadows over the plaque on the floor, the box on the table, the dent in the drywall. The apartment smelled faintly of the rain Bucky had brought in on his coat and the ghost of whatever candle you'd burned two nights ago.

He didn’t say anything else. Neither did you.

────────────────────────

It had been fifteen days since the layoff.

Bucky had told you to take three before even thinking about resumes. You took two and a half. On the third, you sat in your bathrobe on the floor of the living room with a legal pad and a half-full mug of lukewarm tea, staring down a LinkedIn profile you suddenly hated.

By the end of the week, you’d rewritten your bio twice, drafted seven different versions of a cover letter, and called an old mentor from your consulting days who immediately offered to “loop you in on something interesting, if you're open to contracting.”

You were. You said yes. You hated that you said yes.

Your friend, loud and sunlit as ever, called mid-morning to ramble for forty minutes about how this was the universe giving you a reset. You listened. You nodded along. You agreed. You hung up and took a shower that felt like scrubbing off someone else's skin.

You met one of your old team members for coffee the next day—Tasha, the one who used to bring in pastries on Fridays and kept a rubber duck on her monitor for stress. She looked shell-shocked. You tried not to mirror it. You talked about rebranding your resumes. You said “next chapter” out loud. You didn’t mean it.

The days blurred. You stayed in the apartment. Sent out applications. Sat on Zoom calls with recruiters who wanted “rockstars” and “scrappy problem-solvers.” You answered politely. Laughed when appropriate. Said “pivot” once and hated yourself for it. 

​​You had gotten good at saying “thank you” in just the right tone—grateful but composed. A tone that didn’t invite follow-up questions. A tone that didn’t give away that it had been three days since you’d felt genuinely hungry and five since you’d had the energy to wash your hair before noon.

Most days, Bucky was gone before the sun fully cleared the skyline. Suits. Briefings. Committee meetings that ran long and calls with aides that ran longer. He’d offered to stay that first week. Just a few days. Just long enough to help you find your feet. You’d told him no.

Go, you’d said. The country’s still a mess.

You’d meant it. Mostly.

He didn’t push. Just kissed your temple and left you with a printed-out sheet of every contact he trusted in the private sector, his own notes in the margins. His writing was always in all caps—blocky, mechanical, a habit leftover from another life.

He brought home dinner twice that first week. Once, he left a sticky note on the fridge that said Take the day. No saving the world before noon. You kept it, tucked behind the pepper grinder like a talisman.

But tonight was different.

You’d spent the day cleaning. Not surface-level. Deep. Like purging. You’d taken apart the spice rack. Washed the windows. Organized the cutlery drawer by use-case instead of type.

And you cooked. Actual cooking. Roasted vegetables with rosemary, seared halibut, folded linen napkins like it was 1997 and you were hosting a dinner party for your thesis advisor.

The table was set by seven. Bucky’s ETA was 7:30.

By 7:40, you’d refreshed your lipstick, tucked your hair behind one ear, and adjusted the placement of the water glasses four separate times.

At 7:53, the front door opened.

You didn’t look up from the stove until you heard his briefcase hit the bench.

“Hey!” you called, too bright. “You’re late. Thought I was gonna have to start without you.”

Bucky stepped into view like he’d been watching before entering the room. His tie was already loosened. His eyes scanned everything—table, kitchen, you—without saying a word.

You turned around and wiped your hands on a dish towel.

“I know you’ve had a brutal week, so I figured—why not give you a night off? Right? Halibut’s from that weird little place in Union Market, and I did the sweet potato thing you like with the crisp edges—”

“Sit down,” he said.

You blinked.

“What?”

He was already toeing off his shoes. His jacket came off next, folded neatly over his arm. His eyes never left you.

“Bucky, seriously, the fish—”

He set his jacket down slowly. “Sweetheart,” he said again, gentler now. “Please sit.”

You laughed. Too quickly. “I’m not—there’s still—just let me check the—”

He moved across the room and gently took the wooden spoon out of your hand that you hadn’t even realized you’d picked up.

“Baby, I’m not mad,” he said. “But I need you to sit down.”

You opened your mouth to argue—then stopped.

Something in his tone cut clean through your manic momentum. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even stern. But it was final. Grounded. Like he was reaching out without lifting a hand.

You sat slowly, the chair creaking beneath you like it knew you weren’t meant to be still.

He stood by the table, eyes scanning you—every inch. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just… tracking. Breathing. Shoulders. Pupils. He was reading your heart rate like he used to read intel reports.

“You’ve been pacing all week,” he said, finally. “Rewriting the same sentence on your cover letter. Pretending to get calls that don’t come in or don’t work out.”

You looked away.

“Every time I come home, the house smells like stress-baking. You’ve cleaned the grout. Twice.”

You let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been something else.

“I know what this is,” he said. “I’ve lived this.”

You gripped the edge of the table.

“I’m fine,” you said. Too fast. Too loud.

Bucky didn’t blink.

“I don’t need you to be fine,” he said. “I need you to be real.”

Silence. Full and sharp and fragile.

“I just…” Your voice cracked. “I don’t want to make this harder for you. You already have a thousand fires to put out. You shouldn’t have to come home to another one.”

Bucky stepped closer. Pulled out the chair across from you. Sat.

And then—very quietly:

“You are not a fire.”

You didn’t move. He went on.

“You are not damage control. You’re not debris. You’re the part I come home for.”

You stared down at the table. Your vision blurred slightly. The napkin you’d folded with such care looked ridiculous now. Like a failed origami swan.

Bucky’s chair creaked softly as he shifted forward, forearms braced on his knees. His voice dropped again—not soft, but serious. Measured. Like he was giving testimony under oath.

“The last few nights,” he said, “I’ve walked into this apartment and thought—if I didn’t know you, if I hadn’t been here before, I might think everything was perfect.”

You swallowed hard.

He continued. “The sink’s empty. The counters shine. There’s music playing, or candles lit. There’s dinner on the stove. And you’re smiling. Too easily.”

You said nothing. He wasn’t finished.

“You used to sit at this table in your blazer with one sleeve half-off, eating cereal straight from the box while reviewing contract language on your phone. You used to leave shoes by the couch, papers in piles on the armrest. Sometimes I’d come home and the fridge would be open while you were standing in it, mumbling about how hummus wasn’t dinner but it was going to have to be.”

Your mouth twitched. Barely. The memory hurt.

“And the nights we both got off late?” He leaned back now, eyes locked on yours. “You’d climb into my lap on the balcony with some takeout container balanced on your thigh, feeding me noodles while I cursed out the national debt.”

A silence passed.

Then he added, low: “You haven’t sat on the balcony once with me.”

You looked away.

“I thought I was making it easier,” you said, voice small.

“I know,” he said. “And if I didn’t know you—really know you—I might’ve believed it.”

You turned your face toward him, throat tight. “So what, I’m supposed to unravel every time you walk through the door? Is that what you want?”

“No,” he said immediately. “What I want is you. As you are. Not the cleaned-up version. Not the curated one. The you that texts me from the produce aisle because you can’t remember if I hate fennel. The one that eats half the cookie dough before it hits the oven. The one that kicks my leg under the table when I say something too sharp at dinner.”

You exhaled slowly. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was heavy. Real.

“Everything’s changed,” you whispered. “And I don’t know how to be… that version of me when I don’t know who I am right now.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t flinch from it.

“I know,” he said. “But you don’t have to pretend for me. You don’t have to polish the wreckage.”

You blinked hard.

“I just hate this,” you said. “I hate being the person who has to rebuild. Again. I hate that I keep waking up and reaching for a job I don’t have. I hate that I’m scared to open my email.”

“I know.”

“And I hate that you come home from fighting battles on the floor of Congress just to walk into mine.”

That one caught in your throat.

But Bucky leaned forward, hands resting on the table, palms up.

“I walked into your life,” he said. “I chose this. All of it. That doesn’t stop just because you’re in the middle of something ugly.”

You hesitated. Then reached for his hands. Held them. Grounded yourself in the rough skin and metal of his fingers, the callouses that never smoothed out no matter how long it had been since he wore a weapon instead of a suit.

He brushed his thumb over the back of your knuckle.

“I miss you,” he said quietly. “I miss the noise you made. The mess. I even miss your terrifying work voice at two in the morning.”

You let out a breath. It wasn’t quite a laugh. But it was something.

Then, still holding his hands, you asked, “And if I can’t find that again? That version of me?”

Bucky didn’t blink.

“Then I’ll love whoever shows up in your place.”

You looked at him for a long moment. Really looked.

He hadn’t shaved this morning—not that you minded. He looked older than when he left this morning. But grounded. Like granite under pressure.

“You know,” you said slowly, “there was a part of me that thought I’d like it.”

His brow lifted just slightly. “Like what?”

“This.” You gestured loosely around the room. The candles. The table set for two. “Being… domestic. Being home. Making dinner. Letting you come in from the cold to something soft.”

He didn’t speak, just listened.

“I mean, I know it’s bullshit—romanticized, gendered, all of that. But there was a version of me that thought maybe I could be good at it. That it might be… easy. To just love you. And build a life around that.”

Still, he waited.

“But I didn’t build a life for that. I built it around… impact. Movement. Purpose. And now I don’t have any of that, so maybe I’ve been trying to fake this version instead.”

You pressed your palm against his where it still rested on the table.

“It’s not that I don’t love cooking for you,” you added. “It’s that it feels like a performance. Like I’m trying to fill the silence with something that feels like effort.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, then leaned back slightly, thumb grazing over your wrist again.

“You know I was raised in a world where this—what you’re describing—was the dream, right?”

You gave a breath of a laugh. “I know. The apron, the dinner, the lipstick, the whole thing.”

He nodded. “Except no one ever asked what the other person wanted. That part got left out.”

You met his eyes. They were steady. Warm.

“I come home to you in the kitchen,” he said, “and I see everything I was taught to want—but it only works if it’s real. Not a placeholder. Not a coping strategy. I see you in front of the stove with the sleeves of your sweater pushed up and your hair clipped back and yeah, sweetheart, I want to put my hands on your hips and press you into the counter and thank you properly—”

That caught you off guard. A shiver moved through you.

“—but only if you want to be there. Not because you think you should be. Not because you’re afraid I’ll love you less if that’s not what you want.”

The air between you buzzed. Not with tension exactly—more like intimacy stretched thin, nerves drawn to the surface.

“I’d marry you tomorrow if you told me this is what you wanted,” he said. “Barefoot in the kitchen, waiting for me to come home. I’d buy you a cottage and keep the whole damn world outside the door. But only if it’s your choice.”

You swallowed hard.

“I don’t think I want to be barefoot in the kitchen,” you murmured.

“Good,” he said. “Then put on some boots and meet me at the barricades instead.”

That earned a quiet smile from you. A real one this time.

“You’re so dramatic.”

He grinned. “Pot, kettle.”

Then quieter. “But I meant it. You come first. Not the illusion. Not the optics. Not even me.”

You looked down at your joined hands, the warmth of his thumb still moving slow and absent over your skin.

The quiet settled between you again—not awkward, just... full. Like both of you knew not to rush it.

Bucky shifted in his seat. His thumb tapped once against your wrist. A beat. Then twice.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked.

You glanced at him sideways. “I think that’s allowed.”

He didn’t smile. Not this time.

“I didn’t want to bring this up until I knew it was real,” he said. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d want me involved at all.”

You tensed just slightly, the way you always did when you could feel him steering toward something delicate.

“But a buddy of mine—DA’s office—he’s been looking for someone. Not in the spotlight, not high pressure. Strategic advisory, internal communications kind of thing. Policy-to-practice translation. It’s not a headline job, but it matters. And it’s cleaner work. Less ego.”

Your brow lifted slowly. “You…You sent my resume somewhere?”

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish now, but still composed. “I told him to hold off on posting the job. Told him I might have the right person already. I sent over your resume yesterday morning.”

You blinked.

“He said he wants to talk to you. Was impressed, actually. Said it was refreshing to see someone who’d clearly done more than just ‘manage workflows.’”

You stared at him, trying to piece together your reaction.

“I’m sorry if that overstepped,” he added quickly. “I didn’t want to do anything that made you feel like I was pulling strings. I just… wanted to open a door. If you want it.”

Your chest tightened—not with dread, but something quieter. Something raw.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we close it,” he said simply. “And we find another one. Or we don’t. You don’t owe the world your productivity, sweetheart. But if you want something to keep your hands busy while you figure out what comes next—this might be a good one.”

You nodded, slowly.

“And,” he said, “before you get any ideas about diving in immediately, I already made a deal with him.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of deal?”

“If it all works out, he'll hold the spot. For two weeks.”

You frowned. “Why?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, that little smirk finally returning. “Because I’m taking you on vacation.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Two weeks. Off the grid. On a beach, somewhere tropical. I already cleared it. They can manage without me.”

“Bucky, you can’t just—”

“They’ll survive,” he said, shrugging. “The Senate floor has enough bad ideas floating around. They don’t need mine for a few days.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, legs still tucked under the dining chair, one hand braced against the edge of the table like you needed to steady yourself. “You say that like it’s nothing.”

Bucky didn’t reply. Just looked at you.

Something in his expression shifted—something darker, slower, older than his years and far older than his title.

He dragged his chair back an inch. Stood.

You watched him round the table, deliberate and unhurried, the fingers of his right hand trailing across the wood, slow as gravity. His tie hung loose, shirt sleeves still rolled, that half-wild look in his eyes when he wasn’t hiding behind podiums or camera lenses. The version of him no one else got to see.

He stopped at your side.

You tipped your head back to look at him.

Bucky reached down and hooked two fingers under your chin. Tilted your face up gently. His eyes scanned your face like he was checking for bruises no one could see.

“I don’t care if it’s nothing,” he said. “I’m doing it anyway.”

You swallowed, heat sparking low in your stomach.

“I need you out of this apartment. Out of your own head. I need to see you tan and lazy and smiling at me like I haven’t earned it.”

You blinked once, slow. “That’s specific.”

“I’ve been thinking about it since Monday,” he murmured. “Since I walked in and you had that damn jazz playlist on, practicing interview lines, and your shoulders were so tense you didn’t even hear me come in.”

His hand slid down, knuckles grazing your jaw, then your neck. 

“And now?” you asked, voice quieter, throat tight.

“Now I want to take you to a place with terrible cell service and white sheets and sun-warmed floors.” His thumb brushed over your collarbone like punctuation. “And I want you there. Not this version that’s breaking yourself trying to keep the shine on.”

You shivered.

His hand ghosted down to your shoulder, curling in the edge of your sleeve. “I want you soft. A little selfish. Unapologetic.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“I want you in a bikini I’ll pretend I hate because other people can see you in it, stretched out with sunglasses on, pretending you don’t see me staring.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”

“And at night?” he murmured, finally stepping closer, between your legs where you sat. “I want you wrecked. Sweet and sore and smiling into my mouth. No alarms. No worries. No job titles. Just you.”

Your fingers curled around the back of his thigh, anchoring.

“You’ve been thinking about this since Monday?” you asked, breathless now.

He bent, slow and sure, lips brushing your ear. “Since the second I saw you in that oversized T-shirt, chopping garlic like it had personally wronged you.”

A sound caught in your throat—half a laugh, half a moan.

His hand slid lower, resting warm against your ribcage. “Can I kiss you now, or do I need to write it into a bill first?”

You didn’t answer. Just reached up, fisting your hand around his tie and pulling.

His mouth met yours hard, no preamble now, just hunger, teeth grazing lips, breath mingling like you’d been starved for weeks instead of minutes. His hands bracketed your thighs, squeezing once, then sliding up under your sweater with reverent desperation. Calloused palms and cold metal over soft skin, tracing familiar paths like he had to make sure you were still real. That there was still something solid under all that hollow.

Your thighs tightened around him instinctively. Your chair rocked just slightly on its legs.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to laugh.

But you just clung to him, breathing like you’d just surfaced from deep water.

“Fuck,” you whispered against his mouth, lips parting as he bit gently at your bottom lip. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His grip tightened.

You didn’t mean to say it. It just spilled out—too fast, too raw, like everything else inside you lately. He kissed you deeper, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he needed to taste every syllable.

Your chest heaved. Not from the kiss. Not just from the heat building between your thighs. But because it was true. You didn’t know where you’d be without the sound of his voice at the end of that awful day, or the solid weight of his hands on your body now, reminding you you were still here, still wanted, still real.

One of his hands slid down—curved beneath your thigh—and you were being lifted, carried with alarming ease and precision as he stepped backward toward the counter, setting you down on the edge.

You barely registered the motion. Your legs opened instinctively, wrapping around his waist as your fingers slipped into the open collar of his shirt, nails dragging just enough to make him groan low in his throat.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your jaw, lips trailing toward the hollow beneath your ear. “You hear me?”

You nodded, breath catching. “I know,” you whispered. It was almost a sob.

You pulled at his shirt like it offended you. Buttons slipped, fabric loosened, his chest warm beneath your palms. Your hands mapped him by memory—scar to scar, tendon to tendon, something greedy inside you clawing its way to the surface.

You didn’t feel like the broken version of yourself in this moment.

You felt alive.

He broke from your mouth only long enough to drag his lips down your jaw, then your neck—slow, deliberate, open-mouthed kisses that felt more like claims than anything sweet. His teeth grazed just under your ear.

You shuddered, breathless. “I meant it, Buck—”

He hushed you with his mouth again, kissing the words off your tongue like he didn’t want you to finish the thought.

His hands slid under your thighs again, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter until your hips met, flush and urgent, his belt pressing between your legs in a way that made your breath hitch and your nails curl against his back. He grunted softly at the feel of you rocking into him, like he’d been waiting for that exact pressure all damn week.

You tilted your head back as his mouth returned to your throat, tongue dragging slow over the flutter of your pulse before his teeth caught skin just hard enough to make you gasp.

Your fingers scrambled against his belt but he caught your wrists gently, breath ragged against your collar. “Hey.”

You blinked, chest heaving, lips parted. “What?”

“Not rushing this,” he murmured, voice like rough velvet. “I want you to feel every second of this. Every inch. Don’t want you looking back on tonight and wondering if it was just a distraction.”

You stared at him, momentarily stunned still. “You think I’m—”

“I think you’ve been through hell,” he said, softer now, forehead tipping to rest against yours. “And I think you’re holding yourself together with spit and twine, and I don’t want to be the one who makes you feel like you still have to perform for me.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m not performing.”

You kissed him again, this time slow, desperate, lips moving like an apology and a thank you all at once. His hands gripped your hips tighter. His body slotted between your knees like he belonged there—and fuck, he did.

You shifted again, friction hot and maddening, dragging a moan from deep in his throat as your pelvis rocked forward, grinding once—twice—into the rough line of his zipper.

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Hair mussed, pupils blown wide, mouth kiss-swollen and flushed. 

You smirked—just barely—and dragged your fingers up the back of his neck, into his hair, tugging until he cursed under his breath and pressed forward again.

Your head tilted as his mouth found your collarbone. One of your legs wrapped tighter around his hip.

The timer on the oven went off. A quiet chime this time. Then—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You both froze, looked toward the oven, barely breathing.

“Is that—”

Bucky leaned back, squinting at the smoke curling near the ceiling. “Oh, shit.”

The fire alarm blared to life a second later.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You scrambled upright, breathless and laughing, because of course. Of course the fire alarm would go off now, when your sweater was rucked up around your ribs and Bucky’s tie had hit the floor somewhere behind him.

He grabbed a dish towel on autopilot, waving it toward the ceiling, muttering something distinctly un-Senatorial under his breath.

You flung open a window, yanking the oven open with the other hand as a puff of dramatic steam poured out like the grand finale of a tragic little opera.

“Goddamn fish,” you muttered, squinting inside.

It was blackened. Not ruined. Just a little too far gone to pretend everything was under control.

You shut the oven, turning it off, and leaned back against the counter, arms limp, heartbeat still thudding somewhere in your throat.

Bucky stood across the kitchen, waving smoke out the window now, eyes cutting toward you in the low light.

And you—still flushed, lips kissed raw, sweater crooked off one shoulder—just looked at him.

Your life had imploded fifteen days ago.

And yet, here he was. Shaking out a smoke cloud like it was just another day. Eyes burning with want. Shirt half-open, hair mussed, looking at you like you were the thing keeping him sane.

You felt the ache of it—all of it.

How empty you’d been walking out of that office. How fucking shameful it had felt, carrying a box full of fragments, wondering what it meant about who you were now. How easy it would’ve been to crumble under the weight of it—how alone you had felt, even in a room full of other people laid off beside you.

But then there was him.

This man who would take time off the Senate floor just to drive you somewhere with bad cell service and good light. This man who didn’t try to fix it, didn’t say it would be okay, just stayed—stayed and made you feel okay.

And right now?

Right now he was watching you like he didn’t care if the whole city went up in flames, so long as he got to have you first.

“You’re gonna make me finish this night with takeout, aren’t you,” you said, voice low and wrecked.

He gave you that smirk—lazy, crooked, deeply indecent.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, finally tossing the dish towel onto the counter. “You’re not finishing anything until I say so.”

The alarm finally cut off.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was alive.

And Bucky—tie gone, shirt slipping off his shoulder, breath shallow—crossed the kitchen in two long strides and hauled you in again like he couldn’t stay away any longer.

He kissed you like a promise. Like grounding. Like he knew exactly how close you’d come to splintering.

You clung to him like he was the only thing that hadn’t slipped through your fingers.

Because maybe he was.

And whatever came next, whatever new job or fresh failure or long stretch of silence waited on the other side of this moment, you knew one thing:

You weren’t going through it alone.

His mouth brushed yours again, softer now, and then he whispered against your lips, “You still hungry?”

Your smile broke through—slow, shaky, a little dangerous. “Not for dinner.”

This time, you didn’t make it past the hallway.

I've been thinking a lot about how once you ascend him about how once pure emotions get twisted by undeath. How love turns to hungry obsession (think Strahd and Tatyana). Even if you leave him, even after he coldly spouts cruel words at you in response, admits how he would have twisted your love for him (he def would). I couldn't help but think "is it really over? Just like that?", I get the sinking suspicion that it's not really over. Especially after he says you will regret leaving him so bitterly. Maybe he'll give you a couple of years of freedom, but in the end he will come for you.