lonelyl00n

You don’t understand why you know his name. Why you know that if you could reach out and touch him, the skin of his hand would be rough from work and the softness behind his eyes would be just for you.

But you’re eight. You just know this is important. You just know this is yours.

You spend that first night trailing behind him like a shadow. Watching him steal bread from a windowsill and give all of it to Steve. Watching him charm a girl behind the soda counter and then turn around and share the free candy with the skinny kid at his side. Watching him sit on a tenement rooftop and lean back on his elbows, staring at a sky full of city light and smoke, somewhere in Brooklyn.

You wake up smiling. Head full of his laugh. Heart full of the way he tipped his head back and told a joke you can’t quite remember.``

The next night, you dream of him again.

And again. And again.

At school, kids whisper in corners, swapping stories about their own soulmate dreams. The girl who sees a boy in Seoul practicing violin on a rooftop. The boy who watches his soulmate paint murals across brick walls in São Paulo. They talk about first kisses in borrowed bodies, about the way it feels when their soulmate looks into a mirror and for one breath you see their face and yours overlap like a promise.

You stay quiet.

You don’t tell them that your soulmate is older than you. That instead of fumbling through middle school with you, he’s out there in the world, already grown. You don’t tell them that every night you lay your head down, you wake up in the 1940s—the clothes, the cars, the ration lines, the war posters peeling on brick.

You don’t tell them that your soulmate signs a piece of paper and becomes a soldier.

You don’t tell them how, the night he ships out, you wake up in his skin.

It happens without warning. You go to sleep in your own bed—a little bigger, a little more lonely than it was when you were eight—and your eyes open into blinding sunlight. You’re on a train platform. Your hand—his hand—is gripping a duffel bag so tight your knuckles ache. Steve is talking, voice breaking, telling you to write. To come back.

You feel your own throat burn when you hear yourself say, “Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back.”

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

You laugh. Except it’s not really a laugh. It’s something torn, something afraid.

You wake up with tears on your face. The world is dark and quiet and the clock on your nightstand says 3:07 am. You press your shaking hands over your mouth and feel the echoes of his goodbye like a bruise.

It takes you three days to stop crying.

You tell yourself this is what soulmate dreams are. Messy. Overwhelming. Beautiful.

You cling to that word—beautiful—for as long as you can.

It carries you through boot camp, through the taste of dirt and the ache of muscles that are not your own. It carries you through Europe, through the first time you watch a body fall because you pulled the trigger.

It lasts right up until the night everything changes.

The night you watch him fall off the train, it feels like your own heart shatters inside your chest.

You wake up screaming. Your own bedroom walls. Your own hands, empty and reaching. Your mother bursts through the door and gathers you up, still half asleep, asking if it was another nightmare, sweetheart?

You can’t breathe.

“He fell,” you choke, words tearing out of you. “He fell, he fell—”

“Who?” she asks gently, like she doesn’t already know. Parents grew up with soulmate dreams too. They know the helpless, distant look that comes with them. The way kids wake up with tears that aren’t quite theirs.

“My soulmate.”

Something in her face folds. She holds you tighter.

“Sometimes,” she says softly, “the timing’s just… the timing’s cruel, baby. It doesn’t mean your story’s over. It just means…”

She trails off, because there’s no good ending to that sentence.

You don’t dream for three days. You can’t decide if that’s mercy or punishment.

On the fourth night, you open your eyes into a cold so vicious you can’t feel your fingers.

Water crushes you from all sides. It burns your lungs. Your body—the one that’s not yours—is thrashing, pulling, dragging itself toward a pinprick of light above while the weight of metal on your arm drags you down.

The scream rips your throat raw. Bubbles burst from your lips and vanish into the icy dark.

You don’t make it to the surface.

When you wake, you taste blood and river silt in the back of your throat. Your bed is soaked with sweat. Your nails have left crescent moons in your palms.

You don’t sleep again until your body gives you no choice.

The next dream isn’t better.

White light. A ceiling blinded by it. A ring of faces leaning over you, mouths moving in a language you can’t quite understand but immediately hate.

A bite of cold against skin as someone presses a scalpel to flesh.

You scream awake again.

Your mother starts taking you to therapists after that.

Most kids, the brochures say, dream of exams and awkward dates and milestones. Your charts fill up with words like recurrent nightmares and secondary trauma and dissociation.

None of it changes the fact that every time you close your eyes, you are dragged back into that room.

Back into that chair.

You learn the cadence of commands in Russian before you ever learn where on a map to put Moscow. Nine unpronounceable words barked like gunfire. Each one a hammer blow. Each one chipping away at a man who used to laugh on rooftops and steal bread for his sick friend.

You watch them strip him down to bones and obedience.

You watch them shock him, carve him, freeze him.

You watch them put a metal arm where flesh used to be.

You watch until the line between what’s his and what’s yours starts to blur around the edges.

You startle when people touch your left arm. You flinch when someone says the word soldier too loudly. You hold your breath when you hear Russian in movies and your heart slams against your ribs like it’s trying to claw free.

You learn how to build walls between your nights and your days, between the girl who smiles and nods and does her homework and the girl who wakes up hoarse from screaming words in a language she shouldn’t know.

You get very good at pretending.

You stay very, very quiet.

Because the first time you tried to explain this to someone—really explain, not just, “I have bad soulmate dreams”—they looked at you like you’d made it up for attention. Like it was impossible that one man could hold that much darkness.

Impossible or not, he lives inside your skull.

And for some reason, you’re still helplessly in love with him.

Your soulmate never dreams of you.

That’s how it’s supposed to work—two lives, two vantage points. Two people growing together in parallel, building a mosaic of each other’s days until, one day, you meet. You’ve lived each other’s memories. You’ve hurt when they hurt and laughed when they laughed. You fit.

Except.

He has never once looked into a mirror and seen your face.

You know because you’ve checked. Every time he’s near a reflective surface, you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering what you’ll look like in that cheap barracks mirror. In the gleam of a Hydra scalpel. In the shine of a shield’s vibranium curve when Captain America bursts into a lab and says his name like a miracle.

You never see your own eyes looking back.

And later—much, much later, when the Soldier with the metal arm stands on a sidewalk in a world full of color television and smartphones and watches Steve drive away—there is a terrible emptiness where your presence should be.

You know he doesn’t dream at all. Not really. Just orders. Missions. A voice in his head telling him to comply.

You lie awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling. Wondering what it was like for him in the 1940s, before you were even born. Before your existence meant he was supposed to have something soft to fall into, a second life to land in when the world got hard.

Did he think his soulmate had died? Did he think he didn’t have one at all?

Did Hydra take that away from him, too?

The questions feel like weights on your chest.

You grow up. You go to college. You study psychology because of course you do. Professors call you insightful. They praise your understanding of trauma. They don’t know you learned it half-asleep on a concrete cell floor.

You watch news footage of Washington, D.C. tearing itself apart—carriers falling out of the sky, smoke boiling up between monuments. You watch a flash of metal and a familiar face with hair that’s now long and wild and eyes that are empty in a way you’ve never seen in your dreams.

You frighten your roommate when you fall to your knees in front of the television and sob like someone stabbed you.

She thinks you’re crying about the city.

You’re crying because your soulmate just dragged Steve Rogers out of a river and collapsed beside him on the mud, and for the first time since that train, you feel something fragile and human slip through the cracks of his programming.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” he says, and you press your face into your hands and whisper, It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.

Later, when footage leaks of him in Bucharest, of governments calling him a terrorist, you shake so hard you spill coffee all over yourself. Your hands don’t stop trembling all day.

By the time word spreads—half rumors, half official—that the Winter Soldier is dead, you’ve gotten very good at breathing around a permanent ache.

He’s not dead, you think stubbornly, even as your therapist gently suggests a new medication.

Because you still dream.

The locations change. The walls switch from damp concrete to smooth wood. The windows open onto African sun instead of Siberian ice.

But he’s alive. You can feel it every night when you close your eyes. You make coffee in a kitchen that smells like earth and greenery and peace while a man with long hair and a beard leans in a doorway and tries to relearn how to be a person.

You’re there when people call him White Wolf as a joke. You’re there when he wakes up screaming and claws at his arm like he wants to rip it off.

You see every tremor, every step forward, every stumble back.

You keep your silence like a promise.

Because there is a tiny, terrified part of you that believes if you ever try to step into his real, waking world—if you look him in the eyes and he doesn’t know you—the last piece of you still holding on will break.

You meet him on a Tuesday.

It’s almost insultingly mundane.

New York sky, too bright. Air full of car horns and overheated asphalt. Your shoes pinching a little because you wore the nicer pair for the interview. The building in front of you is an angular tower of glass and metal that the world knows on sight.

Avengers Tower.

They’d asked you to come in for a consult. Trauma specialist, they said. We have people who need help and don’t trust easy, one of the recruiters had told you over the phone. Your résumé is… unique.

You laughed. If only he knew.

The security check is thorough. The elevator ride is nauseatingly smooth. Your own reflection in the mirrored walls looks small and out of place between the polished chrome and the sleek lighting.

You’re smoothing your hands down your blazer when the doors slide open.

And he’s standing there.

Just standing there, in the hallway, like a dream you didn’t mean to interrupt.

He’s wearing a Henley that clings to shoulders you’ve only ever seen under body armor. His hair is shorter than it was in Wakanda, pulled back into a low knot, a few strands falling loose around his face. The stubble on his jaw is a shade darker than you remember from last night, when he shaved in a small bathroom, the mirror fogging up with steam.

His eyes are the exact same blue they’ve always been.

For a second, you forget how to breathe.

He blinks, clearly not expecting the elevator to open on a stranger. He shifts his weight like he’s considering retreating.

You know every micro-expression in that face.

You know what he looks like when he’s bracing for pain.

You know what he looks like when he’s trying not to hope.

“Uh,” he says finally. “You lost?”

The sound of his voice in the same space as you is… wrong. It vibrates in your ribs like a plucked wire.

You swallow. Realize your fingers are trembling. Clench them into fists.

“I—um. No.” You hold up the visitor badge dangling from your neck. “Here for an interview. Trauma team.”

His eyes flick down. Your name flashes in black letters against your chest, next to the Stark Industries logo.

Something in his gaze sharpens. Not hostile. Just... wary.

You’ve seen that look from behind his eyes. It’s different being on the receiving end.

“Right,” he says slowly. “Right. They mentioned they were bringing in someone new.”

You should leave. You should step out of the elevator, shake his hand, introduce yourself like you don’t already know the shape of his scars, the cadence of his nightmares, the way he curls his fingers when he’s trying not to reach for someone.

Instead you stand there, staring, while your heartbeat hammers in your ears.

He frowns. “Are you okay?”

The question snaps you back like a rubber band.

“I’m fine,” you lie, because what else is there to say? Hey, I’ve watched every second of your life for as long as I can remember, you look good in daylight?

You force your feet to move. You step onto the floor. The elevator closes behind you with a soft whoosh.

You’re close enough now to see the tiny pale lines at the corner of his mouth. The faint shadow of where a scar used to be along his jaw, before Wakanda’s healers smoothed it away.

“Name’s Bucky,” he offers, almost awkwardly, like he’s still getting used to saying it out loud.

I know.

You bite the words down before they can escape.

You offer your own name instead, and he repeats it—your name—in that careful, rough voice, like he’s trying it on his tongue.

You feel the sound all the way through your bones.

You get the job.

Of course you do. You’re good at it. You’ve spent half your life studying trauma and the other half drowning in it. You know how to listen. You know how to sit with silence without flinching away.

You don’t get assigned to Bucky.

You think that’s probably for the best. At least at first.

He’s… there, though. In the halls. In the kitchen at 3 am when you’re both pretending you don’t have insomnia. In the training rooms, working a heavy bag until his chest heaves and sweat darkens his shirt.

You get used to feeling his eyes on you, quick flickers, like he’s cataloguing your presence. You get used to swallowing a dozen confessions every time he looks your way.

You do not get used to the way your whole body hums when he stands too close.

It takes exactly three weeks for everything to crack.

You’re in your office. It’s late. You should have gone home hours ago, but you’re dictating notes for a session and staring blankly at your laptop screen when there’s a knock on the door.

Your heart knows who it is before your eyes do.

“Come in,” you call, somehow sounding normal.

The door opens. Bucky steps in, hovering just inside the threshold like he’s not sure if he’s welcome.

He’s in sweats and a threadbare t-shirt, hair damp from a shower. There’s a tension in his shoulders that sets off every alarm in your body.

You stand up automatically. “Is everything okay?”

He huffs a breath that’s not quite a laugh. “Define ‘okay.’”

You gesture toward the chairs. He doesn’t move.

“I know I’m not on your schedule,” he says. “I’m not… your patient. Or whatever. I just…”

He trails off. His jaw tightens. His metal fingers flex against his thigh, the plates catching the light.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “You can sit. Or not. You can pace if you need to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Bucky.”

His eyes flick to yours. For a moment, something like trust flickers there.

He comes in. Closes the door.

And then he just stands there, breathing hard, like walking from the elevator to your office took more energy than a mission.

You wait.

“I’ve never had dreams,” he says abruptly.

You blink. Your grip tightens on the back of your chair.

He’s staring over your shoulder, somewhere past you, like if he looks at you this will be too much.

“Not the soulmate kind,” he clarifies. “Everybody else did. Back home. Before the war. They’d talk about seein’ their girl, or their guy, or just… faces. Names. Whole lives.”

You knew this. You’ve wondered about it your whole life. Hearing it in his voice feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I kept waitin’,” he continues, words rough. “Figured maybe it’d start late. Or maybe my soulmate was younger. Or maybe…” He swallows. “Maybe I just didn’t have one. Maybe they died. Maybe I did somethin’ wrong before I was even born.”

Your chest aches. “You didn’t,” you say, without thinking. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His gaze snaps to you.

There’s a sharpness there. A warning. A plea.

“You don’t know that,” he says quietly.

I do, you think. I’ve seen you my whole life.

He takes a shaky breath. “Then the war happened. And the train.” His voice stutters on the word. You know the memory he’s stuck on. The rush of air. The scream. The impact. “And then… nothin’. No dreams at all. Just… missions.”

He says the word like it tastes like ash.

“I thought that was it,” he says. “That whatever chance I had at… that kinda thing… it was gone.”

He laughs again, brittle. “Then I get out. Hydra’s gone. I’m in Wakanda, learnin’ how to be a person again. And I start hearin’ about people seein’ my life in their sleep. ‘The Winter Soldier is my soulmate,’” he quotes, in a mocking falsetto that makes something in your stomach twist. “Jokes. Memes. Kids on the internet makin’ content.”

His mouth curls in disgust.

“It’s not funny,” he grits. “There’s nothing—there’s nothin’ funny about any of it. And I know most of it’s bullshit. But I keep thinkin’… if there is somebody out there who had to watch all that—” His breath hitches. “Every time they shut me down. Every time they woke me up. Every time I—”

He cuts himself off. You know the word he’s swallowing.

“Kill,” you say softly.

His jaw clenches. He nods once.

“If there is someone,” he whispers, “if I do have a soulmate… and they saw all that… I don’t know if I want to meet them. I don’t know if I deserve to.”

Your own hands are shaking now.

He looks at you, really looks, and you realize there are tears standing in his eyes. He blinks them away violently, like he doesn’t have the right.

“I came here because…” He trails off. His shoulders slump. “Because I thought maybe talkin’ about it, with someone who knows how this stuff works, would help. Except I feel worse. Because all I can picture is some kid who grew up with my nightmares. Some—some sweet person who maybe just wanted to see their soulmate’s first day of school and instead got strapped into my life like a horror movie they couldn’t turn off.”

His voice breaks.

“And I don’t know how to live with that.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy and humming with something electric.

You could lie.

You could say something clinical. You could talk about vicarious trauma. About how whoever they are, they’re probably fine now. That it wasn’t his fault.

You could stay safely behind your professional distance.

Instead, you take a breath that feels like stepping off another ledge.

“Bucky,” you begin, gently. “Look at me for a second?”

He hesitates, then does.

You step around your desk. You sit in the chair opposite him so you’re on the same level, knees almost touching.

Your heart is beating so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“You’re right,” you say softly. “It’s not funny. At all. And if your soulmate… if they saw what you went through… I’m not going to pretend it didn’t hurt them. It did. It… it does.”

His face crumples, just a little.

“But,” you continue, before he can drown in guilt, “they’re not that kid anymore.”

He swallows. “How would you know?”

“Because,” you say, and your voice shakes, “I’m not a kid anymore.”

The words hang there between you.

For a second, he doesn’t understand.

You watch the moment he does.

His pupils blow wide. His lips part, but no sound comes out. His metal hand curls slowly, fingers digging into his own thigh.

“I—” His throat works. “What?”

You force yourself to hold his gaze.

“I’ve… always had dreams,” you say. “About you. Since I was eight. Brooklyn. Steve. The war. The train.” Your eyes sting. “The water. The lab. The chair. The missions. Wakanda. Here.”

You see his breath stutter. See his jaw go slack. See denial and hope crash together behind his eyes like two waves colliding.

“No,” he whispers. “No, that’s— you can’t—”

“You just told me you came here because you were worried,” you say, gently but firmly. “Because you couldn’t stop thinking about what it must have been like for your soulmate. For me.”

The word lands between you like a thrown knife.

He flinches.

“I thought about telling you earlier,” you admit, voice shaking. “When I first got here. When I saw you in the hallway, it almost knocked me over. Like… like the world finally lined up the way it was supposed to. But I didn’t know if you’d want that. If you’d want me. Knowing everything I know. So I… I waited.”

“And you—you saw…” His voice breaks.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I saw.”

“All of it?”

You close your eyes, just for a second, and it’s all there behind your eyelids. Blood and ice and metal and a scream cut off mid-breath.

“Enough,” you say. “More than enough.”

His face twists. He jerks to his feet like he can’t bear being still. He paces once, twice, then presses his metal hand against the wall like he needs the anchor.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I’m so— God, doll, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

The nickname slips out before he can stop it. It rips through you like a live wire.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat, more fiercely this time.

He whirls on you. “I killed people.”

“You were tortured,” you shoot back. “You were brainwashed. They took your choices away. They took your— your dreams—”

He laughs, raw. “That too, huh?”

“And they tried to take your name,” you say. “Your face. Your heart. They tried to make you a weapon. But they didn’t win, Bucky. They didn’t.”

His eyes shine. “Then why do you wake up screamin’?”

The question knocks the breath out of you.

Because of course he’s thought it through. Of course he’s pictured it in more detail than you ever wanted him to.

You swallow. “Sometimes I do,” you admit. “Especially when I was younger. It was… a lot. To see that much pain and not be able to stop it. To watch someone you—” You break off, tongue thick.

“Someone you what?” he asks quietly.

You look up at him. At the man you’ve watched fall and break and get rebuilt over and over.

“Someone you love,” you say.

His breath hitches like you hit him.

“You don’t even know me,” he says, but it’s weak. Tattered.

You smile, shaky. “I know you better than anyone alive, James Buchanan Barnes.”

He flinches at the full name, but doesn’t correct you.

“I’ve seen you steal bread for a sick kid,” you say, voice gaining strength. “I’ve seen you dance in a Brooklyn club like you owned the whole damn room. I’ve watched you sign up to go to war and then get on that train even after you thought you lost your best friend because you couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t try to stop what was happening.”

A tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“I’ve watched you be hurt and broken and put back together more times than I can count,” you continue. “And every single time, there was this… this core of you that never went away. This stubborn, ridiculous goodness. This… this refusal to give up, even when giving up would have been easier.”

You take a breath. It comes out broken.

“Those dreams… they hurt. They still do, sometimes. But I never once wished for someone else.”

His face crumples.

“Not once?” he whispers.

“Not once,” you repeat.

He stands there, for a long moment, breathing like he just ran a marathon. Then, slowly, like he’s moving underwater, he comes back to the chair and sinks into it.

His metal hand is shaking.

You bite your lip. Then, very carefully, you reach out and lay your fingers on the back of his knuckles.

He goes absolutely still.

“You asked how to live with it,” you say softly. “With the fact that someone had to see what you went through.”

He swallows. Nods, just barely.

“You live with it by letting me choose,” you say. “By letting me tell you that I’m here on purpose. That I walked into this knowing exactly what you’ve carried, and I still… I still want to be the one who sits with you when the nightmares hit. I still want to be the one who makes you coffee in the morning and teases you about your bedhead and tells you when you’re being too hard on yourself.”

Your voice drops.

“If someone had to be in that room with you, I’m glad it was me.”

A sound tears out of him. Not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Something in between and more broken than both.

“I don’t deserve you,” he chokes.

You squeeze his hand. “That’s not your call to make.”

He lets out a strangled noise that might be agreement. Might be surrender.

Very slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, he turns his hand under yours so your fingers fit between his, metal and flesh and skin. The plates are warm from his body heat. You can feel the faint whir of servos when he moves.

“You sure about this?” he asks, eyes searching yours. “Because once I start… I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”

“I’ve been sure since I watched you steal that bread,” you say, and a wet, disbelieving laugh escapes him.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

You fall asleep beside him for the first time two weeks later.

It’s not planned. You’d met up in the common room after a late debrief, both too wired to sleep. One thing turned into another—movie, conversation, a shared blanket. At some point, his head tipped against the back of the couch and his breathing evened out.

You watched him for a long time. In your own bed, he’d always been half a world away. Here, his arm was draped along the back of the couch behind you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

You dozed off listening to his heartbeat under your ear.

You wake up in your own bed.

Not the Tower couch. Not his room. Your room, where you fell asleep months ago with his whimpers echoing in your head.

Except the pillow smells like him and you’re warm all over, like someone tucked a blanket around your shoulders.

You blink blearily. Sit up.

And realize this is not your room.

It takes a second to piece together what you’re seeing. The walls are the wrong color. The window looks out over a city skyline instead of the tree outside your apartment. There are pictures on the dresser—Avengers in various stages of exhausted celebration. Sam grinning. Steve. Nat. A younger, thinner Tony.

Bucky, looking startled in every single one, like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to be there.

You look down.

You’re in his bed.

He’s not beside you.

Your heart jackhammers in your chest. You swing your legs over the side, bare feet hitting cool floor—and then you freeze.

Because the light in the bathroom is on. And you can hear the shower.

Water. Steam. The faint silhouette of a man through frosted glass.

You back away instinctively, cheeks burning, and that’s when the wrongness hits you.

You don’t feel like a passenger.

You feel… solid.

You lift your hand. It’s your hand. Your skin, your faint scar on the knuckle.

But the air tastes like him. The room smells like him.

And something about the angle of your own vision is off, like you’re seeing yourself from a height you don’t have.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says behind you, slow and careful. “You okay?”

You spin.

Bucky is sitting up in the bed, hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep. He’s shirtless. The sheets are pooled around his waist, baring the curve of his shoulder and the scars you could trace in the dark.

Except.

You look down again. Your hands. Your body.

You look back up.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

He blinks. Then his eyes widen.

“Are you—” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Is this—god, please tell me this isn’t some fucked-up hallucination.”

“You’re… dreaming,” you say slowly. “About me.”

He stares at you.

Then he laughs, helpless and hoarse.

“I fell asleep on your couch,” he says. “I remember that much. You were… right there. Warm. Breathin’ against my chest.” His voice goes soft. “And then I… I opened my eyes and I was somewhere else. Here. But different. And I could feel things that weren’t mine. This…”

He gestures to you. To your body. To the way you’re standing in the center of his room, wearing his t-shirt, hair a mess from sleep.

“This is your place,” he says. “Or… a version of it. From before you moved in here.” His mouth quirks. “You sure have a lot of books, doll.”

You laugh, shocked and shaky. “You… saw my apartment?”

“Think I might still be seein’ it,” he replies. “Or I’m seein’ you seein’ me seein’ it. I don’t know, this soulmate physics stuff is above my pay grade.”

You step closer, slowly, like approaching a wild animal.

“You never dreamed before,” you say. “Not like this.”

He swallows. “Guess I finally caught up.”

You can see the moment it hits him, really hits him, what this means. His shoulders tremble. His eyes shine.

“For all those years, you… you watched my life,” he says. “And I never gave you anything back. Not a single night of peace. Not a single stupid moment of my day to balance out the bad.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you begin, but he shakes his head, smiling through the tears.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I still hated the idea of you bein’ alone in it. Of you carryin’ all that without ever gettin’ to hand me somethin’ to carry in return.”

He reaches out. His flesh hand hovers near your cheek, not quite touching.

“Let me have some of it now,” he whispers. “Let me see you. All of you. The good and the bad. Let me watch you cry over exams and spill coffee on yourself and dance in your kitchen when you think no one’s lookin’. Let me be the one who wakes up shakin’ because you had a rough day and I need to make it better.”

Your eyes burn.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cuts in, fierce. “I’ve wanted to, since the day I realized you exist. Since the day I stepped into your office and saw how my nightmares had carved lines in your face.”

He steps closer. His hand finally lands on your cheek, calloused thumb brushing away a tear.

“Let me share it,” he says. “Please. I can’t go back and stop those men from hurtin’ me. I can’t take those images out of your head. But I can be there now. I can stand in front of whatever’s comin’ next.”

You sink into his touch.

“I don’t want you to keep punishin’ yourself for things you couldn’t control,” you whisper.

“Then don’t you do it either,” he says softly.

You let out a small, wet laugh. “Hypocrite,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling a little. “Guess I am.”

You look up at him. At the man who has haunted your nights and now, finally, stands in your days.

“Stay,” you say. “In my dreams. In yours. In the kitchen at 3 am. On the couch when we both pretend we’re really into whatever movie’s on.”

His smile deepens, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Anywhere you’ll have me, doll,” he says. “I’m there.”

You step into his arms. He wraps himself around you like he’s been waiting his whole life to remember how.

You breathe him in. Warmth and soap and the faint metal tang that’s always hovered at the edge of your senses.

You tilt your head up.

He kisses you like you’re something holy.

It’s not like the secondhand kisses you watched him give girls in clubs. It’s not like the bruising, desperate collisions you felt through his body in Hydra missions. It’s slow. Reverent. His mouth soft against yours, his hand cupping the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You kiss him back like you’ve been practicing in your sleep for years.

When you pull back, you’re both breathless.

“Think I’m gonna like this whole dream thing,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

“Yeah.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Got a lot of time to make up for. A lot of nights to give back.”

You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll be there,” you say. “Every time you close your eyes.”

He nods, like that’s a vow you just exchanged.

You wake up on the Tower couch with your head on his chest and his arms around you, holding on like the world might try to take you if he loosens his grip.

His shirt is damp where your tears have soaked through.

His eyelashes are wet, too.

“Morning,” he murmurs, eyes blinking open.

You smile up at him, throat tight.

“Morning,” you whisper. “Did you sleep okay?”

He looks at you like you hung the moon.

“I dreamed,” he says simply.

Your chest aches in the best way.

“Me too,” you say.

He kisses your forehead.

You think, for the first time in your life, that maybe nightmares can be outnumbered.

That maybe, together, you can rewrite the story.

Not by erasing what Hydra did. Not by pretending the chair and the lab and the missions never happened.

But by layering new images over the old ones. Shared breakfasts and late-night talks and soft touches and kisses that taste like hope. By letting him see you the way you’ve always seen him—flawed and hurting and still, somehow, unbelievably good.

By letting your dreams finally, truly, belong to both of you.

You really did not want to go out with Rafe that evening.

Ever since the murder of Sheriff Peterkin, your boyfriend started spiraling.

You leaving was not an option, he made you understand that a long time ago, so you were stuck with him, whether it was out of fear for your life or for your loved ones.

You knew all too well what Rafe was capable of, and you did not want to push the wrong buttons.

You endured his mean words and his violent outbursts, but someone losing their life because of you was not something you could endure.

Rafe was already tense from home, after he waited for you to apply your drugstore concealer over the bruise on your jaw that he gave you. Then, he senses your uneasiness, so he scoffed at your antics and grabbed your wrist harsher than needed.

"Lighten the fuck up already", he growled at you, crushing your bones into his iron grip.

You pushed at his chest, but he did not bulge. "What is wrong with you?", you whined, and the voices inside of his head immediately reminded him of his sister.

That's what Sarah asked him after he shot Peterkin to protect his father, she never saw he was proactive, he was trying to do the right thing.

And nothing angered Rafe more than when you sounded or acted like Sarah. Those times were rare, but every little connection he made in his mind made him lose his cool completely.

Rafe tightened his grip impossibly more painful and shook you, your shoulder bouncing agonizingly against the car window. "Why do you always ruin our nights? Huh? Do you do you do this shit on purpose?", he asked, brows furrowed, his dirty blond locks kissing his forehead.

His tone was raising, and you tried to avoid his gaze, just like he tried to avoid Ward's gaze. Rafe's actions were a precise mirroring of Ward's.

"Look at me", he demanded, now releasing your hand, just for his fingers to find purpose in your locks.

"Act like a fuckin' good girlfriend. I do everything for you and, for some reason, you're still ungrateful as hell."

Later that evening, while you two were sitting at the counter, waiting for your drinks, Kelce and Topper approached Rafe. You weren't particularly fond of the two boys, so you glanced outside, and saw Sarah and Kie standing at the docks.

They smiled and waved, and you offered an infant smile back. Kie's smile faltered, and you swiftly turned your head back to Rafe, realizing your concealer started to wear off because of the heat. The pit in your stomach grew.

You loathed when people noticed marks on your skin.

Topper was telling Rafe about some new yacht he wanted to purchase and stumbled on his words as he glanced at your wrist. Your gaze fell onto your skin, and when you noticed the purplish and yellow fingerprints scattered across your arm, you quickly hid it in your lap.

Rafe's blue orbs fell on your hand, and a smirk tugged at his pink lips.

"Go on, Top", he muttered, as he took your hand and pulled it to his lap, his thumb dragging lazily across your knuckles. Your cheeks burned with embarassment, knowing for sure that Rafe's friends were aware of the treatment you were given.

After a couple of minutes, Rafe's bulge started growing harder under your touch. It was deplorable how your boyfriend thrived when he saw you suffer.

You could finally breathe.

The first day at your new college was embarrassing. You cursed at yourself since you hadn’t paid attention to the campus tour, and you were now late to your first lecture of the day. Everybody was cleared from the hallways, save for a few stragglers like yourself. You weren’t paying attention to your surroundings. You’d been looking down at the map you printed out when–all of a sudden–you were colliding into someone. You basically bonked your head into their chin, taking a step back in surprise, you looked up at them. 

The first thing you noticed was his eyes, which were blinking at you in surprise. They were such a strikingly pretty blue colour–comparable to a cloudless sky on a nice day. You got a good look at his face next and…wow, this man was pretty: Clean-cut, neatly parted short brown hair, and broad-shouldered. He still looked a bit boyish, but he made it look charming. In your enamoured state, you failed to realise he was holding up your map. 

“Sorry about that- you’d think I was blind,” he chuckled, which got you to snap out of your daze. Feeling heat crawl up your cheeks, you scolded yourself to get it together. Gently taking your crumpled map, you smoothed it out so it gave you something else to look at. 

“Oh…no- no, it’s okay,” you managed to get out. Yeesh, you’d think this was the first human you were making contact with. You straightened yourself out and tried to get your hammering heart under control. 

“Are you lost? I know this building is confusing to navigate. What room are you trying to find?” He asked, looking down at your printed map, then up at your face. At this point, you debated even going to class; you were pretty late at this point. But you couldn’t muster an excuse as quickly as you’d liked…and you really didn’t want to hold this guy up. 

“Room 303,” you replied.

“Hey, that’s where I’m heading- history lecture with Mrs. Scott, right?” He asked, surprise in his tone. You nodded your head.

“Yeah, actually… What are the odds?” you mumbled. You were totally judging based on looks, but he did not look like someone who willingly took a history class. It looked like he lived and breathed sports with his athletic build and all. It was a nice surprise, maybe you two would become friends? You hoped so.

“Beats walking in by myself, come on.” He gave you a charming smile, gesturing at you to follow him. On the way to class, he introduced himself as James Barnes, but everyone called him Bucky. You quickly introduced yourself, and he nudged you softly with his elbow.

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he beamed with a wink. You felt heat bloom in your face, but you smiled.

You held onto that moment for what felt like forever, even if nothing came from it. 

—

In your first year at this new college, you became friends with a girl named Natasha. She was quite mysterious in the beginning and cool; entirely too cool for you, you thought. You two met during one of the college’s baseball games, and you would dub this one the most humiliating event of your life. Which involved the school’s mascot…Chipper the chipmunk, and you, an unsuspecting bystander just wanting to watch the game (mostly for Bucky). Let’s just say that Chipmunk’s head was facing backwards, eyes knocked out from its fabric skull, and kids were crying. It’s how you got the nickname ‘Chip,’ a reminder of your embarrassment, but it led you to meeting Natasha, and she’s a great friend.

…Not to mention the added benefit that it put you in Bucky’s orbit, so you weren’t really complaining. Since Nat was friends with Steve, his best friend, who you were later introduced to. Even though you knew him already, since you guys always ended up being lab partners for some reason, you weren’t complaining–Steve was a great guy. He was the baseball team's best batter and honorary Captain.

Still, it wasn’t enough to get Bucky to talk to you. Sure, he’d acknowledge you whenever you were around, but other than your first encounter, he didn’t make an effort to strike up a conversation. Not that you were entitled to it, it just bummed you out. He was sociable with your other peers…maybe that was the issue? By comparison, you were still a nobody and painfully average. Often referred to as ‘Nat’s best friend,’ hell–sometimes people didn’t even direct questions meant for you, preferring to ask Natasha, even if you were right beside her. You guess you couldn’t really blame people. You were focused on your studies and hadn’t opted to join any sports or clubs. Contrary to popular belief, you weren’t inept at holding conversations…you just didn’t make any effort to actually strike them up. Mostly your fault, but being around a huge group of people was draining. You often felt tired when coming back from a lecture. 

It didn’t help that you weren’t the only one to notice him. Everyone noticed Bucky, the star pitcher on the baseball team, the guy who took his grades seriously and was just overall pleasant and smiley. It’s no wonder people looked at him so favourably–being social and a flirt was his talent. So combine all that, and sadly, you often went under the radar, which didn’t help your case in getting Bucky’s attention.

Not that you were clamoring for his attention 24/7; that would be ridiculous–no, you opted to wait. Remembering what your mom said about good things coming to those who wait, and maybe that’s true. Because one day, during the last year of College, in the middle of the first semester…you got a text message from Bucky.

—

One lonely Wednesday night, you were using your chunky laptop to get some schoolwork done. You were on a small brain break and were scrolling through Bucky’s Facebook feed in hopes he posted something new (he did! It was a photo of him and his team, it seems like they’re getting a head start on practicing before baseball season is in full swing). Scrolling past the new one, you never got bored of viewing the ones you saw a few times already. It was fun looking back at some, having been at the event but not in the photo. 

Steve, Nat and a few others at the bar.

Bucky and Steve on the first day of senior year.

Sam and Steve at a party.

Bucky, Steve and Natasha at a bar on trivia night (you’ve never been invited to that one actually…) 

You scrolled through them all, mostly sticking to the relevant university ones. Sometimes staying on a photo that was just Bucky, and yearning that it was you next to him. Sometimes it got uncomfortable how much you felt towards him since he didn’t even know. He didn’t know the effect he had on you by just being there. It felt ridiculous at this point, holding onto that one interaction that happened three years ago. 

Sometimes you wondered if Bucky was anything like the one you imagined in your head.

Exiting out of Facebook, you closed your laptop to get something to drink. Before you could stretch your legs though, you heard your phone buzz on the nightstand. It was probably a text message from Nat, asking how you’ve been lately. You two haven’t nearly hung out as much this month. You did miss her, but she’s been busy lately with a group project and some family drama. Picking up your phone, you slid out the small keyboard before pausing at the name that appeared. 

That was definitely not Natasha… 

> Hey it’s Bucky got your number from Steve

> Just wanted to ask if you had the notes from today’s lecture?

I do! I could give them to you tomorrow? <

> Sounds good

> We could meet up at Sarah’s cafe in the morning if that works?

Yeah that works! See you then <

Alright, don’t freak out, this was literally just you passing along some notes. You put your phone away and proceeded with your original task. Trying not to think too hard about it, this could have been anyone, and you still would have helped. 

— 

You got to Sarah's Cafe a little earlier, thinking you'd get some studying done before your first lecture of the day. When you entered, you heard the little bell above the door jingle. You soaked up the warmth that was offered, having battled the morning cold (winter was really making itself known). It was busy, but you saw a two-person table open and hoped you'd be able to snatch it before anyone else could. You walked into line and squinted at the menu above the counter. Staring at the cold brew option…you recalled from Nat that Bucky liked cold brew coffee after she introduced him to it. 

“Before that it was only just straight black coffee,” she grimaced, like his old preference personally offended her. You remembered just shaking your head–laughing at her ridiculousness. 

Finally walking up to the counter, the girl whose nametag ironically said Sarah greeted you with a smile. She asked what you were having, and you gave her your order (one London fog, please). You stepped off to the side towards the order window, glancing over at the clock—he wouldn’t be here for another hour and a half. Once your order was in your hands, you quickly made your way to the table you spotted. You placed your stuff down and sat on the wooden chair. The table was circular, so it didn’t offer much space, but it didn’t matter too much at the moment. You got to work, scribbling out some notes and highlighting whatever looked important. Time seemed to slip past you since you were startled out of your focused state when someone stood beside your table.

“Is this seat taken?” Spoke a familiar voice, looking up–you spotted Bucky, who was giving you his signature boyish grin. You felt your heart rate spike, but honestly, it felt like it was trying to escape your chest. Shaking your head no, he quickly made himself comfortable. Looks like he ordered a cold brew. 

“Oh, here are the notes you missed- it’s a lot, like usual.” You gathered your other work and put it out of the way before handing him your notebook. You watched him unzip his bag and took a sneaky peek at what was inside, your eyes widened at how many books and papers this guy carried on his back. Bucky took out a notebook and pencil before getting started on copying your notes. Not wanting to stare (he has great handwriting), you turned your head towards the window.

 Huh…you thought he’d take the notebook to copy for later. 

“You’d think maybe Mr. Grant would lay off on all the unnecessary words, but no… Your notes are organized beautifully, by the way,” Bucky mumbled while writing a sentence down. It got you to chuckle. Mr. Grant was known to overexplain, whether he was talking or writing it down. 

“Just be glad you missed yesterday…he was going off again about how cell phones are ruining the youth,” you grimaced. It had turned half the lecture into a conspiratorial warning about how phones were going to take over and ruin human connection. It didn’t help that he liked to pick someone from one of his classes to use as a sad example (So and so is so bright, and that phone of theirs is going to ruin that!)...Not much was done yesterday.

It got Bucky to laugh, which filled you with so much joy. His laugh was nice, smooth and carefree. You wished you could hear it more often–one day perhaps. 

“Wow, who did he use as an example this time?” Bucky asked, shifting in his chair and leaning his face into his hand. 

“...It was you this time around, weren’t even there to defend yourself,” you paused to let out a laugh. “Mr. Grant went off about how bright a student you were, but wasted so much on that phone of yours, not sure how though?” 

“What? That's so unfair. I’m barely on my phone, man…the one time I get caught checking,” He said with faux-hurt in his tone. Though Bucky chuckled softly just thinking about it, and took no real offence. Even if it was true. He looked up from his notebook, seeing the smile on your face, and he honestly hadn't noticed how pretty you looked. Hell–he knows he hasn’t noticed you in general, outside of you being Natasha’s best friend. You didn’t necessarily catch his attention…as harsh as that was. You were more on the quiet side. But you were surprisingly easy to talk to.

“But yeah, those are technically only half of the notes. We’ll probably get the rest next Wednesday,” you explained. Finishing off the rest of your tea, you felt a little awkward now that the conversation was dying down…but you swore from the corner of your eye that he was looking at you, like really looking. It’s probably just my imagination, you thought, no way was Bucky looking at me. 

“Oh, while I’m doing this, do you mind looking over my essay?” He started looking through his backpack, trying to find it in the chaos that was his bag. You nodded your head, thankful for the distraction. 

“Yeah sure- did you want feedback or just someone to look for typos?”

“Just typos and to make sure I don’t sound stupid.” Bucky shrugged, he had Steve already give him feedback last week. Of course, he had to add it last minute, and it was due today. 

“That’s impossible,” you murmured. He finally won at the game of hide and seek the paper was playing before handing it over to you. You took the seven-pager and started reading through. It was your task for the next half an hour before your alarm buzzed in your pocket. Warning you that it was time to get to class. Thankfully, you were almost done looking the essay over, but glancing at Bucky’s notebook- he was only halfway through the notes.

“You know what, you can just give me back the notes in class. I gotta bounce… and your essay was good! Doesn’t sound stupid at all,” you complimented, handing him his revised assignment. There wasn’t much to edit, but it was a joy to read even if it was something boring like political theory. 

“Sure, I honestly thought you were lying about the notes- sadly, I was proven wrong,” He sighed.

“Rude, I never lie.” 

“Never?” His eyes widened in mock surprise. Wow–you were on a role getting Bucky to react to you. 

“Well… maybe sometimes when needed,” You mumbled, which Bucky let out a humorous snort at that. You both said your goodbyes before you left the cafe. Crossing the street towards the main campus building, you looked back towards the cafe window and spotted Bucky already watching you leave. He gave you a smile and a small wave, it made your face heat up as you waved back. 

— 

“Just the person I was looking for,” you heard someone say from your left side. You assumed they were talking to the girl sitting beside you at a different table–that was until your notebook was placed in front of you. That got you to glare at the intruder before your face involuntarily softened at the sight of Bucky. 

“You throw a mean glare,” he teased. He took the seat that was empty beside you. Your normal table partner rushed off to pair up with her girlfriend. Mr. Grant had blessed you with a group project, and of course, you were left alone until some unfortunate soul with the same fate approached you to partner up. Not that you were a bad group assignment partner…but you noticed you were typically the very last choice. So Bucky sitting beside you raised some questions. 

“Thanks, I see my notebook is still in pristine condition,” you joked. 

“Of course, Why? Is someone going around saying I destroy pretty girls' property?” 

“P-pretty?” You embarrassingly stuttered out. Clearing your throat to save face-you quickly changed the subject.

“Well, Bucky…what are you doing here?” It was a genuine question, normally you’d see him pair up with Sam or some girl he liked to call Dot. Or one of his Baseball buddies, but that was in rare cases when neither Sam nor Dot were available. Bucky gave an easy grin, not minding the subject change. 

“Just partnering up like the professor told us to,” he explained like it was obvious. You pursed your lips, unsure, as you glanced around the room. Sam was here, and so was Dot…so him being here only meant one thing. You were quick to dash your hopes away. Maybe he was waiting for one of his other friends, and he’s decided to kill time by chatting you up? 

Yeah, that has to be it.

“Oh well, I’m just surprised you didn’t pick your two favourites…Did Bob blackmail you or something?” You quipped with a chuckle, knowing Bob couldn’t really hurt a fly. Bucky raised one eyebrow and tilted his head.

“Bob?” He questioned, now it was his turn to be confused.

“Yeah, Bob…That’s the person you wanted to partner up with, right?” Great, now this was getting awkward. Bucky didn’t know whether to laugh or die inside; were you really this dense? 

“Um- no… I’m not pairing up with Bob. I want to pair up with you, if you’ll have me,” he stated. Bucky huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head at the silliness of the situation. You, on the other hand, groaned internally, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. You pouted for a moment, covering your face with your hands, which got Bucky to laugh (and that made you feel a little better). 

“I am so stupid…” You mumbled into your hands. 

“Hey, at least you look cute doing it…not that I think you’re stupid,” he was quick to correct. Heat crept up your face for the second time before you told yourself to get it together. Bucky flirted with every girl whether he meant it or not. I’m not special, you reminded yourself.

“But to answer your question, yes we can work together. Besides, I’m pretty sure the pairing up period has ended.” 

“Great! Now what do you think our project should be about?” Bucky got right down to work, which you really needed in order to recover. 

Maybe the universe was finally aligning for you? 

It felt like it; you don’t think you hung out with him as much as you did the past month. Sure, you hung around him because of Natasha and sometimes Steve, but now you were learning things about him that weren’t from second-hand sources. Sure–it was because of the group assignment, but you two always ended up talking about whatever during your small brain breaks. You now formally learned he had a sister, whose name was Rebecca or Becca, as he liked to call her. He was getting a degree in political science and was minoring in history. He jokingly bragged about his pitching skills out on the field. But you could tell Bucky had pride in his skills and his team (which was so sweet to witness). 

He liked coffee over tea, saying: tea was just bitter mud water (which you argued could also apply to coffee, and he looked genuinely offended), his favourite fruit was plums, his favourite colour was blue, and that he and Steve were friends since elementary school. 

“Wow, that long?”

“Yeah, me and Steve have been practically taking on the world together since we were six,” he said fondly with a proud smile on his face. It made your heart swell with affection and plaster a big smile on your face hearing that. Though you also felt a twinge of jealousy bubbling up, wishing you had something like that with him or anyone really. 

Of course, it wasn’t just Bucky speaking. You also opened up–like how you originally came from Moscow, Idaho. That you were an only child, and your parents were overbearing and overprotective (His mom was somewhat like that also, Bucky sympathized). You told him about your major, your favourite colour, that you couldn’t drink coffee because it made your stomach hurt, and finally about your nickname, since he seemed to be curious about the origin of ‘Chip.’

“That was you?” He had a look of delighted surprise on his face. He had almost forgotten about that. You groaned and leaned back in your chair.

“Yeah, that was me,” you grumbled. You couldn’t stay embarrassed for too long; the face Bucky was making didn’t allow for that. Equal parts amused and delighted at finally meeting the girl who punched the school’s mascot so hard their eyes went flying (the person playing the mascot was okay, their mask took all the impact). He let out a chuckle, greedily wanting to know even more about you, which you delivered later on another small break. You sprinkled in that you loved finding weird blogs or websites if boredom hit. Also mentioning that you loved reading fantasy novels, which he perked up at.

“You ever read The Hobbit?” He asked.

“No…it’s been on my reading list though. Why, have you read it?” You just haven’t had the time, and you were busy knocking other books off your ever-growing list of things to read. 

“Yeah, I have recently, and actually really liked it… you could borrow my copy if you want?” He offered, which you gave a meek nod to. 

Later, you were kicking yourself mentally because what girl in her right mind would mention to her crush about her lame hobbies of surfing the web and reading fantasy? Most girls you know didn’t care much for the fantasy genre (ones you knew anyway), they were too busy looking pretty, going to parties, or chasing guys. Great, now he probably thought you were a loser and a bothersome loner. Bucky made himself too comfortable to talk to–you reasoned for the slip-up. 

Much to your surprise though, a week after, when you two met up at your usual spot at Sarah’s cafe. Bucky was holding his copy of The Hobbit, and your eyes widened, seeing it was a first edition–which, to your knowledge, was rare. He beamed when he saw you and walked over, placing the book on the table. Seeing it up close, it had some general wear but was otherwise in pretty decent condition. You looked at him while he sat down, then back at the book. 

“Uh…” was all you managed to get out of your mouth. There was no way he was letting you borrow this. But you guessed he was, since he slid the book over towards you. 

“What’s with that face? Did you think I’d forget?” He asked, his eyes gleaming with triumph that he remembered (not that he ever forgot). 

“Maybe a little? But you do realise you’re letting me borrow a first edition of The Hobbit, right? That's like handing me a crap ton of money.” You don’t think you could accept this–what if something accidentally happened, or if someone stole it from you? What if some big purple alien invaded only to snap his fingers to turn this specific copy to dust? You couldn’t afford to replace it, plus you’d feel like shit…and he definitely would hate you and probably never speak to you again- 

“Hey relax, it’s my great grandfather’s from when he use to read it to his kids-”

“That’s not easing my concern! It’s an heirloom from your great grandfather?”

“Well, I mean- yeah, but it’s mine, and I want you to borrow it. Besides, I’m pretty sure he won’t mind. He hasn’t made his disapproval known by striking me down with lighting or haunting my apartment,” he joked, but there was sincerity in his words. 

“Really? Striking you down with lighting…What is he, God?” You hesitantly and extremely carefully put the book inside your bag. If he was going to insist then you might as well, since he seemed to trust you. You were going to make good on that trust. 

“Hey, it’s the first thing that came to mind…” After that died down, you two got to work on your project. Honing in on small details and making sure it looked pretty for the professor. Time slipped by you both as it approached closing time for the cafe. Taking a look outside, it was dark, with snow gently falling from the sky. 

“Here, let me drive you home. I can’t have you walking alone in the dark,” Bucky offered once you two were outside. It was chilly, but the falling snow made the night look more whimsical. You nodded your head at his offer, getting into his car and taking off towards your house. The ride there was quiet–it wasn’t awkward though, just a comfortable silence. You watched the snow zoom past the car as Bucky turned onto your street. He parked in front of your house, quickly getting out of the car and opening your car door for you. 

Such a gentleman.

You grabbed your bag from the backseat before exiting the vehicle, Bucky shut the door behind you. You were about to say your goodbyes before he stopped you.

“Oh, wait- before I forget, would you want to come with me to Barkers on Friday? The bar just down the street from Sarah’s cafe…they’re hosting a 40s-themed trivia night,” Bucky explained. He looked a little bashful inviting you. Though you don’t think you were faring much better, considering you felt like your heart was racing at a hundred miles a minute. Was this it? Was Bucky finally noticing you? 

“-Steve and Natasha will also be there,” he added, which made your heart drop. Feeling a bit dejected, your hope went way down. You thought he was asking you out. How silly. The universe really liked dangling Bucky right in front of you without any hope of having him. Whatever! Any outing with Bucky was better than none. Besides, he invited you–no way were you going to say no. 

“Sure! I’d love to,” you replied, hoping the disappointment didn’t show in your tone. Bucky smiled, eyes scrunched up and everything, excited that all his friends were hanging out in one place. 

“Great! I’ll pick you up at around six.” 

— 

On your way back home, you decided to stop at some metaphysical shop that you spotted during your third week in New York, but never went inside. You weren’t one to believe in the power of crystals, but thought maybe you’d find something cool to gift Bucky. Despite your disappointment last night, you were doing better today. A small skip in your step that even Natasha teased about. Heading inside the store, you were immediately hit with the scent of incense (lavender if you had to guess). There was a girl around your age working the counter, doing what looked like closing duties. Well, better hurry this up then-

“Hey, just letting you know we’re closing soon,” the cashier spoke up. She didn’t seem too pissed about you entering fifteen minutes before closing. 

“Um, do you guys have like… necklaces with the crystals attached?” You asked, wanting to get out of her hair as soon as possible. 

“We sure do, they’re just over there.” She left her spot behind the counter to assist you. Leading you towards a big rotating pegboard displaying various necklaces. All were the same length with different gems. You started carding through them, knowing that gems had different meanings but not what the meanings were. As if sensing your confusion about what any of them meant, the cashier spoke up again.

“Are you getting this as a gift or just yourself?” She prompted. 

“...Does the meaning of the crystal change if it’s a gift or not?”

“No, but if you’re getting it for someone else it might be a little hard figuring out what they need. Let’s say they’re a student, so you could probably go with clear quartz for mental clarity and focus…or are you getting this for a lover? Rose quartz would be a good option, it represents love and compassion- there are also some small informational pamphlets about the different rocks we sell,” she pointed to the table beside the display. You felt your face heat up a little at the exchange, not that she was mean–but this was well above your element. 

You quickly thanked her before she went back to her post at the counter. You started looking through the different necklaces again, wondering if getting him a rose quartz would be too bold. Then your mind drifted to a conversation you both had where he mentioned he had a friend who was a self-proclaimed witch. What if he happened to ask this friend what the crystal meant and she told him? 

“She probably loves you, rose quartz is the number one rock you get for someone you like,” she’d say, and Bucky would probably cringe and say ew.

No, you don’t think you could handle the embarrassment of being called out. You sighed and let the necklaces swing back in place. You turned to leave the store, but paused when you saw a shelf full of smaller items. One of these stood out, a triangular box with the words ‘One Wish Willow’ in bold red print. You walked over to the shelf and took one, deciding that maybe this would be a fun present (and you’d feel bad if you walked in here last minute and didn’t buy anything). You flipped it around, reading the words ‘Spark the middle and break in half.’ You smiled, thinking maybe this would be a good laugh if anything. Walking over to the counter, you placed your item down and started looking through your bag for your card. 

“These are pretty popular,” the cashier remarked, ringing up your item. “We put them out recently and they’ve been selling out like crazy, I guess everyone wants a wish.”

“Oh, that’s weird, but this isn’t for me so…” the cashier looked at you with an incredulous look before tapping away at the card reader. 

“Alright, but don’t come back complaining. Just telling you now–most people collect these things, and others do end up breaking them. But then nothing happens so they come here yelling around…” She started to drift off, clearly it was a sore spot for the store employee. 

“Because it’s a scam?"

“Hey, no- we’re not scamming people,” she said defensively.

“No, no, I know- it’s clear this thing is a toy, it’s silly that people think it’d work,” you quickly cut in. Hoping not to offend her more, you bit the inside of your cheek to silence yourself. You got out your debit card and quickly got the transaction over with. 

… 

“Let’s hear it for Bucky!” You heard Steve yell once you three were outside the bar. It was a riveting 40s-themed trivia, your table was neck and neck with another table full of older people. In the end though Steve and Bucky managed to wipe the floor with them, no mercy was shown. Bucky laughed, nudging his friend’s shoulder.

“Hey, you helped immensely too, you punk, I can’t take all the credit!” Bucky attested, which was true. Paired together, both of them were a dream team. You watched the scene fondly as Bucky got Steve into a headlock and started ruffling up his hair. Natasha trailed beside you, smiling at the scene also. 

“Pretty sure the reason they fought so hard was because the tab payment was on the line,” she whispered to you while you let out a laugh. 

“Don’t you guys normally split the bill?” You asked.

“No, those jerks won’t let me pay…not that I’m complaining,” Nat chuckled. You saw Steve and Bucky rejoin you two, with Steve trying to tame the bird's nest that was his hair now. 

“We should go somewhere else to continue the night more, doesn’t have to be another bar,” Steve suggested. Both Nat and Bucky agreed, wanting to see where the night led, but you were growing quite tired. Which made you feel lame, considering it was eleven o’clock on a Friday night; the night was still young, as some would say. But as you tried to stifle a yawn, Bucky noticed immediately. 

“Getting tired?” He asked softly so the others wouldn’t hear. Both Steve and Natasha were currently debating on where to go. 

“No, no, I’m fine-” a sneaky yawn caught you off which made him chuckle. 

“Hey, it’s fine if you want to call it a night, I can take you home,” he offered. It made your stomach flutter with butterflies, he was always so nice. 

“Oh no, I couldn’t ask that of you, didn’t you want to hang out with them more?” 

“It’s fine, really,” he gave you a reassuring smile before gesturing to them.

“I’m going to take Chip home,” he said loud enough for the other two to hear. Natasha looked over at you and frowned, not one of her serious ones, just sad to see you leaving so soon. 

“Awe, Chip, we barely see each other enough as is,” Nat lamented. You walked closer to her and gave her a hug, which she returned. 

“I know, sorry…Hey, I’ll make it up to you soon, promise!” You patted her back before letting her go. You did feel a twinge of guilt, but damn today's classes were too exhausting. Natasha did seem to understand. 

“Once you guys figure out where to go, call me!” Bucky called out as he started walking to his car with you in tow. You both got in and headed off to your place.

You and Bucky ended up having a conversation outside your house, both of you together in the warmth of his car. During said conversation, you felt a surge of random confidence in you to confess how you truly felt about him. It was weird; you didn’t even drink that much tonight. But watching him yap about how great the trivia questions were was something only your sophomore-year self could only dream of witnessing. The past month honestly felt like a dream, and you weren’t even sure what caused it. 

“I’m just surprised all the questions were actually related to the forties. Some quizmasters tend to just half-ass it, which annoys the hell out of me…” Bucky grumbled. 

“Bucky… uh, I have something to tell you.” There was a waver noticeable in your voice, which got him to straighten up. He turned his head to look at you, you now had his full attention. Great, maybe this was a bad idea… You swallowed thickly, looking around his general direction but never at him. 

“Is something wrong?” He asked, concern lacing his tone. 

“What? No- no, nothing like that, it’s just…” You trailed off. Oh god, just say it already! As you were trying to find the right words that didn’t make you sound like a silly teenager, Bucky's phone went off. You both glanced at the name that popped up on the screen. 

‘Nat ♡’

You squinted your eyes at the familiar name as your mind began to race: Why did Bucky have a heart beside her name? Oh shit, were they together? Why didn’t Nat say anything? Bucky chuckled awkwardly, mumbling about how he forgot to change her name. He glanced at you, but couldn't understand why you were staring so intently. He thought about it a little- the shake in your voice, how you were looking at everything but him, the way it looked like you were trying to formulate words because you didn't want to sound stupid. The more he noticed your behaviour–the more he understood, and his eyes widened.

“Chip, do you like me?” He asked softly, carefully. He was nervous that he’d read the signs wrong, but he was pretty sure he was correct in his assumption. His phone at this point was long forgotten. You shot your head up to look at him, finally looking into his eyes.

“No, god no, sorry I- I should… go,” you spoke defensively, hurried even. You grabbed your bag and shoved open the car door. Hurriedly getting out of the car, it was too suffocating at this point, and Bucky’s stare made you feel like an idiot. You couldn't take back your words at this point, the moment was completely ruined. You were too dumb to think Bucky would ever like someone like you.

“Oh, uh, alright then, good-” he didn't get to finish his sentence before you shut the car door on him. “Night…” he said to himself. You didn't bother opening it again. You speed-walked to your front door and entered your house, watching him drive off from the peephole in your door. You placed your back to the door and slid down. Sitting and ruminating about what just happened.

God, you're so stupid…

Of course him and Nat have something going on…

No, he mentioned forgetting to change her name back… are they not in a relationship?

Doesn't matter, why did no one tell you?

Now he probably thinks you hate him or that you're a complete bitch…

You spiraled pretty badly for a moment, thinking you fucked up your relationship with Bucky in general. Hell, you wouldn't blame him for avoiding you at this point.

He did say ‘good’ after you said ‘no’ to liking him…

What did that mean? Does he only see you as a friend…

Shit… 

You went to dig something out of your bag, and your hand brushed past what you thought was your phone. You grabbed it–revealing it was the One wish Willow. You stared at it, blinking in surprise when you remembered it was supposed to be for Bucky. Well, you couldn't give it to him now. You opened the box, pulling out what looked like a stick. An eerie jingle rang out once you did. Fuck it, you thought, thinking it wasn't going to come true anyway. 

“I wish James Barnes loved me more than anyone in the fucking world,” you said before breaking the stick in half.

wc: 6,529

Chapter Two 𖹭 "Love me more" (coming soon)

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“You know, we still have 11 condoms—” 

You stopped in your tracks by the door when you heard Glenn say those words. Maggie and Glenn snapped their heads up to look at your direction, their eyes wide in horror. They didn't hear anyone approaching the door, so when you pushed it open and stepped outside, the two of them simultaneously froze. 

They stared at you, eyes wide and dilated. You have the same reaction, almost the same— if it weren't for you quickly schooling your expression and forcing it to be blank. 

It was hard, but you managed.

“Nice guitar.” You commented, eyes flickering to the instrument in his hand. “Gotta make sure that you have good technique with the strings, right? I suggest practicing to make those 11 minutes of Maggie's life worth it.” 

Maggie blinked, shock and embarrassment creeping to her face, but the snort that soon followed after she realized that you were joking was heartwarming. 

“You did not.” Maggie giggled, making you shrug. 

“Can’t be too sure.” You mumbled, your feet moving to get yourself off the porch and descend the stairs, your head shifting to your right shoulder to give them a heads-up. “I'll be going out for a search. If things get out of hand, just let me know and I'll give Shane a piece of my mind.” 

The two of them watched as you slung the machete into the holster in your belt while you're jogging towards the tree line. There's no telling if you were joking, but Maggie decided to play it safe. 

“Why would she give Shane a piece of her mind?” Maggie asked, turning to look at the asian man who looked quite pink in the face. 

“Huh?” Glenn snapped out of his embarrassment and looked back at Maggie, eyes clouded with thoughts. 

“Oh, I— it's.. It was ‘cause he's not acting himself right now.” Glenn answered, albeit shakily. “She’s just like that, you know? She gives someone a warning— just once, and if that person didn't follow through the warning.. She's not afraid to punch them. Hence, the piece of her mind. She tried that on Daryl once, and when Daryl didn't follow through her warning, he got sucker punched in the stomach.. It was back at the Quarry.” 

A smile crept into Maggie's lips as she listened to Glenn's story, and upon seeing the delighted twinkle in her eyes made the asian man swallow. 

God, did she look beautiful. 

You could feel your nose twitching as you walked through trees, and you fought so hard to hold it in because you didn't want to alert any walker that could possibly be walking by, but it was extremely hard. 

“Achoo— crap!” You sneezed, but not just any kind of sneeze. It's the kind of sneeze that those uncles and dads let out, the deep and boisterous one.  

Sneezing that hard made your throat sore a little. You raised a hand to massage your throat as you continued hiking down the trail you're following. You could more or less tell that the trail you're following belongs to a squirrel. Squirrels are easy to catch if they're not startled, but your obnoxious sneeze probably scared them off already so following the trail is going to be useless. 

You pushed through still, not wanting to be discouraged because of a single mistake. Sneezing is hard in the apocalypse, but it can’t be helped if you can't stop it. Sighing, you focused your attention back on the trail. 

Walking down the path you're following through, you noticed that there's another trail. 

“Is that.. A horse shoe?” You wandered aloud, staring closely on the tracks, then a quiet neigh along with a snort of a horse came from somewhere in the woods, indirectly confirming your suspicion. 

The cries of the mammal are far, but you could hear its whines as it gets farther and farther. 

You stopped in your tracks and slowly reached for your knife. You remembered, just a tad bit, that Daryl had that episode where he found the doll Sophia was carrying. He had gone down a cliff to get it and when he went back up to get back on the horse, something spooked the horse and caused it to drop Daryl. 

You don't remember what spooked it, but you remembered how badly injured Daryl was. 

Oh, shit, is it happening right now? You cursed in your mind, quickly rushing forward to follow the trail that was left behind by the horse. The tracks are faint, but you can still see them and it's leading you somewhere where you can hear water running. 

Before you knew it, you ended up on a cliff. 

“Oh my goodness.” You huffed out, your gaze flickering to the unconscious man below where a walker is reaching for his boots, the said walker getting down to his knees and starting chewing on the archer's shoes. 

“Daryl! Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” You hissed under your breath repeatedly, scrambling to get down and letting yourself roll down the cliff. 

Splash. 

Your body crashed down into the water, splashing water around you. The sound caught the walker's attention, just in time to see Daryl gaining consciousness and stare at the retreating form of the walking corpse. 

“W.. Wha?” He grumbled, eyes trying to focus on what was in front of him. 

“Come here, you stupid corpse!” You growled quietly, hand tightening around your knife as you waited for it to get closer, and once it got close enough, you lunged forward and didn't waste a second to dig your blade into its skull to kill it. 

The two of you crashed into the water, mainly you dropping on top of it for not getting your balance back in time. 

You scrambled to get back on your feet, panting heavily. It's quite hard to pull your own weight while you're in the water. It feels like gravity is ten times worse when you're in it, but it doesn't matter now, you managed to get the walker off from Daryl. 

Speaking of the archer, you spotted him getting back onto his ass with a pained scowl on his face. 

You splashed your way towards him, forcing your legs to move through the running stream no matter how hard it was. When you finally got out of the water, you shook your arms slightly before walking over to him— just in time to see him hissing in pain. 

“Hey.” You called, causing the archer to turn to look at you. “I'm sorry.” 

Your apology caught him off guard, that much is evident at how his eyebrows creased further together while he scanned you from head to toe. You reached forward, eyes flickering to his punctured side. He watched you as you cautiously approached him, making him tense up in return. 

“What the hell are ya apologizing for— son of a bitch!” Daryl screamed on the top of his lungs. 

You pulled the arrow out of his side, hand curling around the bolt’s shaft. The unexpected pain caused him to double over and place a shaking hand onto the wound to hopefully ease the pain that erupted from the wound. 

“What's yer problem, woman?!” He hissed, but his voice cracked so you didn't feel the need to hiss back. 

“I apologized in advance, didn't I?” You retorted softly, crouching down to place the arrow beside him. “Anyway, based on the spot where you passed out, I'll guess that you dropped your crossbow somewhere near it.” 

“Why don't ya just fuck off?!” Daryl growled, still reeling from the pain, but the tone of his voice didn't have much bite.

“I will.” You hummed and pushed yourself up, your eyes scanning the surroundings to look for the big stick he used in the show to cope a feel for his crossbow in the water. “Only after I bring you back to the farm, of course. Can't let you wander around all injured and pissy. Can’t have you die out here.” 

Daryl could only scowl at your way, but once again, you ignored it and walked over to the deeper part of the water. 

You didn't see the big stick he used, so you had to improvise and dive into the water. It was a good thing that you're not wearing Rick's sheriff jacket and left it on the laundry basket due to the grime stuck on it, because if you didn't, you don't know where else to leave it. 

“Don't ya dare touch my stuff!” Daryl screamed out to you, making you simply wave him off as you braced yourself to dive. 

If you remember correctly, the crossbow is around the middle, so you exhaled shakily and started poking under the water using your feet. You don't want to dive in blindly into the water, of course, that would be too stupid to do. 

When you felt something hit your foot, you quickly dived down and clutched your fingers around it. 

Watching from his spot, Daryl could only scowl. He doesn't know why you're going through all that trouble to help him. You've been doing just fine without offering a hand to him, so what changed? He stared at the spot where you lowered yourself, then when you rose back with your hand lifting the crossbow off the water, he teared his gaze immediately. 

You trudged your way out of the river and picked up your weapons off the mud. 

He could feel that same weird butterfly in his stomach when you started to stomp over to his way, your hips shaking a little— and he wasn't sure if you're doing it internationally or not, but it's starting to piss him off. 

“Didn't ask for yer help.” He grumbled, snatching his crossbow off your hand. 

“You're welcome.” You hummed, pushing your wet hair out of your face as you looked up the cliff, eyebrows furrowing when you took in the sight of how steep it was. “Anyway, how are we going to climb that thing? You're hurt, and I'm not strong enough to carry you.” 

“Who said I need yer help?” Daryl grunted, ripping out the sleeves of his shirt and trying it around his ribs. “Don’t need nobody’s help.” 

“Sure, you don't.” You mumbled and walked over to the foot of the cliff, your eyes glued to the squirrel that fell down just a minute ago. You gripped your knife tightly and focused on the critter as it struggled to get back up, only failing and rolling down once more. 

Daryl watched subconsciously as you stalked past him, his eyes catching sight of what got your attention. He scoffed, but didn't say anything. 

Five minutes later, you came back to his spot and dropped the dead squirrel into his lap, making him freeze and look up to you. Just then, another moaning walker wandered out of the tree line and spotted the two of you. It started making its way across the water and staggered on its own feet to get to you. 

“I'll take care of it.” You told him, throwing a knife his way before turning away, “Eat that, then we go.” 

“I don't need yer help—” Daryl hissed again, but you were already walking away from him to take care of the walker who was reaching its arms out to grab you. “That woman's full of crap. Thinkin’ that she can boss me around just ‘cause she decided I'm weak and all that..” 

He hated the feeling of being assisted. He hated the feeling that he's with someone who's fully capable of herself, but still extended a helping hand. He had told Rick yesterday that he's better off alone than going with someone, because being with someone will just slow him down. 

But you? Oh, you're doing whatever you want and leaving him with no air in his lungs. 

You didn't even give him the chance to curse you out properly and just left him while he was busy talking shit about you. If you're not someone who will listen to his shits, then he already knows that you're going to be nothing, but trouble in the near future. 

He doesn't want to work with someone who will bring trouble. He can’t be around someone who only thinks of herself and pisses him off. He can’t work with someone who would do shit even if he told them otherwise. He grumbled under his breath, shoving his hand to the knife and snatching it off the muddy ground. 

However, all of his thoughts came flying out of his head when you dragged the walker's corpse over and dropped it by his feet. His eyes squinted subconsciously, confusion clear in his gaze.

You panted, placing your hands over your hips. “Do what you have to do once you're done eating.” 

He stayed silent, his tongue feeling a little heavier than usual. He stared at the dead corpse and flickered his eyes at you, already finding you turning your back to him and looking around for who knows what. 

Just.. Just how did you know that he was planning to use the walkers’ ears as a repellent to other walkers? How did you know what he was planning to do without him saying the words aloud? Do you have psychic powers? Did you have something up your sleeves that told you what he wanted to do? 

Daryl could only look at you with an incredulous look on his face, but his hands didn't stop working the squirrel open. 

“Hurry up, Dixon.” You grumbled out, facing him again to watch him dig his fingers inside the squirrel's open belly and scoop out its first available meat, before throwing that bloody piece inside his mouth. 

Your nose scrunched up in slight disgust, but kept those thoughts to yourself and forced out quietly, “We still need to haul our asses up the cliff.” 

“Don't need yer help—” 

“Yeah, yeah, you don't need my help.” You huffed, cutting him off as you shot him a pointed look, “But who cares? Just hurry your ass up so we can leave this godforsaken river and be on our way.” 

You don’t pick it up this time. You don’t flip it over like maybe the answer will change if you look at it from a different angle. You just stare at it, arms wrapped tight around your middle, like if you hold yourself together hard enough you won’t come apart.

The apartment is quiet. Bucky is in the living room—you can hear the faint murmur of the TV through the wall—but he hasn’t come to check on you yet. He never hovers. He gives you space, always, like he’s afraid of crowding you when you’re already hurting.

You know why.

Because every time this happens, he looks at you like it’s his fault.

And every time, you let him.

Just like you let him believe you’re okay.

Your throat tightens, the pressure building until it feels like it might choke you, and you press the heel of your hand against your mouth to keep the sound in. You don’t want him to hear. You don’t want him to come in and see you like this—again, always again—because you’re so tired of the way his face falls, the way guilt settles into his shoulders like something heavy and permanent.

You hate that he carries it.

You hate that you do too.

You close your eyes for a second, breathing through it, counting in your head the way you’ve learned to do when things get overwhelming. One, two, three—

You’re fine.

You’re going to be fine.

You just need a minute.

But the minute stretches, and the silence presses in, and the thought that’s been living in the back of your mind for months now finally pushes its way forward, loud and impossible to ignore.

What if it’s you?

What if there’s something wrong with you?

The idea settles in your chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and suddenly everything makes too much sense. All the negative tests. All the waiting. All the quiet disappointment that never quite gets spoken out loud.

You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, and finally reach for the test just so you can shove it into the trash, like getting rid of it might make the feeling go away too.

It doesn’t.

Nothing does.

When you step out into the hallway, the light from the living room spills toward you, warm and soft in contrast to the harsh brightness you just left behind. Bucky is stretched out on the couch, one arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his stomach, the TV flickering across his face in shades of blue and gold.

He looks up the second he hears you.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice careful in a way that makes your chest ache. His eyes flick over your face, searching, and you can see the moment he understands. His expression softens, something sad slipping in around the edges. “C’mere.”

You hesitate for half a second, because if you go to him, you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep it together.

But you go anyway.

You always do.

He shifts to make room for you, sitting up just enough to pull you into his side, his arm coming around your shoulders automatically, tucking you in close like you belong there. Like you’re something to be protected.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, softer this time, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair. “It’s okay.”

The words hit something fragile inside you, and before you can stop it, you let out a shaky breath that sounds a little too close to a sob.

It’s okay.

It’s not, though.

It hasn’t been for a while.

You press your face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him, trying to ground yourself in it, but the thought won’t leave you alone now that it’s out in the open, circling and circling until it feels like it’s going to swallow you whole.

“Buck,” you whisper, your voice small against the fabric of his shirt.

His hold tightens immediately. “Yeah, doll?”

You don’t know how to say it.

You don’t know how to put something like this into words without breaking something between you, without confirming the fear that’s been eating at you for months now.

But you can’t keep it in anymore.

“I think…” Your voice catches, and you have to swallow hard before you can keep going. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

The words hang in the air between you, fragile and terrible all at once.

For a second, everything goes very, very still.

And then Bucky’s hand freezes where it’s been rubbing slow circles against your arm.

“What?” he breathes.

You pull back just enough to look at him, and the expression on his face is enough to make your heart twist painfully in your chest. He looks…stricken. Like you’ve just said something that physically hurts him to hear.

“I just—” you start, your voice wavering despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “We’ve been trying for so long, and it’s just…nothing, and I keep thinking—maybe it’s me. Maybe I can’t—” You cut yourself off, your throat closing up around the rest of the sentence. “I feel like I’m failing you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky shakes his head hard, like he’s trying to physically reject them.

“No,” he says immediately, too fast, too sharp. “No, don’t—don’t say that.”

“But—”

“It’s not you,” he insists, his hands coming up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are wide, almost frantic. “Jesus, sweetheart, it’s not you.”

You blink at him, confused by the intensity in his voice. “Then what is it?”

His jaw tightens, something conflicted flashing across his expression before he looks away, like he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore.

“I thought…” he starts, then stops, dragging a hand through his hair in a frustrated motion. “I thought it was me.”

You stare at him.

“What?”

He lets out a humorless little huff, shaking his head. “All the stuff I went through. Hydra. The experiments. I figured they probably messed something up.” His voice drops, rough around the edges. “I thought I was the reason we can’t—”

“Bucky,” you breathe, your chest tightening painfully.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” he continues, the words coming faster now like he’s been holding them in for too long. “Didn’t want you to think I was…broken, or that I was the one keeping this from happening for us.”

Something in your chest cracks wide open.

All this time.

All this time, you’ve both been carrying the same fear, the same guilt, just in different directions.

And neither of you said anything.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, your hands coming up to cover his where they’re still holding your face. “Buck…”

His gaze finally meets yours again, and there’s so much vulnerability in it that it makes your heart ache.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I should’ve told you.”

“No,” you shake your head, tears slipping free despite your best efforts to hold them back. “No, I should’ve told you. I’ve been sitting there thinking I’m the problem, and you’ve been thinking the same thing, and we just…never talked about it.”

He exhales slowly, his forehead dropping forward until it rests against yours.

“Guess we’re both a little stubborn,” he murmurs.

You let out a watery laugh, the sound soft and shaky but real.

“Yeah,” you agree. “A little.”

For a moment, you just stay like that, breathing each other in, the weight of everything that’s been unspoken finally starting to lift, piece by piece.

“It’s not your fault,” you say softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“It’s not yours either,” he replies just as gently.

The words settle into something warm and steady between you, replacing the cold uncertainty that’s been there for so long.

“We’ll figure it out,” he adds after a second, his voice firmer now, more certain. “Whatever it is. Together.”

Together.

The word wraps around you like something solid, something you can actually hold onto.

You nod, leaning in to press your lips to his, the kiss soft and lingering, full of something deeper than just comfort. It’s reassurance. It’s promise.

It’s hope.

When you pull back, he nudges his nose against yours, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No more keeping this stuff from each other, okay?” he says.

“Okay,” you agree, your own smile coming a little easier now.

He presses one more kiss to your lips, then pulls you back into his arms, holding you close like he never plans to let you go.

Inside, Professor Barnes, who has the reputation for being the toughest grader in the department and object of half the campus’ unrequited crushes, looks up from his desk, one brow arched, red pen hovering whatever he had been grading, silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

You recognize it immediately, the slightly judgemental expression of someone who was not expecting to have his work interrupted with even as much as a knock; but the moment he notices the expression on your face, your hands still shaking with adrenaline, his own shifts from professional uptightness to something much softer. A soft look you’ve come to know, too, after the two of you began a secret relationship a little over four months ago.

“Sorry,” you say, already stumbling through words. “Sorry, I know I didn’t knock, I just—"

 “Come in. Lock the door.” His voice drops, shifting from Professor Barnes to your James in the space of a few words.

You do just that. Then you stand there, backpack still hanging off one shoulder, hands twisting the strap.

“I’m freaking out about the European History exam,” you start. Professor Barnes shows no signs of being bothered by you immediately firing information his way.

“Sit down first.”

“I can’t sit down, James. I’ve been sitting for the past four hours, trying to—" You drop your bag onto the floor and start pacing the narrow strip of space between his bookshelf and the leather couch pushed against the wall. “I completely bombed it, okay? I know I did. Question three asked about the socioeconomic impacts of the Treaty of Tordesillas. I wrote about trade routes, James. Why did I write about trade routes? That wasn’t the prompt. And then I couldn’t remember some exact years, so I guessed, and I’m pretty sure I guessed about two decades off. If I fail this exam—”

“Please, sit—”

“—my GPA drops, and if my GPA drops, I lose my seminar slot for next semester, and then my entire track is ruined, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box—”

“Love.”

You stop, the way you always stop when he calls you that, like your mind still hasn’t quite learned to process that this man, older, more experienced, with a salt and pepper beard that makes your knees weak, would want to call you love.

James is leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed with muscles straining slightly against the shirt, and watching you with a particular patient expression, despite your serpentining conversation.

“The exam is done. You're spiralling," he tells you, and the second after he is getting up from his chair and stepping into your pacing path. A hand reaches for your wrist and makes you stop in front of him. “Breathe for me?”

“I’m not breathing, I can’t breathe, I have three more finals this week and I feel like my skull is gonna fracture from the pressure,” you whine, but are already leaning into his touch, seeking the warmth of him through your most stressful moments. He lets out a sympathetic sigh, fingers curling firmer around your wrist and pulls you fully to him before he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

“There’s nothing you can do about it now.” And he’s not wrong. You open your mouth, close it, then sigh. Because there is nothing you can do about it now, and that’s somehow better, but also considerably worse. James tips your chin up with two fingers, ocean blue eyes meeting yours from behind his glasses.

“You have barely slept or eaten properly for the past week. I don’t like it. The way you chastise yourself whenever something goes wrong.” His thumb traces your jaw, and some of the tight coil in your chest loosens very much against your will. “Take a seat.” 

“James, I don’t need to—"

“I’m not asking,” he says gently, which makes it incredibly more effective than if he had said it any other way, then nods towards the leather couch. “Sit. You’ve been white-knuckling it for days, give yourself ten minutes.”

You consider it. Not because you want to sit down, not because the exam is finally slipping away from your mind, but because James has shifted into that version of him he only ever lets out when he’s near you, with you, the one that breaks down all your defenses and leaves you bare, although not unsafe. You always feel safe with him.

Slowly, you agree and take a seat on the couch, back slumping against the cushions. Your body recognizes it as home almost immediately, letting the familiarity seep into your bones and making you relax.

James crouches down in front of you and rubs one hand over your right knee.

"Still thinking about it?" he asks.

"...A little."

You sink deeper into the worn leather of the couch, the tension in your shoulders only kind of melting under the weight of his gaze. James remains crouched between your knees for a long moment, large hands taking residence on your thighs, now, thumbs stroking soothing circles through the fabric of your jeans.

“You know I’ve always got you, right? Prettiest girl I’ve ever met. Smartest, too,” he murmurs, voice wrapped in velvet. That does it quickly, for you, and you know he knows it. He showers you in praise every time, because every time your body opens to him like a flower blooming in the sunlight.

Before you can overthink it, you simply nod. There’s a brief moment where you’re sure he whispers something like ‘let me take care of you’, and you do, you let him, the permission being the way your legs gently pry open right in front of him. A shaky exhale, head falling back against the couch. All the agreement he needs.

His long fingers travel upward and make easy work of the button of your pants before peeling them down your legs slowly. James pulls your boots off, then the pants along with them, and he leans forward, mouth pressing a kiss to your left knee. Upward, to the skin of your thigh, a bit to the side, to the inside of your leg. Three days' worth of stubble prickles against you as he moves, and you make a noise, something he sees quickly as desperation, and you know the complaint is futile. When has Professor Barnes ever given you anything quicker than the exact pace he wanted to?

“Relax,” he says against your thigh, then presses his lips to the skin again, an open-mouthed kiss before he bites down so gently you are barely even able to call it a bite. “Didn’t I just say I’ve got you?”

Large hands slide from your thighs to wrap firmly around the backs of your legs, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to tug you forward on the couch, sliding your ass closer to the edge so you’re perfectly positioned for him. That’s when you open your eyes again, just in time to watch him hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and peel them down slowly, dragging the fabric along your thighs and off your ankles. And he does it all with his eyes on yours, two blue pits making you feel dizzy, but you still don’t look away. You couldn’t if you tried.

Cool air hits your now exposed pussy, making you shiver. James lets out a quiet hum of approval at the sight of you, already glistening with arousal.

“She’s always so beautiful,” a reverent whisper before his large hands wrap around your legs again and lift effortlessly to drape them over his broad shoulders, heels of your feet resting against his back. The new angle tilts your hips up towards his mouth, spreading you open for him completely, and before you can even catch your breath, or take a moment to push down the flush on your skin growing from the vulnerable way you are exposed to him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in a filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A breathy moan tears from your throat, echoing in the quiet office like a confession, and it unravels the last threads of your anxiety as pleasure rises in its place. Then James does it again, a little slower, savoring the taste of you, messy and unhurried, spit mixing with your arousal until your folds are slick and shining. On his knees in front of you, this brilliant man, esteemed professor, becomes nothing more than a servant doing worship at the altar of his Goddess. His broad shoulders carry your legs like an honor he would gladly take forever, and his eyes flutter shut as he presses closer.

He’s incredible at this; you’ve known it from the first time he fell to his knees, right here, in this office, always reading every twitch, every gasp, mouth moving with exquisite skill. Slow and indulgent at first, mostly for himself, drowning in the taste of your slick, before giving way to teasing flicks of the tip of his tongue around your swollen clit only to dip lower again, lapping messily at your entrance where your arousal flows for him.

Wetness coats his silver-streaked beard, glistening on his chin as he buries his face deeper between your thighs. The obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your fill the room, wet slurping and sucking noises, a slick glide of his tongue, an occasional hungry groan into your cunt that sends sparks flying up your spine, all of it the actions of a man who could be on his knees for hours.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the dark strands as your thighs tremble around his head. “James…”

No words come out of his mouth then, none you can understand, anyway; instead, the response comes in the way he sucks your clit between his lips, wet suction making your hips jerk, before he releases it with a lewd pop. One hand claws at your thigh, keeping your legs right in their place, while two thick fingers slide into your welcoming heat, curling against the spongy spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. James pumps them slowly, in time with the dance of his tongue over your clit.

Exam long forgotten, the world narrows to nothing but him, the way his blue eyes will sometimes flick up to watch you through fogged glasses, dark with lust and adoration. Only when he needs to take a moment to breathe, a quick one, enough to allow him to keep going for as long as you need him to, does he speak again.

“Goddess,” he whispers teasingly, slowing his fingers as if to get your attention. Your head tilts forward and you watch him through hooded eyes. “Will you cum for your most loyal subject?”

You huff in soft frustration, the sound breaking into another shaky moan as your body refuses to cooperate with your irritation. Because the edge is so close, molten in your belly, and here he is, being a wicked scholar and working you through comedic words.

“James, don’t… fuck, I’m so close, don’t play with me right now…” you manage, trying to reprimand him. But even as you say it, your cunt betrays you completely, clenching hard around his fingers, fluttering and squeezing with need and pulling them deeper as slick coats his hand.

Your favorite Professor gleams with amusement, lips curled into a devastating half-smirk, swollen and shiny. “You like it when I’m funny. You’ve told me before.”

You want to protest, but he curls his fingers again, strokes the perfect spot and dips his head again, sucking your swollen bud with perfect pressure, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly in a rhythm that makes your vision spark white. For a second, he slips his fingers out and instead fucks you with his tongue, thrusting it inside you, before dragging it back up to torture your clit again while his fingers move back to their rightful place. His free hand grips your thigh harder, holding you open for him as you start to grind against his face, chasing the pleasure.

The combination is merciless. Frustration melts instantly into overwhelming pleasure, and another broken moan rips from your throat as your thighs tighten around his shoulders, heels digging into his back. Every stroke, every suck makes the coil in your belly tighten, pulling you deeper into a sea of sensation where exams and fears cannot reach. His beard scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin with every movement of his head, and arousal drips down his chin onto the leather couch, but he only presses closer, as if he would gladly drown in you.

And just like that, your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, sudden and blinding. You cry out sharply, back arching off the couch as pleasure tears through every nerve in your body. James moans against your pussy like a man receiving divine absolution, your walls pulsing and fluttering around his fingers, gushing against his mouth. And he drinks down every drop of you until your trembling begins to quiet down, slowly easing his movements before pressing a couple of tender, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive pussy and to your inner thighs.

Still, he keeps your legs draped over his shoulders a moment longer, gazing at you through glasses that look slightly uneven with the most loving expression you have ever seen on a man. Breathless and floating, you manage to meet his eyes, and you smile at the sight of your brilliant professor on his knees, face glistening with the evidence of your pleasure.

“You’re trouble,” you whisper, though the words carry no real heat in them. James is busy kissing down your legs, lips reaching softly to every inch of skin, but he smiles in the midst of it.

“Trouble?” he repeats, feigning offense. “My goddess calls me trouble after I’ve knelt here and offered proper tribute? How cruel.”

You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a soft gasp when he nips gently at the crease of your thigh.

“You do know I love you, right? Even when you’re being silly while going down on me.”

That makes him smile wider. “I reckon you love me especially when I’m being silly while going down on you.”

And he’s not wrong at all.

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Both you and Rick walked out of the house, with him holding you upside against him because you had just finished giving Carl your blood. 

You feel light headed and nauseous, but you knew it had to be done. 

“Carefully.” Rick grunted out, before bringing you over to the porch’s railing and had you lean your weight against it, with his hand staying on your upper back just in case, “Stay seated here. Don't want you running off somewhere, too.” 

“It's not like I can walk on my own right now.” You grumbled, leaning your head into the pillar beside you. “I feel like shit. It's not a feeling you want to feel when looking for someone.” 

“Fair point.” Rick chuckled dryly, placing his free hand on his hip as he looked out into the distance. 

The air between you two grew silent, unspoken words lingering and hanging above your heads like a guillotine, but neither of you wanted to speak, so you let the silence hang comfortably. 

Not a minute after the two of you walked out of the house, the front door creaked open. 

Rick looked over, eyebrows furrowed, before looking away to admire the entirety of Hershel's farm. “This place is beautiful.”  

“Been in my family 160 years.” Hershel huffed out, proud. 

“I can't believe how serene it is.” Rick commented, turning to look at the doctor again. “How untouched. You're lucky.” 

“We.. We weren't completely unscathed.” Hershel grumbled, keeping his eyes on the field in front of his house, a look of sadness crossing his gaze, “We lost friends, neighbors. The epidemic took my wife, my stepson.” 

“I’m sorry.” The cop said, lowering his gaze. 

“My daughters were spared.” Hershel added, casting a brief glance towards Rick. “I'm grateful to God for that. These people here, all we have left of each other. Just hoping we can ride it out in peace ‘till there's a cure.”

“Cure.” You echoed, voice low and quiet, as you snorted. 

“What's so funny, girl?” The old man asked, his gaze flickering towards the back of your head. 

There's no cure, Hershel. Everyone is infected. You thought, leaning all of your weight against the pillar beside you and ignoring him, just letting yourself become invisible as much as you could before Lori arrives. 

It's her job to soothe Rick's pain, not yours. When you offered comfort towards the crying cop, Hershel mistook you as his wife. It made you uncomfortable— super uncomfortable. Rick is a married man and Lori is still alive. Being mistaken as someone's wife when that someone is married to a living person makes you feel sick to your stomach. 

You have to set a clear boundary. You let out a sigh, and Rick took that as a cue to tell Hershel what happened back at the CDC. 

“We were at the CDC.” The former sheriff started, his eyes looking out in the field once more. “It's gone now. Exploded. There is no cure.” 

But of course, the old man is stubborn. 

“I don't believe it.” Hershel chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “When AIDS came along, everyone panicked. One boy in town came down with it and some parents pulled their children from school, so they didn't have to sit in the same room.”

“This is a whole other thing, doc.” You grumbled, making both men look at you. 

“That's what we always say..” Hershel rebutted to your words, causing you to let out a deep breath and shake your head in disappointment. “This one's different.”  

“Well, this one is.” Rick insisted. 

“Mankind has been fighting plagues from the start.” Hershel huffed, the stubbornness in his voice loud and clear. “We get our behinds kicked for a while, then we bounce back. It's nature correcting herself, restoring some balance.” 

“I wish I could believe that.” The cop sighed, looking away from Hershel to glance at the field. 

You could see Maggie and Lori from your spot, so you're sure that Rick and Hershel could see them, too. The sheriff deputy didn't waste any time to let go of your back and walked around the doctor to get down the porch steps, meeting his wife halfway. 

“That's his wife.” You muttered, causing Herself to look at you. “They've been married since before shit hit the fan.” 

Rick and Lori rushed inside the house, not bothering to give the doctor a look. Hershel didn't stop them, just letting them run towards their unconscious little boy. He knows he’s in no place to comment about your relationship with anyone. You’re a stranger. 

“Huh.” The veterinarian mumbled, tearing his gaze away from the screen door. “I'm sorry for assuming.” 

“No need.” You huffed, weakly waving him off with your left hand, “I suggest walking inside to check up on them. Rick looks like he will collapse any moment now, you know?” 

“You look as bad as him.” Maggie commented, her gaze flickering towards you. 

“Touche.” You chuckled, but the sound was forced. 

The father and daughter could tell that it was a forced one, but they decided to not just comment on it. Maggie sent her father a nod before walking away with the horse she used to pick up Lori from the group. 

“Come on.” Hershel spoke up and walked over to the door. “The little boy needs more blood.” 

“Can't Rick do it for now?” 

“Rick first, then you.” Hershel explained, opening the screen door and waiting for you. “We can't take too much blood from him and risk him collapsing. There's two of you, so we'll make do with you, too.” 

You pursed your lips and didn't move for a second. You wanted to see if Herself is testing you,or kidding you. When you were watching the show, Rick did just fine donating blood to his son— albeit he looked like a ghost after every transfusion, but he still managed to do it just fine. 

So, what's the difference now? 

“(Last name).” Hershel called you once more, his tone sounding a little firm. “Come on.” 

“Alright.” You grumbled, swinging your legs and planting your feet down onto the porch. “I was hoping that I'll get to let my heart pump more blood for me before it's my turn to give blood, but I guess not.” 

Hershel didn't say anything to that and let you walk inside the house first. He made sure to see you walk inside the room where Carl was before he followed behind you. He walked inside the room, his eyes landing on his stethoscope and the blood pressure monitor on the bedside table. 

You walked over to the vacant seat and settled yourself over it, your hand quickly finding purchase on your head. 

Half an hour passed and Rick was done donating his blood to his son. Patricia walked over to the chair Rick was sitting on and pulled the needle out before turning to Carl to pull out the needle from his arm. 

Rick stood up, legs wobbling. 

“Slow, slow, slow.” Lori mumbled, holding out a hand to assist her husband back to his seat. “How many transfusions?” 

“Two.” Rick answered, breathing ragged. “Only two.” 

Lori paused for a second, then shook her head. “He wanted to do the same for you when you were in the hospital. I had to talk him out of it.” 

You and Rick snorted at that, making Lori look at you.  

“If you knew how much Carl was devastated when he couldn't do a transfusion for both you and his dad, you would have a hard time making him stop crying, too.” Lori huffed, the tone of her voice light-hearted, but you could tell that she was telling the truth. 

You forced a smile on your face and nodded. Honestly, you can't remember much about what happened, about what happened to you for you to be shot, and how bad the wound was for you to be sent to the hospital. 

When you woke up, you didn't feel any pain in your body. You haven't checked properly— especially back at the CDC, but you know for sure that you weren't shot. If you were, you would have been as disoriented as Rick when he first came around, but you weren't. You were far from disoriented. 

Rick and the others who knew you told you that you're a computer genius, but what really is your work? 

You could hunt, you could handle a knife just fine, you could throw the said knife with lethal precision, you could see trails only a seasoned hunter could see, you could differentiate a trail from a human to an animal, and you could climb trees as if you were a monkey. 

An office lady who's a computer genius couldn't have known how to do those things, right? 

What was the (Full name) of this world doing? What was she doing before she settled in Rick's town? What was her goal approaching the main cast of the show? 

You have so many unanswered questions, but all that is left is a deafening silence. You still have a few fragments in your mind, but the memories left on your brain aren't enough to actually give you the full backstory of the body you're inhabiting. You could only trust the snippets Rick, Lori, and Carl are telling you, but you don't know how many more of those snippets will come up in the near future. 

Silently, you watched as the married couple walked out of the room, leaving you, Patricia, and Hershel. 

You stood up from your chair and walked over to where Rick was previously sitting, then you dropped your whole weight into it, making the chair creak unceremoniously. Patrica didn't seem to mind at all, because she merely grabbed your arm and looked at your skin to see where she could stab the needle. 

“Have you and Rick known each other for a long time?” Hershel asked, just in time for Patricia to push the needle into your skin. 

You flinched and let out a groan, but you didn't pull away. 

“Yeah, it seems so.. What about it?” You answered, your eyes squeezing shut as you bear with the stinging sensation of the needle left behind. 

“Seems so?” The doctor prodded, pulling the stethoscope away from his ears. 

“Can't remember much.” You grumbled, slowly cracking your eyes open when you felt Patricia pat your shoulder. “They said I was shot, but I really can't remember much. I just woke up in the hospital with Rick. That's it.” 

“You were shot, but you can't remember?” Hershel repeated, turning his head to look at you. “Do you have any medical history that you remember about?” 

You answered his question with a shake of your head. 

You don't even know why you're entertaining the old man's inquiries. You haven't talked this much since you and Rick's group left the Quarry, but with Hershel, he made it feel like everything will be okay— that it's okay to let your guard down and be honest.

It's a weird feeling. It's the same feeling you get whenever you go to visit your grandfather and uncle.  

Your grandfather.. He was a stoic, overzealous, pious man, but he's fair, he's just, and he's not always regarding every single thing in life from the Bible. He loves his family, and he's always there whenever his grandchildren need a helping hand about something. He's a man of a few words, but those few words always leave an impact on who it was directed at. 

Your grandfather and Hershel, they're somehow the same. Stoic, but kind. Diplomatic, but would keep a job done. 

Maybe that's why you feel safe and relaxed around Hershel. He looked kind of similar to your grandfather in a way— with his white hair and beard and all that shit.  

You looked over to Hershel, finding him already staring at you, patiently waiting for your answer. 

You huffed and shook your head, eyebrows furrowing. “Told you, didn't I? I can't remember much. I couldn't even remember why I was shot, or why I was in the hospital in the first place.” 

“Perhaps you hit your head?” Hershel suggested, standing up from his seat. “Maybe you got shot and hit your head in the process. It's not uncommon to happen, but that could also be the case.” 

“That's one hell of a hit then.” You muttered, shifting in your chair. 

You were dropped off rather unceremoniously into the palace, your new home. You peaked underneath your veil to catch a glimpse of the place you'd live in for the rest of your days. With its high walls and guards patrolling every corner, the place felt more like a prison than a palace. Still, you supposed there were worse fates than being married to the most powerful man in the country.

Your veil blocking your view, you were guided by hands with faces unknown. They were most definitely servants of the palace, your new assigned attendants. While some concubines were able to bring their childhood ladies in waiting with them, you were afforded no such luxury. 

Up until recently, your family had been too poor to afford servants. Which meant you did all the menial chores and housework while your brother struggled to earn a few copper coins on the street. You wondered if you'd ever get used to having people serving you after a life of grueling work. You wondered if you'd ever become accustomed to the luxury of the palace after living in abject poverty. Probably not, but who were you to complain?

The palace attendants dutifully guided you to your new courtyard and room, sitting you down on your new bed with measured care. With the veil on you could only really see your feet, but you could still catch glimpses of the room. 

The servants hadn't even bothered to decorate the place. You stared at the dark blue comforter. They hadn't even bothered to switch it to a red one despite knowing it was your wedding. You guessed they knew that the Emperor wouldn't bother seeing his new bride, and so they didn't bother with any of the usual formalities.

Still, customs were customs. So you sat there waiting patiently for the groom you've never once met. You sat for hours upon hours, watching the sun gradually set  through the corners of your opaque veil. Finally, your maid, Li Hua, as you've recently learned, spoke up. 

“It seems His Majesty is busy tonight. I think your ladyship would not be scolded for going to bed a little early,” Li Hua said politely. That's fine. You weren't arrogant enough to expect the Emperor's attention, let alone a fairytale wedding.

With an exasperated sigh, you tore off your own wedding veil. You were breaking an age-old tradition, but who cares?  It's not like your groom was there to take it off for you. You were glad to finally take it off, you felt as if you could finally breathe. Now you could take in your new room and subsequently your new life in full. 

As far as palace accommodations went, you shortly didn't draw the short end of the stick. You had your own room that was fairly sizable and fully furnished. Although other consorts and concubines might have complained about its simplicity, this was far more than you ever expected. All in all, you were satisfied. No, more than that, you were happy. It looked like a quaint little place to live quietly.

That night you went to bed early, knowing you had to get up before dawn the next day to greet the Empress. You dozed off dreaming of  lower walls. 

---

The next morning, you woke before the crack of dawn to greet the Empress. As a newly appointed Imperial Concubine in his Majesty's harem, you dared not shirk this responsibility. The last thing you wanted was to be branded as another arrogant mistress. Or to draw undue attention to yourself. 

You spent the morning scrambling through your wardrobe for something elegant but plain. You were terrified of being underdressed but at the same time feared potentially insulting the Empress if you showed up in your finest. 

 Dressed in the least offensive clothing you could find, you went to Her Majesty's courtyard just after the sun settled in the sky. Her courtyard was filled to the brim with white chrysanthemums. An odd choice of flower for an Empress, but you supposed no one dared to comment on it. 

While entering her Majesty's palace residence, you kept your eyes down. Your head was slightly bowed as you entered, your maid in tow. You took note of the other ladies of the palace seated in the room. It looks like her Majesty was having an early morning tea party.

 Without looking up, you took a few steps closer to Her Majesty. Once you were but a few feet away from her, you bowed as elegantly as you could while sitting on your knees. 

“This Imperial Consort greets Your Majesty the Empress,” you said, as if reciting lines from a play. You dare meet her gaze.  Your knees ached against the hardwood floor as you waited on baited breath for Her Majesty to acknowledge you.

After what felt like eternity, the Empress finally deigned to spare your knees. 

“No need for formalities. Please, rise.”

You were happy not to have to kneel for much longer, but you knew better than to let your guard down so soon. Slowly, you raised your head from its bow. As you were about to rise from your knees, you paused. 

You had never seen the Empress before. Sure you've seen plenty of portraits of her. Now, finally face to face with Empress Yujing, you could say that none of them have done her any justice. 

All of her portraits painted her as soft and matronly. In reality, that couldn't be farther from the truth. You could only compare her to a blade glimmering in candlelight before a strike. Or perhaps a long necked heron moments before snapping the neck of its prey. 

Her long, dark hair was pinned elaborately in place, adorned by fine silver and pearl ornaments. Her robes were made of the finest silk, with careful silver embroidery. Her earrings alone could have bought your brother a brand new calligraphy set. You couldn't help but stare for a moment to take in such a rare beauty draped in decadence.

At the sight of staring, the Empress’ red painted lips pulled into a smile. 

A sharp cleverness lingered in her pitch black eyes, one that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand. You realized she was watching you. Waiting.

You stood, straightening your back completely. Making sure your eyes were glued to the ground, you put on the most polite smile you could muster. Empress Yujing seemed like the discerning type, one you definitely did not want to offend.

“Most bring me a gift when they first come to pay their respects.” The Empress said with a slight lilt to her voice. Every word she spoke sounded as if she were reciting some forgotten poem. “I wonder, what have you brought, Little Concubine?”

You blanched. Your family was all but inconsequential until recently, so you weren't caught up on the proper etiquette. You had no idea that you had to bring a gift for Her Majesty. Her eyes leered at you expectantly as she hid her obvious smile behind the sleeves of her formal dress. 

All eyes in the room were on you. You could hear some of the other concubines and consorts poorly hide their own chuckles and smirks. In Her Majesty's serving parlor, their judgment upon you was a tangible weight upon your shoulders. 

Your mouth worked quicker than your mind could process.

“I did not bring a gift for your Majesty,” you confessed honestly. The onlooking consorts either feigned offense or outright laughed at your misfortune. None extended their sympathy to you. You hid your own emotions behind a wall of polite indifference. “If your Majesty will allow it, I have something else to offer you.”

By the grace of the heavens or by sheer boredom, Her Majesty nodded, granting you permission to continue. 

You extended your hands out to her in thanks, as if worshipping a deity. You supposed you were, in a sense. If The Emperor was chosen by the heavens, why couldn't his wife be as well?

“Your Majesty,” you began. “ This Concubine was born to a family of scholars, but I do not have the same gift with words as my brother. This Concubine is of humble origins, so I have nothing worthy to give you.” You inhaled deeply, readying yourself for whatever was to come for your next words. “All I can offer is my most sincere loyalty to you.”

You bowed again, this time fully prostrating yourself. Your forehead touched the ground. A beat of silence passed.

 A chill crept over your exposed neck. You wondered if a blade hung there, waiting to execute you. If the Empress would accept your humble gift or would plot your death where you stood. Knowing some of the rumors that surrounded her-- perhaps both. 

“Loyalty?” The Empress said aloud, as if pondering the meaning of the word. You could hear the slight surprise in her voice. Perhaps no one has ever offered her such a thing before? 

“Very well.” She said plainly. You could almost cry in relief. “I accept your gift.”

“Really?!” You raised your head a little too quickly, almost beaming. The smile on your face was genuine, but this was neither the time nor the place. You corrected yourself immediately, closing your lips. “This humble servant offers her most sincere gratitude to Your Majesty.”

Your Majesty seemed to smile back at you. Maybe you had misjudged her. Maybe she was more than the cold exterior she gave off. 

A slow sip of a tea cup you hadn't even realized she'd been holding.

“Of course, someone loyal would kneel in a courtyard to demonstrate their devotion. Perhaps for hours?”

Her voice shattered any illusion of her kindness. Of course it would never be that easy.

“Yes,” Her Majesty said, clearly speaking to herself. “I think kneeling for three hours is an appropriate display of loyalty. Don't you, Mei-mei?” 

Biting back a nasty expression as well as an even nastier comment, you extended another curt bow. While the Empress phrased it like a suggestion, you really didn't have a choice in the matter. If the Mother of the nation wished for it, you could only comply. You willed your expression into neutrality. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

---

Three hours later and your knees were killing you. It was bad enough that almost  every person who passed you- regardless of their rank- sneered at you. The only person who stood by you solemnly was your maid Li Hua. When she tried to kneel alongside you, you insisted she shouldn't suffer from your mistake. By the time your punishment had passed, the sun was already starting to set. 

You stood, your legs shaking like a newborn doe. Your knees were probably bruised like hell, but you had lost all feelings in your leg by hour two. Li Hua helped you stand, letting you use her as support as your legs trembled uncontrollably.

 It was a genuine struggle to get back to your room, but what a relief it was to collapse into your bed. 

“I think the Empress hates me,” you quietly confessed to your maid.

“Don't say that!” Li Hua hurried to correct you. Her eyes darted around nervously. “Someone might overhear you!”

“Let them. I think Her Majesty has made her dislike of me known to everyone in the palace already.” You groaned, burying your face into your pillow.

 That quiet, unremarkable life you imagined became more and more unattainable by the hour. You've only been here a day, and yet you've already suffered such embarrassment. How on Earth could you ever show your face in the palace now?

“I think Her Majesty and you have just started off on the wrong foot, My Lady. I'm sure you can win her over.” Li Hua started dutifully taking the decorative pins out of your hair, letting the tresses fall on your back.  “I'm sure once Her Majesty gets to know you, her heart will warm to you just like mine did.”

“Thank you, Li Hua.” You gave her a small smile.

She was now gently combing your hair, careful not to pull on any knots or tangles. “Think nothing of it, My Lady. Just have hope. The Empress will come around eventually.”

“I hope so.” You let loose another groan, followed by a sigh. You turned off your stomach and onto your back, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.”

“Keep trying, My Lady. Why don't you get some rest? I'll go do some chores.”

Completely exhausted, you nodded. Your eyes were already lulling to sleep. You thanked her weakly as you laid your head down to rest. Not a second later your eyes closed as you drifted off into sleep. This time, you dreamed of home and of a fine horse-hair ink brush meant for your brother.

---

The pain in your knees woke you up. Your eyes opened to the soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the window.  You winced, throwing the covers off you. Li Hua must have tucked you in. Honestly, you weren't sure what you had done in a past life to have found such a genuine person in such an impersonal, cold place.

In the pale light of the moon you could see the ugly purple, red, and yellow bruising littering your legs. You weren’t sure if it hurt more than it looked or vice versa. Either way, you knew you weren't sleeping soundly tonight. Drifting in and out of consciousness, you waited for morning to come.

The Sun couldn't come soon enough. Naturally, Li Hua came to your chamber to attend to you. At the sight of her legs, though, she nearly fainted. She insisted you call the royal physician, a request you vehemently denied. As if any  Imperial physicians would give you the time of day after her Majesty made her contempt for you so clear.

Confined to strict bed rest thanks to Li Hua, you spent the rest of your day idly reading. After a few hours of that, you were bored to tears. Thankfully, your boredom was cut short by a surprise visitor. 

“My Lady,” Li Hua said with a bow. You gently flicked her brow in a teasing manner as punishment. You must have told her ten times already to forego all formalities in private. 

She rubbed her forehead, sticking out her tongue at you before continuing. “Noble Consort Zhao Yanfei is here to visit you.”

At such news, you almost asked Li Hua to repeat herself. Imperial Consort Yanfei far outranked you. In fact the only person in the harem she didn't outrank was the Empress herself. Why on Earth would she dare to visit you? Especially after yesterday's turn of events?

“Let her in, Li Hua.” Regardless of your own personal astonishment, Imperial Consort Yanfei was also on the list of people you dared not offend. “And brew some tea, please.”

Not much later, you entered the receiving room. “This Imperial Concubine greets the Imperial Consort.” You moved to bow despite the pain in your knees. 

“No need,” the Imperial Consort said. “Please, sit. I'm sure you're in enough pain as it is.”

You schooled your face into a passive expression, despite her biting remarks. Has Yangfei only come to proverbially rub salt in your wound?

Still, etiquette and status demanded you not to offend her.  You sat at the table, and Li Hua came to place a steaming cup of tea in front of the both of you. You took the moment to steal a glance at Consort Yanfei.

She was beautiful in the traditional sense. Yanfei was all soft curves and features, paired with a voice smoother than satin. The spitting image of a wife and mother.  You could easily see why His Majesty favored her. No wonder she had already given birth to  a little prince and princess.

A pregnant pause filled the room as you waited for her to break the silence. 

“Ah, Mei-mei? I can call you that, right?” Yangfei finally broke the awkward silence “I heard about what happened yesterday. I feel terrible about it and wanted to extend my sympathies to you.”

You took a long sip of your tea, hoping to hide your skepticism. While you might have been new here, you weren't naive. Nothing in this palace was ever that simple. If she truly felt that way, why hadn't she advocated for you?

“I promise I'm not just saying these things to you.” Consort Yanfei reached over the table to place her hands over hers. “You remind me so much of my younger sister. Whenever I look at you, I can't help but feel great affection for you.”

The Consort looked at her maid, who wordlessly sat down a jar on the table. “This is for you. It's a medicine made with ginseng. It'll help the swelling and reduce scarring.” Consort Yanfei smiled warmly at you. Something about the tenderness in her large, warm brown eyes made you yearn from your family.

“Thank you for your concern, Imperial Consort,” you said noncommittally. Last time you believed in the kindness of someone's heart, you ended up kneeling for three hours. You wouldn't make the same mistake again. So you let her speak as you took another long sip of your tea.

Zhao Yanfei squeezed your hands reassuringly. She gave care in the strange maternal way that was so unfamiliar to you. “Mei-mei, this might be too forward but… I'm sure you heard the rumors.” Yanfei leaned closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. You assumed she was speaking the rumors going around that Empress Yujing was barren. “You seem smart, Mei-mei. Careful. I like that.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Tell me, what do you think? Do you think the Emperor favors women who are warm and gentle? Or does he prefer those who are cold and indifferent? I wonder what kind of woman would be best at his side.”

Your eyes went wide. Although she didn't say it outright, you understood perfectly what she was implying. Consort Yanfei wanted to become the next Empress and she was asking you to pick sides.

You saw Yanfei in a new light. So she wasn't all motherly warmth after all. She had to be at least a little cold to come to you now. Any person who went through what you did would reasonably hate the Empress. You currently were at your most vulnerable. Nearly anybody  with a semblance of intelligence would jump at the opportunity to make friends with a powerful ally, the only person with the means to actually be a threat to Her Majesty. Not you, though. 

You pulled her hands away from her as if she were on fire. “Apologies, Imperial Consort. I fear this Concubine cannot afford your sisterhood. I am only interested in a quiet, simple life, unbothered by the world.” You stood with some difficulty, your maid coming to help you. You refused to involve yourself with palace intrigue.

“And someone as humble as I cannot accept such an expensive gift made with such precious medicine. Please use it on yourself, Imperial Consort Zhao.”

With some help from Li Hua, you managed a courteous bow. “Thank you for your kind visit. Li Hua, please see the Imperial Consort out. I'm afraid I'm not feeling well.”

Under the mask of Zhao Yanfei's kindness and care, you could see the rage that boiled just below the surface. She was clearly annoyed. Ostensibly because you, a lowly concubine, had the gall to deny her. She picked up the jar of medicine set on the table. “I see, Imperial Concubine. Farewell.”

She left without another word.

You let your shoulders sag as soon as the coast was clear. You sighed exasperatedly. It was only your second day here, how have you managed to make not one, but two powerful enemies already?

---

The next few days were relatively peaceful. You did in fact break your strict bed rest, unable to sit still for long without being bored to tears. Despite her insistence of otherwise, you and Li Hua took turns during various chores around your courtyard. Unfortunately, your moving around most definitely slowed the healing process, but it's not like you cared. It'll heal eventually. 

About a week later, Li Hua rushed to you with a seemingly random invitation to the Empress’ palace. You obeyed, of course, but couldn't stop yourself from dragging your feet along the way. What was this summons even about? Did Her Majesty wish to bully you around even more?

This time you met her in her courtyard, surrounded by blooming white chrysanthemums. 

You felt severe deja vu as you bowed to greet the Empress once again. “This Imperial Concubine extends her greetings to Her Majesty.” 

“No need. Please, sit. Have some tea.” The Empress gestured to the padded wooden seat next to her. 

You hid your disdainful expressionless behind your billowing sleeves. Your recent experience has shown you that people are only kind in the palace for two reasons.  One: they want a favor. Two: they want to smile as they twist the knife in your back. But seeing as you had no right to refuse, you sat beside her. 

A maid handed you a steaming cup of jasmine tea. Not wanting to be impolite, you idly sipped it.

“You must hate me.” Empress Yujing said suddenly. You almost spit out the tea you were drinking. How could her Majesty be so blunt?

Did your face give it away? That was not good. You really didn't want to be punished again. Panicked, you scrambled to think of a lie to placate her.  “Your Majesty-” you started, only to be rudely cut off.

The Empress held up a delicate hand, stopping your words with just a gesture. “Your face says it plainly. You're a terrible liar.” Her Majesty only looked amused at the expression painted on her face. “Still, I find it puzzling. Why would a little concubine like yourself, who hates me, not join hands with Consort Yanfei?”

“How did you-?”

“I'm the Empress. Do you think I do not know what transpires in my own home?”

Ah, right. Empress Yujing probably had spies at every corner in the palace. No place was safe from her watchful eyes. You honestly felt stupid for even asking.

“Now, answer the question.” The Empress tapped a single painted nail against the fragile porcelain of her tea cup. You wondered if that clinking was a small sign of her impatience.

Not wanting to test her patience, any further, you answered without thinking. “Well, I swore my loyalty to you, did I not?”

Empress Yujing only smiled, and for the first time, the gesture didn't seem hollow. “Loyalty?” A light glimmered in her dark eyes in mild amusement. “What a funny word to use in this Imperial harem.”

You were getting tired of Her Majesty saying things you didn't quite understand, so your gaze wandered to the plate of pastries in front of her. 

“Well, I suppose virtue must be rewarded. Tell me, what would you like? Some medicine for your knees? Jewelry? Gold? Take your pick.”

“Respectfully, Your Majesty, loyalty can't be bought.” Your eyes flickered back to the baked goods. “...But if I might be so bold, most people give treats to people they like.”

Her Majesty laughed out loud at that. Her laughter was more carefree than you imagined. Although you never imagined you'd ever hear her laughter in the first place, she seemed entirely too high strung. “Oh really? Very well. I bestow this plate of flower cakes upon you as a reward.”

She gestured to one of her ladies in waiting. Her maid handed you the plate of confectionaries before scurrying back off from whence she came. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” you said. You stood up to bow rather clumsily thanks to your knee. 

“You are dismissed.” The Empress turned her attention back to her tea, turning the cup carefully in her hands. You tried not to be offended at the fact she treated you only like you were some form of fleeting, discardable entertainment. Like she'd had her fill of you and was now tossing you aside.

You bit your tongue as Li Hua helped you leave her garden. You reminded yourself that she was Empress Yujing of the esteemed Wei clan, the wife of the emperor, and you were a simple concubine from a nearly no-name family. There was a line between you, one you would be sure  never to cross.

Just as you were about to step foot out of the courtyard, the Empress called to you.

“Oh, and little concubine? Please come visit more often. I've heard that viewing flowers is best in pairs.”

Now that your back was turned and your face was out of sight, you could roll your eyes freely. Like you would ever be so bold as to just show up at the Empress’ palace uninvited. 

---

For the next two days, you didn't hear a word from Her Majesty. On the third day, a maid from the Empress’ palace had dropped by and delivered some medicine for your knee. The maid had said that the Empress was giving this to you because she found the look of limping puppies unsightly. 

You accepted the gift, not daring to give the Empress another excuse to punish you. Still against your best interest, you told the maid to deliver a message to her Majesty: if you'd  known she held such a high standard for strays, you would’ve limped with more grace. 

The maid came back with a letter, presumably from the Empress.

The letter contained only a short sentence written in dignified calligraphy:

“Limping, loyal dogs still visit their Master.”

The maid then gave instructions that Her Majesty insisted you frame her message on the wall and reflect on its meaning for the next three days. In other words, you were grounded.

It took everything in you not to disobey her orders, crumpled up her letter, and threw it in the trash. You knew if you did she would only think of another way to get under your skin. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that Empress was taking some sort of sick pleasure in tormenting you. 

After your brief period in isolation, you were eager to be out of your room again. Little did you know, the Empress had already made plans for you. Under her strict orders, you were to visit her courtyard for tea every day.

Every bone in your body told you not to visit the Empress for any reason. Even merely mentioning her name seemed to invite trouble on your end. Going would undoubtedly spell another punishment, but refusing the Empress’ mandate, no matter how petty the order might seem, would be treason. So, with your tail tucked between your legs, you begrudgingly went to the Empress’ palace. Alone.

--

The Empress’ back was turned to you. She was currently tending to her garden. And in the golden light of the afternoon, you couldn’t help but admire her noble bearing. Begrudgingly you had to admit that she was achingly beautiful, even when doing the most mundane of tasks.

“Are you just going to stand there?” The Empress finally spoke. Her words interrupted the sound of scissors snipping away at the bush of flowers before her. 

You snapped back into reality. For a moment, you had let yourself become so distracted by her good looks, you had forgotten basic etiquette. You bowed and greeted her as protocol demands.

The Empress waved her hand, acknowledging your greeting dismissively.

“Little Concubine,” she began. She cut off the head of a blooming chrysanthemum. Your heart broke a little at the sight of a flower cut down in its prime. “I have a gift for you.”

In an instant, she closed the distance between you. She was so close you could smell the incense she must burn in her room. The Empress tenderly tucked the white blossom in your hair.

She then withdrew as if nothing happened.

You blinked. Your hand absent-mindedly went to the flower now adorning your hair, as if to make sure it was really there. 

“Consider it a token of my favor."

“I thought you hated me,” You blurted. You immediately bit your tongue, realizing your mistake. 

“My little concubine, who could ever hate you?”

---

You left the Empress’ palace that day lost in a menagerie of thoughts. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't seem to understand her. Every time you thought you could predict her next move, she would do something completely off the wall. It was driving you insane.

Lost in the daze of your thoughts, you didn't realize someone was walking your way until you tripped. You fell plain on your rear end onto stone. That would certainly hurt tomorrow.

“How dare you bump into my Lady, the esteemed Imperial Consort?” A servant barked at you. 

You scrambled to stand and offer your apologies as quickly as possible. A knee-jerk reaction. “Imperial Consort Yanfei, please ease your anger-”

Her maid quickly cut you off. “My Lady is pregnant! Could you bear the responsibility if she or her unborn child were harmed?”

You didn’t dare raise your head or so much as look at her. All you could do was repeat the same few apologies, like an actor going over his lines. 

All the while, the maid kept barking at you endlessly. She didn't stop until her mistress stepped in.

“That's enough, Shu'er.” The Imperial Consort said, placing a comforting hand on her maid's shoulder. A neutral but amicable expression was painted on her face. “I am unharmed. And I am sure the Imperial Concubine meant nothing… by…it.”

Her words trailed off as she stared at you. It took you a moment to realize where she was staring. The white chrysanthemum in your hair. 

The immediate shift in her expression was tangible. Her kind voice turned unfeeling. Suddenly, she placed a hand over her stomach. “Oh, my poor baby. “

Your blood ran cold. It became apparent to you that you were in deep, deep trouble. You fell to your knees preemptively, already knowing where this was heading. 

You stopped all your apologies, knowing it would only fall on deaf ears now.

“Shu'er.” Her eyes, once an inviting brown, were now devoid of all life. “Strike the Imperial Concubine.”

Yangfei's maid struck you across the face. The blow was hard enough that her nails drew blood. 

“Again.”

You braced yourself for the second strike, and somehow this one was worse than the first.

“Again.”

Even in your pain, you couldn’t entirely blame her for venting her frustration out on you. You had more or less said you would remain impartial. Yet here you are, wearing an obvious sign of  her sworn enemy as an accessory. 

“Keep going until I say stop.” 

Your lip split a bit, a thin line of crimson running down your chin.  Your face was starting to swell.

Yanfei curled her nose in disgust, placing a silk handkerchief over her nose. The other concubines would only stop to stare and whisper. All the servants passing by, minded their business. Nobody did anything to stop the Imperial Consort. Nor could they. She ranked far higher than you, and therefore had the right to discipline you as she pleased.

It was your mistake. You should have watched where you were going.

“Stop.” The Consort finally said. And the slapping ceased. 

Yanfei took measured steps toward you. She knelt to where she was nearly eye-level with you. “Please don't blame me, Mei-mei, I was only protecting the imperial offspring. If I didn't punish you severely, you might have been charged with conspiracy and treason.”

You kept your scoff of disbelief to yourself. As if you would believe her honeyed words anymore.

“Oh, Mei-mei, you seem to have a weed in your hair. Let me remove it for you.” She plucked the white flower clean out of your hair, letting it fall to the ground. “Such a tacky thing isn't befitting of your status.”

And then she dug her heel into the blossom, smothering it into the stone ground. You didn’t think after such abject humiliation your heart could break any further, but it did. 

“Forget it.” 

And she strolled away casually, taking her entourage of maids with her, leaving you to lick your wounds.

---

Consort Yanfei's body was found the next morning. The entire palace was in mourning as her status demanded. 

Dressed in simple cotton mourning clothes, all the women of the Imperial harem had to pay respects to the late Consort. You included.

Your face still battered and bruised, you wore a veil so as to not make the other palace ladies uncomfortable. Still it did nothing to stop the pitiful looks and hushed whispers that followed you. No one thought you’d have the guts to show your defeated face. But you had to come. You had to see Consort Yanfei with your own two eyes. 

 The open coffin stood amongst a sea of offerings, lit candles, and incense.  You approached Consort Yanfei's body, head bowed. The official story had been that she had passed due to complications with her pregnancy.

A believable story, surely. Being pregnant and giving birth was risky and often lethal business. But one look at Consort Yanfei and you knew that it was all a lie.

It wasn't her body that gave the secret of her death away. She looked untouched, her hair and makeup meticulously done. No, not a hair on her head was disheveled or a thing out of place. Everything was pristine in her death as Consort Yanfei had been rumored to be in life.

Far enough. Deep enough.

You shiver and grip the metal beneath you. Just one push and it all goes away. You sniff, head so full it hurts, and breathe out through your lips. You can taste the river water.

One push.

One.

You can do it.

For once in your life, do something. A simple fall, a short end. That's all that's ahead of you. There's nothing else left for you. There never was anything for you. You never did anything.

So do this and be done with it. You close your eyes. You feel the rivets in the metal. You roll your shoulders.

"Well then." You say and push off.

Before you can plunge through nothingness and into the depths, a snag jars you. You dangle from some unseen obstacle, whimpering at the wrench that has your spine and neck ringing. You flail like a cat and look up at the unexpected safe fall.

The man is hunched and shadowed like a gargoyle on a stone building. You kick your legs and grab his hand, prying at in bendable fingers with a sob. "What are you doing?"

He says nothing. With no effort at all, he hauls you back onto the metal. You kick and smack at his grip. He ignores you.

"Let me go!" You plead. "I just want to go."

Not a word. Not a look. You couldn't see it in the shadow of the bridge if there was.

"Let me go." You beg weakly as you grasp wrists.

He flicks away your struggles and grabs your throat. You gasp. He squeezes until you can't breathe. Maybe he can still give you that escape.

You let your hands fall away. He tightens his hold until your throat burns and your head pounds. He lets you go and you fall back limp on your back, one leg dangling over the edge. He clucks.

Your vision pulses and your ears ring. He moves around you. He brings your hands together then your feet. You shiver and try to pull them apart. You can't.

"Why?" You croak.

The silence stirs with the noise of the water and the groan of the metal under his weight. He moves over you, feeling your pockets and clothing. He stops, his hand on your shoulder. His voice grates through the night as something dry and coarse fills your mouth.

“You can’t even take care of yourself, so why not let me.”

💓

You sink into a haze. Shock, dread, resignation. You wonder if maybe you did make it to the water and this is some twisted after life…

What else could it be? No one knew. No one cared. You didn’t tell anyone what you meant to do. Didn’t even write it in your diary. You just made up your mind. You just wanted it over.

Your lashes flutter as your eyes zero in. It’s all too real to be the last flashes of your synapses clinging to consciousness. The room is dim but vivid. Shadows gather in the mortar between thick cinder bricks; the air is still and frigid, and the chair beneath you is hard and unforgiving.

Your finger twitches and the tendon in your wrist strains. Your arms are trapped, your ankles too. Metal binds you to the wooden frame of the chair, another around your neck and forehead.

You shift futilely. What sick fate is this? Is it irony? You were so ready to give it all up that someone else stole your life away?

A sudden crackle makes you flinch. A light radiates in your vision and static fills a square screen. You blink, unable to move your head against the metal binding. You gulp as the black and grey speckles ache in your vision.

The monochrome dots blip away and white lines run up a black screen, a low click each time they reach the top of the screen. They ripple, the waves growing more intense until a vision fills the frame.

The silhouette of a bride in her veil kissing her groom appears beneath the classical wedding overture. A sterile voice says a single word as the image lingers. “Longing.” The couple begin to dance, feed each other cake, and the husband carries his wife over the threshold.

“Tidy.” The voice says.

The scene changes. A jacket being hung. Bristles dragging on tile. A tub full of bubbles surrounded by candles. The camera pans in on the spinning laundry through the window of a machine, making your dizzy.

“One.”

A man’s face flashes; blue eyes, sharp jawline, dark hair.

“Dawn.”

The morning beams warmly through windows, illuminating another pair of silhouettes before the scene switches to a garden and a trickling birdbath. The stir of water tickles in your ears and sends a cool flow down your spine.

“Apron.”

Thick hands tie the strings of an apron against a checkered dress, slowly looping and winding the bow, laying out the tails perfectly.

“His.”

The man’s eyes blink and disappear.

“Obey.”

A belt is pulled from the loops of a pair of trousers and bent in the same large hand, slapping the palm with an echoing noise.

“Bed.”

Pillows drop onto a bed, blankets are dragged down to the end, petals flutter onto the floor at the base of the frame.

“Only.”

The man again, arms outstretched.

“Home.”

The vision of a house, unmoving, standing on the screen, bold, so still it must be a picture. It stays there as the audio cuts out. The silence scrapes in your ear until you squirm then all at once it evaporates.

A whisper slowly rises from the speakers; “home, home, home, home.” The voice gets louder and louder and louder; until your eyes water and your ear drums thrum. Then, silence again. And darkness.

You sit in the void, shaking. You close your eyes and shudder. Then hear the television flick on again.

“Longing.”

💓

She’s soft, pliant as he leads her into the light. She shies away and he coaxes her further. She leans on him. She doesn’t notice that his arm doesn’t belong to him.

He takes her into the large bathroom and sits her on the small bench with the drawers in the bottom. Her clothes are dingy with the stale remnants of the river’s mist. That day on the bridge only remains in the soiled fabric.

As he tries to pull away, she grabs onto him. Her lashes flick wide. Bucky knows that look. He used to see it in the mirror. That glassy distance. On her, it’s not so bad.

“Doll, I’m just gonna get you washed up.”

She stares at him and nods, her hands slipping down his forearm. The sensation is like cool rain on a hot day, or sunshine after a grey winter. He smiles. Her lips tremble then she does the same.

“Yes, honey.” She lowers her hands to her lap and stares ahead.

He begins. He cuts off her clothes. She does react. Not even as he pauses to admire those parts of her that make him salivate.

When he is done with that, he fills the large basin of the tub. He goes to her but thinks twice of getting her up just yet. He undresses then goes to her.

He brings her in the tub with him. He can take his time. He doesn’t have to hurry. He leans her against him and sighs. She’s stiff and squirmy. He runs his hands up her sides.

“Doll, relax. I got you.”

He feels her obey. She slackens against his chest and lets her head rest on his shoulder. He strokes her stomach.

“Good.” He praises as he draws little swirls on her skin.

This is all he wanted. To feel someone close. To have someone who can never go away. To not have to be afraid.

The gas station lights buzzed overhead like dying insects, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. You sat on the curb outside the convenience store, knees pulled to your chest, the concrete cold through your thin dress. The hem had ridden up hours ago but you didn’t care. Your heels were kicked off beside you, one strap broken from when you’d stumbled out of the party. The night air smelled like gasoline, stale beer, and the faint sweetness of your own vanilla perfume clinging desperately to your skin.

You were drunk. The world felt soft and blurry around the edges, but your thoughts stayed painfully sharp. Your best friend’s voice still echoed in your head, the ugly things she’d said, the way her face had twisted when she told you to grow up. You had laughed in her face then, but now the laugh was gone and all that was left was the hollow ache in your chest.

Your phone screen glowed weakly in your lap. Uber still said twelve minutes. You refreshed it again. Still twelve. The little car icon hadn’t moved in forever.

You tipped your head back against the brick wall and closed your eyes. The spinning started immediately so you opened them again. A moth kept throwing itself at the fluorescent light above you, over and over, until it finally fell to the ground twitching. 

Headlights swept across the lot. You didn’t look up at first. Just another stranger stopping for gas or cigarettes or whatever people did at 1:17 a.m.

But the truck stopped right in front of the pumps closest to you. The engine cut off. You felt the shift in the air before you even saw him.

Rafe Cameron stepped out.

He looked the same as always. Tall, broad, expensive hoodie hanging off his shoulders like it cost more than your rent. Hair messy from the wind, eyes already scanning the lot like he owned it. When his gaze landed on you, something flickered across his face. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over to the pump and started filling up his truck, the numbers on the display clicking higher and higher. You could smell the gasoline mixing with his cologne. It felt familiar in the worst way.

After a minute he glanced over at you again. His voice came out low, rough around the edges like he’d been drinking too.

“What are you doing out here, baby?”

You laughed once. Soft. Bitter. The sound scraped your throat.

 “Waiting for my Uber.”

He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense. The pump clicked off. He didn’t move to put the nozzle back. Just stood there looking at you, eyes dragging over your bare legs, your smudged mascara, the way your dress clung to you from the humidity.

“You look fucked up,” he said. Not mean. Just honest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. You pulled your knees closer to your chest. “Rough night.”

He leaned against the truck, arms crossed. The vape in his hand glowed red as he took a slow hit. Smoke curled out between his lips and disappeared into the night.

“Fight with your friend again?”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged. He always knew. Somehow, he always knew when you were like this, when the world felt too heavy, and you wanted someone to make it go away for a little while. Even if that someone was him.

Rafe took another hit. Exhaled slow.

“I can drive you,” he said. Simple. Like it was nothing. “Wherever you’re going. Save the money.”

You shook your head. The movement made the parking lot tilt. 

“It’s fine. Uber’s coming in like… ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” he repeated. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You really wanna sit here alone for ten minutes looking like that?”

You didn’t answer. Your fingers found the hem of your dress and twisted it. The fabric was damp from the ground. You felt exposed. Seen. 

He stepped closer. The glow from the station lights caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes stayed fixed on you.

“Come on,” he said softer. “Get in the truck. I’ll take you home. Or wherever. Doesn’t matter.”

You looked up at him. Really looked. He was offering more than a ride. He always did. Bottles of expensive vodka. Little orange pills that made everything fuzzy and sweet. Weed so strong it knocked you out for hours. Things that made you feel special. Wanted. 

Your phone buzzed in your lap. Uber still said twelve minutes.

You bit your lip. Hard.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Rafe’s face didn’t change much, but you saw the small, satisfied shift in his eyes. He opened the passenger door for you. The truck smelled like him; leather, cologne, and weed. You climbed in slowly, careful not to flash him more than you already had. He closed the door behind you like he was sealing something.

When he got in on the driver’s side, the truck felt smaller. He started the engine, and the low rumble vibrated through the seat.

“Where to?” he asked, glancing over at you.

You shrugged. “Anywhere but here.”

He let out a short breath through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. His hand squeezed your thigh once, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he was there.

“Anywhere, huh?” he said. “That’s dangerous. You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched the road, the way the yellow lines disappeared under the truck. Rafe took another slow hit from his vape before he spoke again.

“I got some people at the house,” he continued. Casual. Like it was nothing. “Topper, Kelce, couple girls. Nothing crazy. Just drinking. Smoking. You should come.”

You turned your head slightly. The dashboard lights caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes stayed on the road but kept flicking back to you. You knew what hanging out meant with Rafe. Bottles on the counter. Lines cut neatly on the marble. Music loud enough to drown out the thoughts in your head. 

You should have said no. You had work tomorrow. You had told yourself you were done chasing this feeling. But the thought of going home alone, sitting in your quiet room with nothing but your own thoughts and the memory of your best friend’s angry voice… it felt worse than anything.

So you didn’t say no.

Instead, you looked over at him and whispered, “Okay.”

Rafe’s mouth curved into that small, satisfied smirk he got when he knew he had you. His hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb brushing the hem of your dress.

“Yeah?” he said, voice dropping lower. “Good. Because I wasn’t really asking.”

The truck sped up just a little. You leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes. The spinning started again, so you opened them. Rafe’s hand stayed on your leg the whole time, heavy and warm, like an anchor. 

After a few minutes, he spoke again, casual, like he was talking about the weather.

“You must have really had a shit night. That friend of yours always acts like she’s better than everybody?”

You nodded once. Your throat felt tight.

 “Yeah. We got into it. She said some stuff.”

Rafe made a low sound in his throat. 

“Fuck her. She doesn’t know shit about you. Not like I do.”

His fingers flexed on your thigh. Not painful. Just enough to make you feel it.

“You know you’re better off without her, right?” he continued. “All those Pogues do is drag you down. Make you think you need to be some sad little victim. You don’t need that. You got me.”

You stayed quiet. The words felt too heavy to argue with right now. Rafe took it as agreement.

The rest of the drive passed in a haze. You kept your eyes on the passing trees, the way the dark blurred into streaks of black and silver. Every so often, Rafe’s hand would drift higher, thumb slipping under the hem of your dress, brushing bare skin. You didn’t stop him. There was something comforting about the way he touched you. 

When you pulled up to the Cameron house, the lights were already on. Music thumped low from inside. Rafe parked in the circular driveway and killed the engine. For a second, he just sat there, looking at you in the dark.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked. Softer this time.

You nodded. Your fingers found the back of your neck again, pulling gently at the strands there. The sting helped. It always did.

“Yeah,” you lied. “I’m good.”

He leaned over and kissed your temple. Slow. Lingering. His lips were warm against your skin.

“Alright. Let’s go inside.”

You followed him up the wide front steps. The door was already unlocked. Topper was sprawled on the big leather couch, laughing at something on his phone. Kelce was pouring drinks at the kitchen island. Two girls you didn’t recognize were sitting on the counter, legs swinging, eyes glassy and bright.

Rafe’s hand stayed on your lower back as he guided you in. 

“Look who I found,” he said, voice loud enough to cut through the music. “She was sitting outside the gas station.”

Topper looked up and grinned. “No shit. Rough night?”

You forced a small smile. “Something like that.”

One of the girls handed you a red cup without asking. The liquid inside was dark and sweet. You took a long sip. It burned going down, but the burn felt good. Familiar. You chased it with another sip, then another. The alcohol mixed with whatever was already in your system and made the edges of the room soften just a little more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The music pulsed low and heavy through the house, bass vibrating up through the floor and into your bones. Everything felt soft and distant now, like you were floating just above your own body. You were on Rafe’s lap on the big leather couch, your dress riding high on your thighs, his arm locked around your waist like a seatbelt. His chest rose and fell against your back, warm and steady. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and erratic from whatever he’d done earlier.

You didn’t remember how you got here exactly. One minute you were standing near the kitchen, the next Rafe had pulled you down onto him without asking, murmuring something about how you looked better close. You were too drunk to argue. The pill from earlier had melted the edges of everything into something warm and blurry. Your head felt heavy. Your thoughts moved slow, like swimming through thick honey.

Rafe’s hand rested high on your thigh, fingers slipping under the hem of your dress every so often. He wasn’t hiding it. Topper glanced over once and smirked but said nothing. One of the girls raised her eyebrows but looked away when Rafe stared at her. He kept feeding you drinks. Every time your cup got low he’d take it from your hand, refill it himself, and press it back to your lips like you were something he owned. “Drink,” he’d say quietly, almost sweet. You did. The liquor burned less each time. Everything burned less.

You were so drunk you barely registered the way his fingers kept moving higher, brushing bare skin. It felt far away. Like it was happening to someone else.

The brunette girl sitting on the arm of the couch tilted her head and looked at you with a lazy, half-drunk smile. “You always look kinda sad, even when you’re smiling. Resting sad girl face or something?”

You laughed it off, the sound weak and floaty. “Yeah… that’s just my face.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt Rafe’s whole body go rigid behind you. His hand stopped moving on your thigh. The air around him changed, like the temperature dropped.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just sat there for a long second, breathing steady against your back. Then he stood up slowly, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. His grip on your arm was firm but not rough. Not yet. He guided you toward the kitchen with a hand on your lower back, smiling at the group like everything was normal.

“Come on, baby,” he said casually. “Let’s get you another drink.”

The others went back to talking, but you could feel their eyes on you. Curious. Watching.

In the kitchen, Rafe pulled you around the island, still in full view of the living room. He kept one hand on your lower back, the other reaching for the small mirror on the counter. A thin white line was already cut neat across it. He didn’t look at you at first. Just stared down at the powder like he was thinking.

“You embarrassed me out there,” he said quietly. His voice was low, controlled, the way it got when he was really angry but didn’t want anyone else to know. “Laughing like that. Looking all sad in front of my friends. Acting like you don’t want to be here.”

You tried to focus on his face, but the room kept tilting. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean-”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger to your lips. Gentle. Warning. “You’re gonna fix it. Right now. In front of everyone. Show them you’re happy to be here. Show them you’re here with me.”

He turned you toward the mirror. His hand stayed on the back of your neck, not pushing hard, just holding you there. Firm. Unyielding. You could feel the others watching from the couch. No one said anything. No one stopped him.

“I don’t… I can’t,” you whispered. Your voice sounded far away. “I’m already too fucked up.”

Rafe leaned in close, lips brushing your ear so only you could hear. His breath was hot against your skin.

“You can,” he said softly. “And you will. Because if you don’t, I’m gonna take you upstairs and remind you why you should have. And I won’t be nice about it.”

His fingers flexed on the back of your neck. Not painful. Not yet. Just enough to make you understand.

You leaned down. The burn hit sharp and chemical. Your head snapped back. The room spun harder. Rafe’s hand stayed on your neck the whole time, steady, like he was proud of you. Like he owned you.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s my girl.”

He turned you around slowly, pulling you back against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist again, tight. He kissed the side of your head in front of everyone, soft and sweet, as if nothing had happened.

“Smile,” he whispered against your hair. “Act like you’re happy.”

You forced your lips into a smile. It felt like plastic.

The group went back to talking like nothing had happened. But you could feel their eyes on you. Curious. Pitying. Amused.

Rafe kept you close the rest of the night. Every time you tried to pull away even a little, his fingers dug in harder. His hand stayed under your dress, higher now, touching you openly while he laughed with Topper like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You were so drunk you barely registered it.

But somewhere deep down, under all the haze and numbness, you felt it.

The slow, quiet humiliation.

The way he was marking you.

The way everyone saw it.

And no one did anything to stop it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The music had been turned down low, nothing but a slow bass thumping through the walls now. topper sprawled on the couch scrolling his phone, Kelce mixing one last drink at the island, and the two girls whose names you kept forgetting laughing softly about something on their screens. 

You were still leaning against Rafe near the front door, head heavy, legs unsteady. The silence felt louder than the music had. You looked up at him, voice slurred and tired.

“Can you take me home?” you asked. “Please. I’m really fucked up.”

Rafe nodded right away, an easy smile sliding into place for the others still lingering by the door. “Yeah, of course. Let’s get you home.”

Topper clapped him on the back as he left. “See you later, man. Take care of her.”

Rafe smiled that perfect Kook smile. “Always do.”

The second the door shut and they were gone, the smile disappeared.

His hand tightened on your lower back, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He didn’t move toward the truck. He just stood there in the quiet foyer, breathing through his nose, staring at the closed door like he was trying to decide something.

You shifted on your feet, the room tilting slightly. “… you said you’d take me home.”

He turned to you slowly. His eyes were dark, glassy from everything he’d done tonight. The polite mask was completely gone.

“You embarrassed me,” he said. Voice low. Flat. Dangerous. “In front of my friends. Sitting there looking all depressed like I dragged you there against your will. Laughing at that bitch’s joke like it was funny. Like you didn’t even want to be there with me.”

You blinked slowly, trying to catch up. The words felt far away. Your head was still spinning from the drinks and the pill. “I wasn’t… that’s just my face. I was tired. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Shut up.” His voice cut through yours, sharp and cold. “You think I didn’t see it? The way you were acting? Like some sad fucking charity case I picked up off the street. You made me look weak.”

You tried to step back, but his hand on your lower back kept you there. Your stomach twisted. The emptiness from earlier ached in a dull, hollow way. You felt sick. Scared. Confused. You didn’t understand why he was so angry. You had done everything he wanted. You had smiled. You had taken the line. You had let him touch you in front of everyone.

“I said I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled, voice thick with alcohol. “That’s just my face. Why the fuck do you care what one person said?”

Rafe’s jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump. His hand slid from your lower back to your arm, gripping hard.

“Because you’re with me,” he said, voice dropping lower. “You’re supposed to act like you’re happy to be with me. Not like some miserable bitch who doesn’t want to be there.”

You tried to pull your arm away but he held tighter. The irritation was starting to burn through the haze. You were drunk. Really drunk. And the more he kept going, the more defensive you felt.

“You’re not my man,” you snapped, words slurring together. “I’m not about to argue with you about this. I said I didn’t mean to. Get out my face, Rafe. I’m calling an Uber.”

You reached for your phone in your bag, fingers clumsy. The room kept tilting. You just wanted to go home. You just wanted this night to be over.

Rafe’s eyes flashed. Something ugly and wounded crossed his face. He snatched the phone from your hand and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a loud crack.

“You’re not calling shit,” he snarled. “You think you can talk to me like that? After I let you come here? After I gave you everything tonight? All that and now you’re acting like you can just leave?”

He grabbed your face hard, fingers digging into your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were wild, red-rimmed, furious.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he hissed. “You don’t get to act sad in front of my friends and then act like you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You tried to pull away but he was stronger. “Rafe, stop-”

He slapped you.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the quiet house. Your head snapped to the side. Pain exploded across your cheek. You stumbled back, hand flying up to your face. Tears spilled down your cheeks instantly.

Before you could recover, he grabbed you again, slamming you against the wall. Your back hit hard. The air rushed out of your lungs. He was on you in seconds, body pinning you there, one hand gripping your wrists above your head.

“You made me look weak,” he snarled, face inches from yours. “You made me look like I can’t even keep my own girl happy. Like I’m forcing you to be here.”

He ripped your dress down the front. The fabric tore loudly. Cool air hit your skin. You gasped, trying to twist away, but he was too heavy.

“Rafe, please-”

“Shut up.” He shoved your dress up around your waist, yanking your underwear down roughly. “You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to pretend like you didn’t do anything wrong.”

He pushed into you hard, no warning, no gentleness. You cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. He fucked you rough and angry, hips slamming into yours, one hand still pinning your wrists, the other gripping your jaw so you had to look at him.

“You embarrassed me,” he panted, voice breaking between thrusts. “You always embarrass me. You think you’re better than me? You think you can sit there looking miserable and I won’t do anything about it?”

Tears streamed down your face. The pain mixed with the alcohol and the pill made everything feel distant and too sharp at the same time. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe right. All you could do was take it.

He finished inside you with a low groan, hips stuttering. For a second, he stayed there, breathing hard against your neck. Then he collapsed against you, still inside you, arms wrapping around your body like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You made me do that,” he whispered, voice cracking. Tears wet your shoulder. “You always make me like this. Why do you always make me like this?”

He held you tighter, crying softly into your neck while you stood there shaking, dress torn, body aching, the weight of him crushing you against the wall.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

You just stared at the wall behind him, fingers twitching like they wanted to pull at your hair, while Rafe leaned against you and whispered the same thing over and over.

“You made me do that. You made me.”

And the house stayed quiet.

Like nothing had happened at all.

…………….

You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.

You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.

While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.

“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”

You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.

The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house. 

“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”

Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath. 

“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”

You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”

“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.

“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.

“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”

Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.

“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.

You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound. 

These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.

You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.

“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”

You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.

“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!” 

You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.

“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.” 

Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately. 

“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.” 

The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom. 

You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.

“… attendance is mandatory for all households…” 

Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”

Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.

“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”

“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”

Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”

“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.” 

The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.

Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards. 

“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”

When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did. 

While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.

As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.

Attendance is mandatory for all households.

You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?

Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house. 

And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?

No. 

It was silly to indulge in such foolishness. 

Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.

But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.

With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.

The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you. 

Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.

You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.

Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.

You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.

Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid. 

You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.

You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going. 

You were actually going to the ball. 

Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood. 

“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room. 

You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.

“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath. 

The three of them froze. 

The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable. 

“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”

You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”

The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.

For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.

“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!” 

Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”

“You’re right, sister. It’s unbearable,” Agnes agreed, nodding.

You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.

“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”

She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you. 

“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”

You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you. 

Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.

“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”

Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.

They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.

A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.

“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”

“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.

Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.

Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.

You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down. 

You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.

Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.

“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”

She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart. 

“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”

As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time. 

“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”

It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face. 

Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.

As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.

“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”

“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable. 

“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”

“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”

“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne. 

“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”

Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”

Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”

He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought. 

“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”

Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.

You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”

Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet. 

“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”

She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.

With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store. 

It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?

Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment. 

Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.

You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips. 

To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.

Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.

“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”

You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him. 

“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”

Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy. 

“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”

Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.

“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”

You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.

“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”

Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back. 

Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.

“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”

As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.

There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him. 

“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”

The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you. 

Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.

“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”

You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”

You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.

Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.

“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”

You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.” 

Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.

“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.” 

“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”

“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”

“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”

Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.

You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms. 

As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.

Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.

Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk. 

“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”

“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”

Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves. 

She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.

That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.

“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”

Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.

“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”

The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”

Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.

“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.

Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that. 

“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”

Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.

“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”

A father?

Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.

You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing. 

“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”

Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.

“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”

Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.

“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.

There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.

“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”

Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view. 

You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.

Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe. 

He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless. 

He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.

Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.

“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”

Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.

“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”

You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color? 

“Blue?” you frowned.

“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.

“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”

You and Martha just blinked at him.

Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.

The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder. 

“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”

Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.

“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”

He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”

“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”

The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.

“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.

Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster. 

With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out. 

What happened? 

How’d you get these burn marks? 

You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t. 

Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.

“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”

“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”

Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.

Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street. 

The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.

Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”

She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.

“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”

“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating. 

You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before. 

“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”

You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”

Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.

“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”

You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh. 

“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”

It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.

They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.

With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”

You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you. 

He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust. 

He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy. 

It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.

You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you. 

You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.

You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine. 

The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you. 

If you went, you risked everything. 

If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.

As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well. 

You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.

You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.

You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard. 

You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery. 

This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.

“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes. 

You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.

Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.

The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave. 

“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”

The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.

“Child, what in heaven’s name—”

You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”

“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”

The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.

She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass. 

Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.

“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”

You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement. 

She looked like she belonged in a palace.

“Martha, I… thank you—”

“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.

She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.

Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.

“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head. 

When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.” 

A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.

“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”

“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”

“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.

She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight. 

“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”

Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.

He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.

Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.

Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.

He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.

As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”

Had he not been clear enough?

Now, he felt like a fool.

Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.

And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.

You were younger.

Much younger.

Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.

He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.

But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.

His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.

But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.

He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.

A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.

“King Barnes?”

Bucky turned to the attendant.

“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”

Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.

“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.

He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.

“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”

He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.

He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.

He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.

“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”

“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.

He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.

“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”

“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”

“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”

While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.

It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.

You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.

You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.

The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.

As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.

At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.

You were beautiful.

Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.

You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.

He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.

“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.

The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.

A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.

“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”

“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”

“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”

You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.

You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.

“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”

Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.

The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.

Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.

“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”

Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.

But you already felt as though you were suffocating.

You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”

As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.

There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.

Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.

The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.

You weren’t a princess.

You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.

One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.

“I… I cannot,” you whispered.

Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”

“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.

Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.

Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.

“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”

You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.

Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.

It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.

Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.

Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.

It was him.

The man you had risked everything to see just once more.

Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.

He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.

But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.

“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”

Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”

You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.

Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.

“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”

Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”

Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.

“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”

You felt like you were going to collapse.

The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.

Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?

Was that why he insisted you come tonight?

The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.

You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.

The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.

“Who’s there?”

Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.

There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.

“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.

Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.

It was you.

You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.

You had heard it all.

Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.

Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.

“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”

Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.

He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.

“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”

You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.

Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.

As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.

He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.

“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.

His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.

His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.

Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.

“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.

Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.

“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.

You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.

But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.

You decided right then to spite him.

To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.

Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.

Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.

“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.

“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”

You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.

“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”

As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.

“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.

Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.

Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.

Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.

“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”

He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”

Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”

Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.

“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”

Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.

“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.

Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.

It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.

Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.

“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.

Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.

The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.

He didn’t just want to dance.

He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.

As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.

Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.

“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”

You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.

Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.

“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.

You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.

“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”

He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.

Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.

“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”

“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.

“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”

He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.

“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.

“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”

“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.

“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”

The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.

“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.

You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.

That should be more than enough.

But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.

You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.

The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.

Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.

Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.

The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.

You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.

Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.

“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.

“Y-your Majesty—?”

With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.

You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.

“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”

“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.

You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.

“Stop trying to run away.”

You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.

“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”

“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.

“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”

“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.

His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.

“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”

Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.

“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”

His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.

“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.

Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.

“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”

Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.

His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.

“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”

“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”

You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.

“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.

“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.

With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.

“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.

He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.

“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”

You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.

“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”

“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”

Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.

“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”

His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.

“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.

“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.

“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.

He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.

“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.

“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”

Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.

Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.

Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.

“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.

“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”

Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.

He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.

He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.

“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”

You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.

“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”

Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.

“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”

You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.

The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.

Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.

“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”

Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.

You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.

“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.

Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.

You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.

He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.

“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”

Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.

“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”

Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.

It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.

He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.

He wanted you.

Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.

You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.

Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.

His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.

Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.

“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”

Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.

“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”

He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”

Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.

The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.

“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”

Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.

It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.

“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”

You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.

He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.

But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.

The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.

Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.

“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”

Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.

“Oh my god—!” you whined.

He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.

The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.

Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.

“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”

You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.

As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.

“Y-your Majesty?”

“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.

“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”

You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”

Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.

“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”

As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.

Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.

“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”

Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.

Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.

“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”

Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.

The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.

Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.

“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”

“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.

He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.

“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”

As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”

Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.

You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.

The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.

“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”

With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.

“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”

His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.

Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.

Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.

“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.

You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.

You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.

But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.

He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.

Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.

When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.

“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”

His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”

Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.

A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.

But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.

“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”

You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.

“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”

He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”

With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.

You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.

As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.

You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.

Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.

You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.

Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.

You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.

It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.

It was an impossibility of worlds.

He belonged to history.

You belonged in a basement.

As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.

“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.

The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.

“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”

Discretion?

You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.

He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.

To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.

You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.

You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.

How could you have been so foolish?

“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”

“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”

Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.

“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”

He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.

“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”

A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.

The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.

He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.

“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.

He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.

Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.

A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”

The word died in his throat and his smile faded.

The room was silent.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.

Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.

He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.

“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”

He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.

His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.

He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.

“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”

He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.

Did you not believe a word he said?

The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.

Did you still think he was that kind of man?

Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?

Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.

He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.

It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.

By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.

He was going to find you.

He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.

Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.

And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.

Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.

He held the glove up between them, snarling.

“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."

19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️

again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!

Overnight, his opinion changed. Texting, he decided, was his favorite thing about the modern world. No longer did he have to wait for a response to the love letters he drafted. No longer did he have to hang around the mailbox hoping for an envelope stained with your lipstick. He could simply fire off an adoring text, and your replies were almost instantaneous. 

But it was uncommon for his phone to blow up like this when the two of you were together. When you were apart, it buzzed every few minutes with your responses to his loving messages. But when the two of you were both home, nestled in the apartment you shared, Bucky abandoned his phone. In his eyes, everything and everyone else could wait. 

He often ditched the thing upon returning home, leaving it on the counter or the coffee table. He didn’t squirrel it away into his pocket or keep it on his bedside table. No, he disconnected from it completely. Happily. He only ever wanted to be present with you. To be completely free from distraction when you were around.

But whoever was calling didn’t get the memo. They called once, twice, five times in a row. 

You’d called out to Bucky every time, letting him know that a very persistent individual was eager to get ahold of him. But he didn’t seem to care. He was too busy folding and putting away your laundry in the bedroom. Too content in this perfect picture of domestic bliss.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said as he finally swept through the kitchen, empty laundry basket in hand. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

“It seems like something,” you told him. “What if it’s Sam or Joaquin? What if something’s wrong?”

Bucky thought it over for a moment. His distaste for his phone was strong, but his concern for his friends was infinitely more powerful. And while he didn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend who spent all of his time occupied by his screen, he opted to give the missed calls a glance. Just in case.

A familiar number- a number he hadn’t seen in ages- was splashed across his notifications. It wasn’t saved in his contacts anymore, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Before he had a chance to wonder why it was plaguing him, his phone began vibrating once again. That same number, one he saw as an ancient relic of a past life, illuminated his screen for a sixth time.

He stared at his buzzing phone. He didn’t want to answer. Had no interest in speaking to this person. But just as he tried to place his phone back on the counter, something gnawed at him. Nagged at him. Told him there had to be a good reason for these calls. 

He eyed you for a short moment and answered the call.

“Um… hello?”

There was no way this was Sam or Torres, that much you knew. But who else would call Bucky six times in a row? Who else would bother him on a Saturday? Whose call would he answer while at home with you? Nat was more of a texter, and Yelena had broken her phone in an “incident” only a few days prior. You found yourself at a loss for answers.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said into the phone, almost irritated. “Did you need something, or-”

He listened for a long time, throwing in the occasional “yeah” or “okay”. Whoever was on the other end, he didn’t seem thrilled to be speaking to them. But he was hearing them out. Giving them a chance. He even reached for a piece of scratch paper and a pen and jotted down a few notes here and there. You and your cookie dough sat in suspense.

“Um, alright. I’m going to…” His eyes found yours, “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”

And just like that, the mysterious call was over. 

Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket. It wasn’t like him.

“Well?” you stared at him, expectant. “Who was that?”

Bucky let out a sigh. His head fell an inch or two. He smoothed the crease between his brows with the pad of his thumb. He stayed this way for a long, quiet moment. Until finally, he, asked:

“Do you remember me telling you about Tara?”

Tara. Tara. 

“Yeah.”

How could you forget?

He’d told you about his ex-girlfriend Tara a few times. She’d been a fellow special agent with SWORD; that’s how they met. The way Bucky described it, their breakup was amicable and quiet, no dramatics. He said it was for the better. That they simply grew apart.

Sam told a different story. 

After nearly three years together, Tara left. She got a job offer on the other side of the world. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, didn’t know if she’d ever come back. And while Bucky wanted to stay in Brooklyn, wanted to stay in the only real home he’d ever known, he promised her he’d follow. That he’d go with her, if that’s what she wanted.

But she didn’t ask him to tag along.

Instead, she ended things. She boarded a jet and began an entirely new life, a life that didn’t include Bucky. 

And it destroyed him. 

He wanted, more than anything, for her to be happy. Wanted her to pursue the opportunity. But her departure ate through him like acid. It hollowed him out, turning him into a shell of himself. He had loved her so much. So deeply. So endlessly. They talked about the future they’d share. About getting married. He’d considered their relationship a sure thing. A guarantee. 

And then she was gone.

Sam helped him pick up the pieces. But it took time. A long time. Sam said he barely recognized his friend at times; he was more of a husk than a person. 

An intense feeling of unease settled into your stomach. Why had Tara called? Was she finally back in town? Did she want a second chance with Bucky? Would he leave you for her? Were you just his placeholder until she returned?

“Well, she’s back in the city,” Bucky told you.

Your heart dropped. A pang of anxiety struck you like lightning, but you refused to show it. 

“Oh yeah?” you asked casually. Maybe too casually.

“Yeah. And she wants my help.”

It took you off guard. 

“With what?”

Bucky sat down on one of the barstools that lived under the kitchen island. He scratched at his stubble. “Her new organization thinks they found another underground sect of Hydra.”

“Oh.” You stomach twisted. “Shit.”

Bucky nodded. “They want me to come work with them for a while. Help them handle it. Cause I’m,” he let out a small, cynical laugh, “Cause I’m the expert, or whatever.”

A small part of you, the selfish part, was relieved. Tara had called about a work matter, nothing more. There was nothing romantic to it. But a much larger part of you fell stricken with worry. 

Anytime something Hydra related came up in Bucky’s work, it knocked him off kilter. His nightmares returned. His anxiety worsened. It pushed him to the precipice, forcing him to cling to his newfound peace by his fingernails. It killed you to see him that way. Killed you to know that he was hurting. 

But he refused to back down when it came to Hydra. Refused to shy away from the harsh reality that Hydra was still lurking. Still skulking in the shadows. And no matter how it affected him, he was dedicated to toppling every last Hydra holdout. For the good of the world. For himself.

“So, what do you think?” He stared at you expectantly.

You stared right back. 

“Um, what do I think?”

You weren’t quite sure what he was asking. Or why. This decision was entirely up to him. It was his mental health on the line. His trauma being unearthed all over again. But you offered him your opinion regardless. 

“Well, I think it’s… it’s going to be hard on you,” you said. “Every time you deal with Hydra, it has consequences. But I know you want to take them down- rightfully so.” You shrugged, “So you should do whatever feels right to you. If it gets to be too much, you can always take a step back. And I’ll be here for you the whole time. So-”

Bucky’s smile put a stop to your words.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “What?”

“I meant, what do you think about me working with Tara?” He asked. “Don’t get me wrong, your answer was great- perfect, actually. And I definitely needed to hear that,” he smiled at you again, totally smitten.  “But I need to know if you’re comfortable with this. And be honest with me, okay? Because if this makes you feel weird, I won’t do it.”

“Oh, um…” you shrugged.

The truth was complicated. And though you would rather Bucky not work with the previous love of his life, what option did you have? How could you possibly ask him not to take this job? He felt a responsibility to eliminate Hydra, to tear them apart the way they did him. And you weren’t going to get in his way. 

In the grand scheme of things, Bucky working with his ex didn’t matter. If partnering up with Tara meant cutting off yet another head of the snake, it was more than justified. 

You swallowed to your immature, childish, petty feelings about the situation, and put on a smile.

“I mean, it’s a work thing. It’s not like she called you up and asked you to marry her,” you forced a laugh. “We’re all mature adults here. If you want to do it, then you should. I know how much it means to you that Hydra is wiped off the map. And I’m not going to stop you just because the two of you used to be-” 

The words ‘in love’ got stuck in your throat.

“Used to be together,” you said. “Plus, I trust you. I’m not worried about you straying.”

You were, in fact, very worried about him straying. About him spending time with Tara. About him remembering just how much he loved her. About dormant feelings suddenly awakening. In a previous life, she was ‘the one’ for him. The love of his life. And you feared that she’d returned to reclaim her title.

But before the dread could set in, he rose from his seat and made the way around the counter. He wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin in the crook of your neck. 

You feared he’d notice your thundering pulse. Your unsteady breathing. 

“You definitely don’t have to worry about me straying,” he said, his breath fanning your skin. “Thank you for always being so understanding. I love you.” 

You leaned back against him, eliminating what tiny space remained between your bodies. And for a split second, you felt at ease.

But the voice in the back of your head, the one that you’d wrongfully silenced in the past, told you this was a mistake. That this was the beginning of the end. It told you that you’d seen this film before and that the ending would by agonizing. It screamed at you, warning you that you were, once again, repeating a well-known pattern. 

But you muzzled it, just like you had before.

Because, while the situation did have a haunting air of familiarity to it, Bucky was different. He was loving. He was trustworthy. 

Wasn’t he?

Yes. Of course. 

You chastised yourself for even wondering. For doubting. It wasn’t fair to saddle Bucky with the weight of your failed relationships. To be suspicious of him when he gave you no reason. 

You wriggled until he loosened his grip, allowing you to turn around. 

“And I love you,” you let your lips melt against his. “So, when do you start?”

It wasn’t so bad at first. 

His days started early, much earlier than yours. He slipped out the door and into the dark morning before you woke each day, leaving you in an empty bed. Waking without him next to you, with his side of the bed empty and cold, stung. 

Gone were the early morning chats over coffee. Gone were the shared showers before work. But you didn’t allow yourself too much time to mourn these lost moments with Bucky. They would return one day, you knew they would. Once his work with Tara’s organization was over, things would return to normal. You just had to be patient.

And while your shared morning routine was a temporarily put on hold, your usual evening schedule was alive and well.

The two of you cooked and ate dinner together every night, just as you always did. You shared a glass or two of wine. Did the dishes. And when the kitchen was clean, you’d curl up against Bucky’s side for a little tv time. 

There was one notable difference, however. One noticeable change to your evenings, to your home as a whole. 

Bucky’s phone never left his side. He always had it with him, either tucked into his pocket or cradled safely in his hand. It sat on his nightstand at bedtime, only inches away. It buzzed with emails, texts. And he refused to let them go unanswered, even for a few minutes. 

Surely, he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. Right? It was all business, all professional. It had to be. He was the expert, the authority on Hydra. He had to be reachable, that was all.

But his newfound habit didn’t pair well with his borderline constant comments about Tara.

“Tara said the funniest thing today.”

“Tara had a great idea.”

“Do you like this coffee? Tara introduced me to it.”

Tara.

Her name pinballed around inside your head, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It was loud, almost deafening. A deep, animal instinct screamed at you, warning you: something wasn’t right. He talked about her far too often and far too highly for this to be an innocent professional relationship. Surely, there was something amiss. Something going on between them behind closed doors. 

There had, at one time, been so much love there. Was it really possible that that love died out?

The suspicions piled higher and higher as the days passed. Every time Bucky reached for his phone, a knot twisted in your stomach. Surely, Tara was sending him flirtatious texts. She had to be. You found yourself dying to dig through his phone. To investigate each and every message she sent. But you restrained yourself, never daring to break the trust you and Bucky had so carefully built.

After a short while, you found yourself hating Tara. Cursing her. Raging against her inside your own head. The stories you came up with, the horrible pictures you painted- they twisted her into a villain. An evil siren sent to sink her claws into the love of your life and steal him away.

It almost frightened you how easy it was for you to hate her. To hate someone you didn’t know.

And she hadn’t even done anything wrong. 

But you couldn’t help it; you were jealous. Jealous of all the time she spent with Bucky. Jealous of how often he spoke with her. Jealous that, even when he was at home, she was still on his mind. 

And you hated the feeling. Hated the immature thoughts that stirred inside your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t overcome the weight of the green-eyed monster on your back.

Two weeks into Bucky’s new gig, you stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for him. He was late. On a normal night, he returned home between six and six-thirty, but the clock neared seven and there was no sign of him. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t respond to your texts. It wasn’t like him.

You started on dinner without him, though you couldn’t remember the last time you cooked a meal alone. The two of you always worked together, evenly sharing the labor of making dinner. It was part of your routine, one of your shared patterns. And ever since your morning routine was snatched out from under you, you grew to cherish the time spent making dinner with Bucky. 

Suddenly, you felt startlingly alone. 

You woke up alone. Got ready for work alone. Returned home to an empty apartment. And with Bucky otherwise occupied, you made dinner alone, too. 

As eight o’clock rolled around, you once again fiddled with the tin foil covering the meal you’d so carefully prepared. After doing your best to keep it warm on the stove, a distinctive burning smell forced you to pull it from the burner. You supposed lukewarm and covered in foil was better than charred into oblivion.

As you tore another piece of foil from the roll and wrapped it tightly around the dish, your phone buzzed, and Bucky’s picture lit up your screen. All at once, you found your tight muscles relaxing. 

A deep, calming sigh left your chest. Some silent, subconscious part of you had feared that something happened to him. That Hydra silenced him once and for all. That he couldn’t answer your calls because he was lying dead somewhere. It was a reality too horrible to even acknowledge. And so, you’d pushed it to the darkest corner of your mind and opted focused on dinner. But that didn’t stop your hands from shaking. 

The tremors calmed a bit as you answered his call.

“Buck?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he sounded out of breath. Hurried. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer- I’m so sorry I’m late. I got pulled into a last-minute meeting and it ran long.”

“That’s okay, it happens,” you told him. “Dinner’s ready. Will you be home soon?”

“Twenty minutes, I promise,” he told you. “Did you eat already?”

The question almost offended you. “Of course not, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He let out a disappointed sigh, “Doll, you didn’t have to-” 

“I wanted to. I’d much rather eat with you, even if it means waiting a while.”

He was quiet for a moment; you could almost see the sad smile spreading across his face. “You’re too good to me- you’re the best. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

And he was.

The two of you ate your room temperature dinner together and discussed your respective workdays. Bucky, of course, namedropped Tara more times than you could count. And by all accounts, she was incredible. It made you wonder when Bucky would realize that you couldn’t compare. That you couldn’t compete with her. On paper, she was his perfect match. She was his other half. Tara was whip smart and worldly. Hilarious. Gutsy. And absolutely deadly. 

How could you compete against someone like that?

Sleep evaded you each night as you as you compared yourself to his lost love, to the one that got away. Over and over again, you listed your attributes against Tara’s, examining how you might stack up to her. You played out every possible scenario in your head. Not one of them ended with Bucky choosing you. And you couldn’t blame him.

His weekends were soon consumed by work. No longer did he spend his Saturdays and Sundays with you, browsing the farmers market and enjoying brunch. No longer did the two of you have movie marathons or bake fresh cookies. Instead, he spent his weekends at headquarters or locked in your home office. The two of you didn’t go on dates or spend time with friends. No, Bucky spent all of his time with Tara. 

A month later, Bucky studied you over another late dinner. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

He put down his fork and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, your cheeks, searching for a fever. 

“Um, yeah. I think so…” you eyed the hand pressed against your cheek. “Why?”

“Are you sure? You seem tired, baby.” He looked at you closely, examining the most minute details of your face. His gaze dropped to your plate, and he frowned at your virtually untouched meal. “Are you not hungry? Maybe you’re getting sick.”

A small sigh pushed through your lips. 

It wasn’t at all what you needed to hear. Ever since Bucky started working with Tara, you feared he’d fall back under the spell of her otherworldly beauty, of her wit and charm, and leave you in the dust. The thought kept you up, driving you slowly insane each night. And knowing that you looked tried, that Bucky thought you looked sickly, drove another pang of anxiety into your chest. 

“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” you told him. “It’s been- work has been really crazy.”

It was such an easy lie. You reached for it two days prior when Bucky asked why you’d bitten all the skin off your bottom lip. And it came in handy three days before that, when he asked why your nails were bitten down to the quick, why your cuticles were raw and bloodied. 

“Oh, that’s right. Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He removed his hand from your cheek and placed it instead on your forearm. “Do you know when things will go back to normal?”

You simply shook your head. 

And that was the last night you ate dinner together.

The following night, you found yourself back in the kitchen, cooking dinner alone once again. You’d never realized just how much you hated cooking until you had to do it by yourself. With Bucky around, you looked forward to making dinner every night. Looked forward to dancing in the kitchen and watching him chop vegetables with his expert knife skills. But without him, it became your most dreaded chore.

You glanced longingly at the clock and found a renewed sense of hope. It was nearly eight, which meant Bucky would be barreling through the front door and wrapping you in his arms in no time. You poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table, allowing yourself a smile. He would be home soon.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Around nine-forty, your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name appeared in block letters across your screen. And before you could even say hello, he was speaking.

“Baby, hey. I don’t- I’m so sorry. I’m leaving right now, okay? I promise. I’m on my way.”

It took everything in you to keep your disappointment from seeping into your words. This wasn’t his fault- you knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with him. To make him feel worse. But you missed him. Desperately.

Never before had any of Bucky’s meetings lasted this long or run this late. You knew in your gut there was something going on. Something secretive and sinister. Something that would rip you to shreds.

The manufactured casual tone you adopted didn’t sound convincing to you, but you hoped he’d buy it. “It’s- don’t worry about it, Buck. Okay? It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, doll. I didn’t- I was gonna be home normal time. But I couldn’t step away from this briefing.” His words came out in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, I should have at least called. This is- it’s not okay. I feel awful.”

“Don’t feel awful, baby. It happens.” You wondered if this ‘briefing’ included everyone from the team. Or if Bucky and Tara had been the only ones in attendance. “Um, dinner is in the fridge, okay? I made-”

“Please tell me you ate without me,” he nearly begged. 

“Oh, um. Yeah. Yes. I did- I ate already.” 

With crossed fingers, you hoped Bucky would believe your lie.

With Bucky MIA, you hadn’t even considered eating. Nothing sounded remotely appetizing. In fact, your stomach had tied itself into a thousand intricate, painful knots. The nausea crept in soon after, and the idea of eating dinner flew entirely out the window. 

But it was easier to lie, to tell him you’d eaten. It would save him a little guilt. And if you could convince him that you’d already had your share, he wouldn’t ask about your lack of appetite. 

But you adopted your best happy-go-lucky tone and pretended that you weren’t losing your mind.

“Sorry, Buck, I wasn’t planning on eating without you, but it got pretty late and-”

“No, no. I’m glad you ate. I’m sure you were starving,” he said. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I can’t wait to see you.”

He rushed through the front door twenty minutes later, apologies falling from his lips one after another. He scooped you into his arms and dotted kisses all over your face between “I’m sorrys”. And you assured him that all was well. But you had to wonder if his affections were genuine. If his apologies applied only to his late arrival, or if he’d committed some other transgression he’d yet to confess. 

But you sat at the table with him anyway as he reheated the dinner you’d made by yourself. You listened to him tell you all about Tara’s brilliant work in the briefing. And you wondered how much longer you’d get to keep him. 

Dinner became non-existent for you, as did most other meals. You did your best to stomach small, infrequent snacks here and there. But the anxiety of Bucky’s possible infidelity made it almost impossible to keep food down. 

You still cooked, though. Regardless of the intense nausea, the biting stomach pains, you still managed to put together decent meals for him. You’d tuck the food neatly into Tupperware and stack it in the fridge, knowing damn well he’d never be home in time to eat it warm.

It was as if, after his first excessively late arrival, a seal had been broken. Never again did he return home at a reasonable time. He came through the door ever-later as the days dragged on. Nine-fifty. Ten-thirteen. Ten-thirty-five. Eleven. You did your best to stay awake, at least. To be there to greet him when he got home. But as his homecomings grew later and later, you found yourself dozing off before he’d even texted to let you know he was on his way home.

Some nights, he didn’t come home at all. You’d wake in the morning to find his side of the bed untouched. His boots missing from the front hall. On those mornings, it became obvious just how disconnected you were. On those mornings, you realized that the two of you were just ships passing in the nights. On those mornings, you wretched in the shower before work. 

Every obvious warning sign was there. Every red flag. Every neon fucking sign pointed to the fact that Bucky was having an affair. And it threatened to eat you alive.

You’d never been so miserable. So heartbroken. Pain radiated through your chest and pulsed through your veins. Every cell in your body throbbed with agony. You wanted someone to put you out of your misery. To wipe you from the face of the earth and save you from Bucky’s confession and eventual departure. But no such mercy came.

Part of you wished you’d spoken up. Wished that you’d told Bucky not to take the job. 

If you’d just voiced your concerns, maybe he never would’ve strayed. Maybe things would still be normal. And god, did you miss normalcy. You missed the patterns. The routines. The “boring” domestic life you once shared with Bucky. You missed talking to him. Spending time with him. Being close with him. The distance between you seemed to grow every single day. And you feared you’d never bridge that gap.

But you didn’t have to.

Bucky returned home one Sunday night in unusually high spirits. He found you in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and lifted you into his strong arms.

“Baby…” He buried his face in your neck and smiled against your skin. “I’m so excited for next weekend.”

You were so lost in his touch that the words didn’t register for a quite a while. It had been so long since he was this affectionate, this close. Tears threatened to pool in the corner of your eyes as you relished in the sensation of his arms knitted around your back. His breath on your skin. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that things might be okay.

Suddenly, you realized what he’d said.

“Next weekend?” You pulled away just a hair, allowing yourself a glimpse at his face. “What’s next weekend?”

 “’What’s next weekend?’” He let an exaggerated, over-dramatic gasp fill his lungs, “I can’t believe you forgot! We’re going to the cabin, sweetheart! Next weekend, remember? It’s the weekend of the nineteenth! Keep up, doll.” He shot you a wink.

The cabin?

Sure, the two of you had planned to escape upstate to your aunt’s cozy little cabin. But that was agreed upon months ago. Long before this job. Long before Tara. You’d assumed that with Bucky’s long hours and lack of weekends, that that plan was defunct. But apparently, you were wrong.

“Wait, we’re still going?” you asked, incredulous.

“Of course,” Bucky said. “I told them I can’t work next weekend, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He snaked his hands from your spine to your sides and allowed them to slowly inch up your body. When they finally cupped your face, he pressed his lips to yours in a long, deep kiss full of longing. “I’m long overdue for some interrupted him with my best girl.”

Your heart fluttered. 

“I know I’ve been really busy. And tired. And distracted. And- I’ve been a fucking absentee boyfriend,” he sighed. The self-hatred in his voice was almost palpable. “I didn’t think this job would be so… intense. I’ve barely been home. And I know this whole thing has gotta be tough on you.”

Tears sprang forth once again. You did your best to blink them away, but they persisted, and a few rolled down your cheeks against your will. 

You sighed, “I just miss you.” The words had a fractured quality about them. 

“Oh, sweetheart…” The heartbreak in his voice forced more tears to your surface. He pulled you into his body, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could safely manage. “I miss you too. So much. I promise nexxt weekend is going to be just for us. And when I’m done with this job, we’ll go away together for a long time, okay? No phones,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “No distractions,” he left a second kiss to your nose. “Just you and me,” he leaned down and dropped a third and final kiss against your lips. 

It was a simple promise, nothing extravagant. But it was exactly what you’d been dying to hear. You’d been so convinced that Bucky would end things any day now, so sure that your time with him would soon be over. But hearing him make promises for your shared future helped ease the agony you’d been shouldering. And just like that, the storm clouds in your soul parted, revealing your first taste of sunshine in weeks. 

Bucky was still yours. And he still wanted you to be his. 

In the days leading up to your weekend away, you found yourself floating through life. Everything seemed easier, brighter, warmer. The constant nausea let up and the anxiety quieted. You ate a real meal for the first time in an indeterminable number of weeks. Sure, Bucky was still glued to his phone at home and staying late at the office. But you could see a light at the end of the tunnel. 

After the absolute misery you’d experienced, hope felt so foreign. So other. But you welcomed it with open arms.

All you had to do was survive until Friday. Bucky talked his team into granting him an early departure from the office, allowing the two of you to escape the city by noon. You’d drive upstate with the windows down, blaring some top 40’s hits from decades past. And together, you’d settle in for some much-needed reconnection.

On Thursday night, Bucky returned home around ten. And regardless of his long day, he was more exultant than ever. He practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth and rushed to the bedroom to finish packing. It was the most energetic you’d seen him in quite some time. 

“Okay, I double and triple checked my bag,” he told you. “I’m ready.” 

“I’ve been packed since Tuesday,” you bragged. “And I got us…” you rifled through your duffle and unearthed a knotted grocery bag. “S’mores supplies.”

Bucky was floored. “You fucking think of everything!”

When the two of you settled in for bed that night, it almost felt like the good old days. Like the days before your doubts and suspicions and private agony. Before Bucky’s obsession with his phone. Before his late nights and his stories about Tara.

You slept like a rock that night, taking comfort in the fact the next day, you’d have Bucky all to yourself for an entire weekend.

He woke early the next morning, as he always did, and did his best not to disturb you. But you were too excited to sleep any longer. As he slowly and carefully rose from the bed, your eyes flew open. 

“Happy cabin day,” you whispered into the dark. 

Bucky’s startled gasp sent you into a fit of laughter. 

“You scared the hell out of- were you just laying there in the dark waiting for me to wake up?” 

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Well… happy cabin day, you creep,” he laughed, still catching his breath. “Leaving at noon sharp?”

“Noon sharp,” you said back. 

He dressed for his half day of work and allowed you to accompany him to the front door. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he left a kiss against your forehead, “And we’re out the door right at twelve.”

“Right at twelve,” you nodded. “See you soon, Buck.”

But you didn’t. 

Eleven rolled around without any sign of Bucky. Eleven-thirty and eleven-forty passed. And as the clock closed in on twelve, you wondered why you’d gotten your hopes up. Why you allowed yourself to get invested in this trip. Why you believed that things would actually work out.

But still, you held out hope. You sat perched on the arm of the couch. Waiting. Your duffel and Bucky’s sat at your feet. Waiting.

Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail. 

‘Maybe he’s just running a bit late,’ you thought. ‘Maybe he’ll be home by twelve-thirty. Or one.’

But he wasn’t.

Nor was he home by two. Or three. 

The familiar nausea crept back in. The anxiety returned.

At four, you tossed your packed duffel into your closet and stripped out of your roadtrip clothes. You donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and sank into the couch under the weight of your disappointment. All the hope, all the optimism you’d felt in this last week evaporated. And in their place settled a pointed shame. 

You couldn’t believe you’d been so stupid, so naïve. You should’ve known better. Should’ve managed your expectations. This was your own fault, really. If you’d been smart enough to read between the lines, you wouldn’t be so heartbroken. 

Around five, your stomach gave a hollow, gurgling growl. You’d been too excited to eat that morning as you rushed around completing last minute tasks before leaving for your weekend away. And after the realization that Bucky had gone back on his word, you were too sullen to even think about food, made nauseous by your anxiety.

But the nausea subsided for a moment, leaving an unbridled hunger in its wake. For a long moment, you considered putting together a simple dinner. There were groceries in the fridge, and you certainly had plenty of time to cook and eat, seeing as Bucky sabotaged your plans. But you didn’t have it in you.

Every night that you cooked dinner alone required a herculean effort. You had to push yourself, had to give yourself a rallying speech. And every night, it worked. Every night, you somehow found it in you to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble a decent meal- albeit, a meal you wouldn’t eat. But with your hopes for a romantic weekend away dashed, the pep-talk didn’t work. Encouragement didn’t work. Nothing on the planet could force you to make even the simplest dinner. The kitchen seemed too far; you couldn’t fathom walking all the way to the cupboard for a snack.

But your bedroom? That was close by. That was doable. 

With a pitiful groan, you heaved yourself up off the couch and lugged your body into the next room. You fetched your duffle out of the closet and fished your hand around inside until you unearthed the bag of s’mores supplies. With your bounty tucked under your arm, you made the journey back into the living room and settled onto the couch once again.

A few marshmallows and a graham cracker or two would have to suffice; it was all you could manage. 

At six, your phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, you knew it was Bucky. Knew he’d be guilty and repentant and upset. Knew he’d promise to make it up to you. Knew he had a perfectly good reason for blowing off your trip. 

The petty part of you wondered if he’d simply had trouble tearing himself from Tara’s side. 

On the final ring, you answered his call. 

And you were right, he was guilty. And repentant. And upset.

“Baby, I’m- you have no idea how sorry I am. I wanted to call sooner, we were just- I was so busy. We’re working on a new lead and-” he huffed, “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I made you a promise and I’m so sorry I let you down again.”

A few tears welled in your eyes, your nose burned. 

“It’s fine,” you said. “Happens.”

“I’m on my way home right now, I’ll be there as quickly as I can and as soon as I get there, we’ll leave for the cabin. We can-”

“We’re gonna hit too much traffic,” you told him, your voice flat. “That was one of the reasons we decided to leave at noon. We didn’t want to get stuck, remember?”

“Right. Well…” He went quiet for a moment as he searched for the right thing to say- for anything to say. “T wanted me to extend her apologies.”

‘T’? He was giving her nicknames now?

“She didn’t mean to keep me so long,” he said.

Your pitiful dinner churned in your stomach, fighting desperately to crawl back up your esophagus. 

Tara. Kept him. It seemed to you that Bucky was somehow reading your mind and acting on your greatest fears.

“Hey, have you eaten yet?” He asked, filling the silence, “I can pick up something for dinner, anything you want.”

The marshmallows and graham crackers looked at you with pity.

“That’s okay, I already- I’m not hungry,” you sighed. You didn’t mean to sound so dejected, but you didn’t have the energy to hide it. “I’ll just see you when you get home.”

You hung up and let your phone slide in between the couch cushions. Never before had you felt so much like an island.

Bucky tore through the door twenty minutes later, his face shiny with sweat. You knew he’d desperately rushed home, hoping it would somehow fix the situation or at least mitigate some of your disappointment. It didn’t. 

“Sweetheart…” he flew to the couch and sat by your side, “I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to be late.”

He eyed you for a moment, waiting for you to speak. But you didn’t. You remained still, leaning back against the couch cushions. There were no tears, no rageful words. You were quiet. Resigned. 

He averted his gaze, too guilty to even look at you.

“I didn’t want to stay,” he swore. “But T needed me. She practically begged me.”

T needed him. Not the team. Tara. 

It should’ve upset you, but it didn’t. You were past the point of being upset.

“Six hours late is…” You shook your head. “How does that even happen?”

Bucky ran a hand down the side of his face, “I don’t know. I’m the authority on this stuff and Tara said it was really important, so I- it doesn’t matter. I told her I needed to leave at noon, and I didn’t. I fucked up, not her.”

You nodded. You didn’t want to fight with him. And even if you did, you were too tired. 

“I hope you know I’m not actively trying to make you miserable. I don’t want to be gone all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I hate this. I hate that we never get to do anything together, and I hate that I can never spend any real time with you, and I hate that you look so…” He fell silent for a long moment as he drank you in. 

His close observance made you want to shrink away. You knew he was taking inventory of your hollow, heartbroken stare. Your tired eyes. These days, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. The face looking back at you wasn’t yours- it couldn’t be. It was too empty. Too deflated. More like a fragile husk than a person. 

 “I… I don’t remember the last time I saw you really smile,” the realization swept over him as he spoke.  “Or… heard you laugh,” a deep crease formed between his brows. “I miss it. I miss you.”

You nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. The cynical, sour part of your brain had gotten to you, convincing you that Bucky was relishing in your destruction. That he was taking joy in draining you, gutting you. 

But as you watched the tears gather slowly in his eyes, you realized just how wrong you’d been.

 “I didn’t think it would be like this,” he swore. “I knew I’d be busy, but I…” He shook his head, “I didn’t know I’d be leaving  you alone all the time. And breaking promises. And it’s-” With the back of his left hand, he all too aggressively swiped a rogue tear from his cheek; you were certain the sharp bite of the metal stung as it dug into his skin. “Hurting you like this is- it’s my biggest regret. And that includes everything I did for Hydra. I promised you we’d always be on the same team, and I’m…”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket; your chest tightened. Was he really pausing to check a text from Tara? Now?

“I’m calling the Tara,” he said, “I’m quitting.”

You unearthed yourself from the couch cushions, yanked upright by Bucky’s words. “What?”

“I can’t do it anymore. If I keep working on this, I’m gonna lose you,” he said, his voice wavering, desperate. “And I can’t risk that.”

Suddenly, a distinct and pointed feeling of guilt engulfed you. Here Bucky was, prepared to abandon his efforts to topple Hydra- for you. He was willing to allow that hideous, evil organization to rise again- for you. He was ready to default on the promise he made to himself- for you. 

How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so suspicious? He’d done nothing wrong, aside from coming home late. But that wasn’t an indictment of his character or an accurate depiction of who he was as a partner. He was kind. He was trustworthy. He was loving. 

His fingers flew over his screen, dialing Tara’s number; you didn’t love that he had it memorized. But before he could finish, you rested a hand atop his, stopping him.

He stared at you, “What are you-”

“I can’t let you quit.” 

“But-”

“If you don’t see this through, you’ll regret it. It’ll eat away at you for the rest of your life.”

He tried to protest, to prove you wrong, but you silenced him.

“I know you, Buck. I know how you feel about Hydra. And even though I’m… yeah, I’m miserable right now, but it’s fine. It’s short-term. I’ll survive.” You outstretched your free hand and settled it on his forearm. “You need to do this for you. If you quit, you’ll hate yourself. And if, heaven forbid, Hydra makes some big resurgence, you’ll always blame yourself. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve stopped it, here and now.”

He considered your words for a long, quiet moment; you watched a war rage beneath his surface. You knew you were right. Knew that you’d read his mind. Knew that if he sat idly by and allowed Hydra to claw its way back to power, it would kill him. People would get hurt; people would die. And it would be his fault, at least partially. But he couldn’t help the desperate longing in his gaze, the fraught ache as he stared at you. 

You could practically see him being torn in two by the nearly impossible choice.

“You’re…” he gave a small shake of his head, “You’re right. But this whole situation is- it’s eating you alive. You just said that you’re miserable. I can’t-” He looked down at his phone once again, “I can’t let you to be miserable. I can’t do that to you.”

You shrugged, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. “So, it’s not ideal.” The laughed you tacked onto the end didn’t convince him; it didn’t even convince you. 

A long silence filled the room. A deep frown settled Bucky’s into Bucky’s mouth as he hemmed and hawed over his options. You knew he’d choose to stay on. Hoped he’d quit. Feared he’d tell you he was leaving you for Tara.

Finally, he spoke.

“I can’t… I can’t walk away from the job,” he sighed, “It goes against everything in me.”

You gave him a polite nod; his decision wasn’t a surprise.

“But that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with- with the way that things have been going for us,” he said. “I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t really been- what does my therapist call it?” He thought it over for a moment. “I haven’t been ‘emotionally present’. I haven’t been physically present much, either.”

You shrugged, “You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand-”

“Yeah, but you’ve been in this by yourself,” he huffed, angry at himself. “And it’s not fair. I turned this into something one-sided.”

Alarm bells blared in your head at the word “one-sided”. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this him telling you that your feelings were no longer requited? Was he apologizing for hurting you, only so he could tell you he was leaving you?

“I’m gonna tell Tara I have to scale back my hours, or something.”

The alarms quieted a few decibels.

“If there’s anything I can do to make this whole thing easier on you, all you have to do is tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, “Cause I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep apologizing and hoping that it’ll fix all the late nights and broken promises.” He shrugged, “But even though I know it won’t fix anything… I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Another long stretch of quiet occurred as you looked him over. His shoulders were hunched in defeat, devastation. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. He held one of your hands in his warm palm, and rested his metallic hand on top, as though cradling something delicate. Something precious. He looked genuinely miserable. Genuinely despondent. And your heart ached for him.

He was a good person. He took this job to protect the world, to protect you. Who were you to crucify him for coming home late a few times? Who were you to be suspicious of his intentions when all he wanted was to mend things with you? It wasn’t fair to accuse him of infidelity. To assume that he was stepping out on you behind your back. Your insecurity, you decided, was not his fault nor his problem. 

And so, you vowed to stop jumping to conclusions. To stop assuming the worst of him. To stop writing fiction about what was going on between Bucky and ‘T’. 

However, you did want to ask him one question. 

“I really appreciate the apology- the apologies,” you corrected yourself. “And I know you’re not doing anything malicious. You’re just trying to do your best.”

He nodded. 

“You’re not in an easy position here. I want a lot from you; your job wants a lot from you. You’re being stretched really thin right now. And I know you’re stressed out about how this is affecting me.”

Bucky nodded again, more emphatically this time. 

“There is- there’s one thing you could do that might make things easier on me,” you told him.

Bucky scooted a bit closer, “anything.”

“And I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”

“Cross my heart.”

You hesitated, second-guessing your question. But if you were to stay sane for the remainder of this job, you needed a straight answer. There wasn’t a mature, adult way to ask. Each way you phrased it sounded pettier and more childish than the last. 

And so, you simply dropped the question in his lap. 

“Is there anything going on between you and Tara? Romantically or-” you winced, “Sexually?”

He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. 

Was he simply surprised to hear such a preposterous question? Or was he shocked that you figured out about his torrid affair?

“What?” he finally said. “Between Tara and- no!” He shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I would never do that.”

The weight that had been sitting on your chest ever since Tara’s first phone call suddenly felt lighter. It didn’t vanish completely, but it lessened. You’d been aching to hear those words come out of his mouth. And now that they finally had.

“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart. I don’t do that sort of thing,” he swore. “Did you think that I was-”

You forced a laugh and shrugged. “No, no. Of course not. I didn’t actually think you’d-” the word got stuck in your throat. You had to force it out, “-cheat on me,” you lied. “But with the long hours and the late nights and all the texts and phone calls you guys share…” 

“It is not like that, I promise,” he said, denying the accusation with his entire being. “Tara is great, and yeah, we spend a lot of time together. But I love you. You are the only person for me.”

He went on. And on. And on. For a solid two minutes, at least. He vowed that he wasn’t sleeping with Tara, swearing on every holy book in existence that he didn’t have feelings for her. He promised that he was in love with you, that he wanted you, that you were the love of his life. Only you.

And it should’ve made you feel better. But as Bucky continued his unrelenting, gushing promises about his love for you, he unknowingly planted more seeds of doubt. He strong denouncements and fierce denial of any romantic or sexual wrongdoing brought one phrase to mind: 

“Thou dost protest too much.”

You knew then, without a doubt, that you were losing your mind. 

But you couldn’t stop the vicious cycle; the ghosts of relationships past refused to allow it. And so, over the course of the next few minutes, you found yourself endlessly oscillating between ‘he’s laying it on thick to hide the fact that he’s cheating and ‘he loves me so much, it’s so awful of me to think he’s hiding something.’ 

You thanked the universe that mind reading was not amongst Bucky’s enhanced abilities. If he’d been able to hear all of your thoughts, if he knew how quickly your pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the next, he’d think you were crazy.

“All this to say,” he paused, and locked eyes with you in a moment of deep, genuine connection. “I love you. And only you. I don’t want anyone else.”

And though a sliver of suspicion remained, you accepted his words at face value. 

“I love you too, Buck.”

He pulled you in for slow, long kiss. The two of you melted together, desperately affixing your bodies together in an attempt to make up for lost time. 

“What do you think?” Bucky said when the two of you finally parted, “You still want to go up to the cabin tomorrow?”

You had no reason not to. You gave Bucky the affirmative and a wide smile stretched across his face. The previous night’s excitement returned and together, you made a plan for the following morning. 

But when the following morning came, you woke to an empty bed. Again.

When your alarm went off at seven, you bolted upright. Today was the day that things between you and Bucky were finally going to get back on track. But when you turned to his side of the bed, he was nowhere to be found. His pillow was cold. 

“Buck?” you called, your voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted apartment. “Are you here?”

No answer. 

“Of fucking course.” 

With a deeply disappointed sigh, you flopped back down and decided to sleep until noon. How could he do this to you- again? How could he ditch you? How could he promise to be more present, only to turn around and disappear? A tornado of anger swirled inside your chest, interrupted only by tidal waves of hurt. Of grief. 

But just as the first tear slid its way down your cheek, the front door opened. 

Cautious, quiet footsteps crept through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. Bucky’s head slowly peeked around the corner. And once he realized you were awake, he rushed to your bedside with his hands concealed behind his back. 

“Good morning, sweet- hey, are you okay?” Concern eclipsed his smile as he eyed the rogue tears clinging to your lashes. “Are you crying?”

You wiped your eyes with your t-shirt and gave a shake of your head, “No, I’m- I just had a really strange dream. It was a sad one.”

Bucky frowned, “I’m sorry, baby. Do you think that a bacon, egg, cheese, and hashbrown breakfast sandwich on an onion bagel would help?”

Your eyes widened, “You went to The Hot Bagel?”

Bucky nodded. From behind his back, he revealed the brown paper bag printed with your favorite bagel shop’s logo.

“Oh my god, this is- how long was the line?” In one swift motion you stole the bag from Bucky’s grasp and tore into it, revealing a miracle wrapped in tinfoil.

“It wasn’t long at all. There were only two people in front of me,” Bucky said, his smile proud.

“Buck…” you narrowed your eyes at him.

His face dropped. He feared that he’d ordered incorrectly. That he’d taken the wrong bag from the counter. “What?”

“If there were only two people in front of you, what time did you get there?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he gave a small shrug. 

“But it’s one of the busiest shops in the city and-”

“And I know it’s your favorite. So, I went.” He said it so matter of factly, as though it were a no brainer. “I would’ve been back a little earlier, but the onion bagels weren’t quite ready when I got there. I almost got you an everything instead, but…”

Your expression grew incredulous. He let out a belly laugh. 

“But I knew you’d give me that exact look. So, I waited a little longer.”

Together, the two of you inhaled what you deemed the best breakfast sandwich in New York. And once you’d tucked the s’mores supplies back into your bag and gotten ready for the drive, Bucky led you by the hand down to the car. 

The drive was exactly what you’d imagined. Windows down. Clear skies. Invigorating music. Bucky danced with you to today’s hits. Eighties ballads. Forties crooners. He provided backup vocals and took the occasional solo. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what your relationship had always been: warm, safe, comfortable.

There was no room here for doubt or suspicion or distrust. 

As the cabin rolled into view, you made a conscious decision to remove any inkling of wariness from your mind. Bucky was yours. And you were his. And that was that. 

Like a perfect gentleman, he unloaded the car and carried the bags up the porch steps. The cabin sat tucked in amongst a swath of trees that shielded it from the main road. Its interior was decorated with thought, with care, with love. It welcomed you in and instantly, you felt right at home.  Rounding out the space was a small yard, complete with a hammock and fire pit.

It seemed that the weekend might be saved after all, until you glanced into Bucky’s bag.

As he was unpacking his toiletries and getting his clothes sorted, the shiny silver corner of his laptop caught your eye. It was tucked under a pair of sweatpants, but you knew in your bones that it was his computer. Upon further inspection, you discovered a hotspot hiding amongst his clothes, as well. 

So much for the ‘uninterrupted weekend’ he’d sold you.

But instead of assuming the worst, instead of spiraling, you reasoned with yourself. He’d packed his bag prior to your heart to heart. Prior to your admission of being miserable. Prior to his promise to scale back his hours. It was perfectly logical to think that he’d simply forgotten to remove his computer and his hotspot from his bag. That he had no intention of using them this weekend. That he only packed them in case of an emergency.

And maybe- just maybe- he didn’t intend to work during your getaway. 

But work he did, anyway.

Bucky found you lounging in the hammock, protected from the sun by the shadow of a large, old tree. 

“Where have you been?” you asked, looking up from your book. “You said you were right behind me.”

He had said it would only take a few minutes for him to “send one last email” before he could “completely unplug.” But that was forty-five minutes ago.

“I know, I’m sorry. One email turned into a phone call, and that turned into a zoom,” he said, exasperated. “But I’m here now. Does that hammock have room enough for two?”

Some childish and petty part of you wanted to call him on his shit. It wanted to throw the words “uninterrupted weekend” back at him and watch as he ate them.

But he looked so tired. Everything about him screamed ‘rundown’. This was the longest you’d ever seen his stubble. His hair was longer, too- longer than he liked it. There was a defeated air about the slope of his shoulders. And every breath seemed more like a sigh. He didn’t get to go out for long runs in the park anymore; this was probably the most time he’d spent in the sun in weeks. 

The loving, devoted, compassionate part of you won out against your immature instinct, and you allowed him to share your hammock. He climbed in with a warm smile stretched across his face and tucked his body into your side. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon- save for his near-constant texting. But you figured that a preoccupied Bucky was better than no Bucky at all.

He never even cracked the book he brought along for the trip. He, instead, allowed it to rest at his side while he responded to Tara’s messages. Every once and a while, you caught a glimpse of his screen, and everything appeared to be on the up and up. There were no emojis. No flirtations. No double entendres. Just business. 

And though you wished he’d knock it off and be present with you, you let it to slide. He was just trying to make everyone happy. Trying to stretch himself thinner than thin. And he was clearly miserable, himself; you thought it best not to add insult to injury.

And the weekend was still lovely regardless. It was the most time you’d spent together since he started with Tara’s organization, and you swore you could feel yourself coming back to life. The two of you ate and danced and made s’mores and fell asleep under the stars. And even though it was a truncated version of the trip you’d hoped for, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything. 

Things were looking up. 

Another respite from Bucky’s hellish schedule came a few weeks after your cabin jaunt. Just as the sense of renewal granted by the getaway started to wear off, Bucky came home from work one Friday night with a nearly cartoonish grin on his face. 

He bounded through the front door and threw himself at you, sweeping you into his arms. It was unexpected, almost strange; he never came home with his energy intact like this. But you welcomed it; you missed seeing him this way. 

“I have good news,” he said. “Do you wanna guess what it is?”

“Hmm…” you thought it over for a moment, “Are you-”

He didn’t allow you to properly formulate a guess; he was far too excited. 

“I’ll give you a hint: guess who has the whole weekend off?” he asked, spinning you around as though on a dance floor.

Your jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Really.” 

It was like music to your ears. Like your birthday and New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day rolled into one. You could’ve sworn that confetti fell from the ceiling. That fireworks exploded outside your window. It wasn’t just good news. It was great news. The best news you’d ever received. 

“We’ve hit a wall with this lead we’re working on,” he told you. “There’s some information we need in order to move forward, but not even our access team has been able to get to it. It’s not in any of the systems they’ve looked through.”

You gave him a strange look, “What’s an access team?”

He rolled his eyes and laughed a little, “They’re hackers. But they told me to stop calling them ‘hackers’ cause apparently that sounds ‘cheesy’.”

You shrugged, “‘Hackers’ kinda does make it sound like you’re in a bad spy movie.”

“They hack! It’s the name that makes the most sense!” he laughed. “Anyway, they think it’s probably being stored on a drive somewhere off-network, that way no one can hac- I mean, access it. And our entire strategy hinges on that information. So, there’s not much we can do right now.”

It struck you that maybe you were supposed to be sensitive to this plight. To the frustrations of his job. Maybe deep down, he was disappointed that Hydra’s fall would have to be delayed. But he didn’t seem all that bummed about it. If anything, he seemed unburdened. 

“They called things off for the weekend so everyone can recharge,” he told you. “I think they’re hoping that a free weekend will help people come back with fresh eyes and clear minds.”

“Yeah, it’s almost like allowing your employees to rest helps them be better problem solvers,” you quipped.

“Who could’ve seen that coming?” he laughed. The sound hit you deep in your chest; you realized just how much you missed that laugh. It vibrated against his lips as he pressed them to yours.

The possibilities of how the two of you might spend this rare, free weekend- farmer’s markets, museums, drinking and dancing- evaporated from your mind as he kissed you. And suddenly, they were replaced by hungrier, more salacious options.

But for the time being, you quieted them. This was Bucky’s weekend, his free time.

He never had the time to do what he wanted to do anymore. Ever since he started this job, his time no longer belonged to him. This job owned every day, every minute; he was lucky enough to get a few hours on loan so he could sleep.

“Well, whatever you wanna do this weekend, I’m in,” you told him when you finally parted. “You get to pick since you never have free time anymore.”

He fell silent for a long moment, thinking. 

“Anything you want!” you promised him. “We can go on a bike ride or roam around in that fancy bookstore in SoHo or-”

“If it’s alright, I’d rather not.”

“You’d rather not what, Buck?”

He sighed, “Would you mind if we didn’t do… anything? I don’t want you to be bored all weekend, but I just…” 

He let out a long sigh and looked around the room. As his gaze swept through the space, you watched him take in the subtle changes here and there: a new throw pillow on the couch, a different set of coasters on the coffee table, a new lamp to replace the one he’d accidentally broken. 

This was the apartment you’d hunted for together. The apartment he’d called his “safest place”. His “favorite place”. And yet, he’d barely spent any time within its walls in recent days. He was more like a guest here. A stranger. A foreign transplant.

His eyes filled with the same desperate longing you’d seen before the cabin trip. “I just want to be home, you know? But if you want to go and-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him. “If you want to stay home all weekend, we’ll stay home.”

He eyed you warily, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you promised. “I’ll never say no to weekend at home with you.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face. 

You weren’t quite sure if he was excited to spend the weekend at home with you, or if he was simply thrilled to lounge on the couch for a few days. Either way, you were happy to have him all to yourself. Happy to keep him out of the clutches of others for a few days. 

“Maybe we could get some snacks and have a movie marathon? There are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he said. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Alien. What do you think?”

You quirked a brow at him, “I think it’s criminal that you’ve never seen Jurassic Park.”

“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m trying to rectify it! What do you think?”

You, of course, agreed to his proposal. The two of you made a list of movies and a list of snacks, and you couldn’t resist the excitement building in your chest. This weekend was going to be the mulligan. The do-over. After your cabin weekend was cut short, after it was tarnished by Bucky’s constant correspondence with Tara, the two of you needed a second chance at an uninterrupted weekend. And the opportunity had finally arrived.

The next day, Bucky settled in next to you on the couch. He draped a blanket over your lap, pulled you securely into his side, and pressed play on Jaws. Jurassic Park followed shortly after, and he raved about it as the two of you made and ate lunch. A slew of movies spanning multiple genres left Bucky in awe. It was a strange experience, watching Alien after West Side Story, but you didn’t care. Bucky was home, and that’s all that mattered.

And much to your surprise, he hadn’t mentioned Tara once. Hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t paused the movie to read one of her emails. And for the first time in a long time, things inside your apartment felt less crowded. 

But a nagging thought needled at you. What if he was simply being more covert about corresponding with Tara now? What if he had gotten better at covering things up?

No. You wouldn’t allow yourself to think that way anymore. 

With a deep breath, you nestled yourself deeper into Bucky’s embrace and vowed to simply enjoy the weekend. You didn’t know when- or if- you’d get another one like this any time soon. And you damn sure weren’t going to waste it by concocting wild speculations.

Once the sun finally set behind the skyscrapers, Bucky pressed play on your last movie of the night: When Harry Met Sally. But just as Harry and Sally bumped into each other in a bookstore, there was a knock at your front door. 

Bucky looked at you. You looked at him. 

“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.

You shook your head.  

“Hmm,” Bucky rose from the couch, “Maybe it’s a neighbor.”

He strode toward the front door and pressed his face against its surface, peering through the peephole. You could’ve sworn you heard a quiet gasp fill his lungs.

“Who is it, Buck?”

He didn’t answer. He removed the chain on the door with a slow intensity. Inched the deadbolt open at a glacial pace. His movements were painstaking, deliberate. Almost sluggish. Whoever it was, Bucky didn’t seem too pleased to see them.

When he finally turned the knob, he pulled the door open only a few inches. A sliver, really. He leaned his head out into the hall and spoke quietly with the mystery visitor. 

It was odd, his behavior. He had no reason to be secretive or cagey when speaking to a neighbor. He had no reason to hide his conversation from you. To shield you from this surprise guest. 

As quietly as you could, you rose from the couch a crept closer to the door, hoping to catch a word or two.

“Yeah, and I thought I told you never to come to my apartment,” Bucky said, his words hurried. 

Something about it made your stomach turn. Why would he feel the need to give someone such a specific stipulation, unless he had something to hide?

And then a woman’s voice filled the air. 

Not any woman’s voice.

Tara’s.

“I know, but I need you, Buck.”

A flash of heat scorched your insides. And before you knew what was happening, you’d wrenched the door all the way open. 

Tara stood before you in a floor length maroon gown dripping with intricate beading. She towered over you, her perfect body elongated by elegant heels. Her auburn hair was twisted and tucked into a fabulous updo. Diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her slender neck. And deep red lipstick accentuated her perfect pout. 

You thought it possible that she’d stepped out of a magazine or off of a runway. 

And suddenly, you wondered what the fuck Bucky was doing with you. What he saw in you. How he could be with you when she existed.

A violent pain tore through your abdomen, nearly stealing your breath. It seemed that something sharp and jagged was ripping through your insides, shredding your guts into confetti. But you forced yourself to remain composed. To appear unbothered. 

Bucky shifted his gaze to you and then back to Tara. He looked nervous, as though you’d caught him red-handed. 

“Sweetheart, this is Tara,” he gestured to the devastatingly beautiful supermodel standing in the hall. “Tara, this is-”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, her attention barely drifting from Bucky’s face. “But we really don’t have time for pleasantries right now, Buck. This is an emergency.”

“I don’t think I can tonight,” Bucky told her. “I have plans, we’re watching-”

“I know how to get the drive, I know where it is.” Tara shrugged, “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”

Bucky didn’t answer, he simply quirked a brow at her, allowing her to continue.

“There’s a huge gala tonight at Thomas Weller’s house,” she said.

Bucky perked up.

“Weller’s house…” he said, thinking it over. “He lives in the-”

“The prohibition era mansion with the hidden room that acted as a speakeasy. Yeah,” Tara nodded, her eyes a bit wild. She seemed truly exhilarated by the circumstances. “He’s the only one Hydra would trust to keep the drive secure, and tonight’s the only chance for us to find it,” she said. “He has to be hiding it in that secret room- I feel it.”

 “But we can’t be sure…”

“Barnes, I’m sure.”

Bucky thought on it for a long, quiet moment. “Are you willing to stake Magdalini’s on it?”

Tara’s face lit up as her head fell back in a laugh. A loose auburn curl bounced at the nape of her neck. Her perfectly polished nails brushed against her chest as she caught her breath. You were certain she was the princess from every fairytale you’d read as a child.

“Yes!” she finally said when she composed herself. “I am willing to bet you a doz- TWO dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.”

Bucky took this very seriously. A knowing look eclipsed his face, and he granted Tara an understanding nod. You, on the other hand, were left in the cold. You weren’t sure what had just happened between them, but they knew something you didn’t. They shared something you were not a part of. Whether these cookies were an inside joke or some kind of metric, you weren’t sure. But they were important. 

You waited for an explanation, for one of them to afford you an invite to the joke. But no such offer came. 

“Do you still have your tux from the SWORD anniversary party? The one where we knocked over the ice sculpture?” Tara asked.

A small smile flickered across Bucky’s face. He cut his glance toward you, dropped his smile, and nodded at Tara.

“Then get dressed,” she told him. “The party starts in twenty minutes and it’s basically across town.”

“Okay, yeah, just-” Bucky began to make a sweeping gesture of invitation but cut it short when his eyes met yours. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, before shutting the door and leaving her in the hall.

With the door shut, the two of you shared a long, loaded look. 

“I’m sorry…” he finally said. “I know we were gonna watch movies and-”

“It’s fine, Bu-” you stopped yourself, not wanting to use the same nickname as Tara. “Babe.”

He sighed, “I keep disappointing you.”

You shrugged, “It is what it is. This is part of your job.”

You meant it. You knew he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to blame him. It wasn’t even fair to blame Tara, though you wanted to. She, too, was just doing her job. Just trying to stop Hydra. And who were you to stop those efforts? 

But you couldn’t help the frustration that ground your teeth together. The disappointment. The irritation. It all pooled together into a sinister, inky cocktail that coated your insides. It seemed that, at every turn, Bucky chose Tara. You knew it was childish to feel that way. Knew it was petty and stupid and immature. But you couldn’t stop it. 

And Tara’s piercing beauty didn’t help. Her perfect cheekbones and flawless skin made you want to double over. Made you question if you were even the same species.

Bucky dressed in his tuxedo quietly, eyeing you every now and again. You sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to assist with his tie, if need be. Another heavy, endless silence wedged itself between the two of you. The kind of silence that precedes disaster. 

“So, what’s the deal with Magda… Madgolee-”

“Magdalini’s?” 

“Yeah.”

 “It’s this bakery out in New Hampshire,” he told you. “Tara and I were in Concord doing recon for this job, and we kind of randomly stumbled upon the place.”

You waited for something more, but nothing came. 

“But what do cookies have to do with you going to this party?” you asked.

“Well, when Tara and I were togeth- when we worked together,” he overcorrected. “If one of us had a feeling about something but no proof, we’d bet the other a dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.” He gave a quiet laugh, “Since it’s all the way in New Hampshire and always sells out before noon, it’s a pain in the ass to get those damn cookies. You have to trek out to Concord early in the morning and wait in a long line and it’s- it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged, “So her telling me that she’d bet two dozen of those cookies on this party tonight means she’s sure. Cause if she’s not, she’s gotta drag her ass all the way out there.”

Bucky smiled as he buttoned his shirt, clearly awash in the memories of that bakery. And the woman he shared it with.  And suddenly, you hated those damn cookies. 

You hated the inside jokes and shared memories Bucky had with Tara. Hated that he was leaving you. Again. To be with her. Again. Hated that you were so goddamn jealous. 

“Just um… let me know if you need help with your tie,” you muttered before fleeing the scene.

You found solace in the quiet, empty living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. Over and over again, you forced yourself to take deep, calming breaths. This wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you told yourself. He had a job to do; and as unfortunate as it was, this was part of it. When the dust cleared, things would go back to normal. Tara would disappear once again and your relationship with Bucky would be returned to its former glory. That was the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. Your heartrate slowed, your frustration evaporated, and you discovered a newfound hope.

Until there was another soft knock at the door.

Just as you turned to face the sound, the door opened just a sliver. 

“Hi,” Tara leaned her head in, an apologetic smile on her beautiful face. “Do you mind if I wait inside? Your neighbors are staring,” she chuckled.

Of course, your neighbors were staring; a runway model was loitering in their hallway.

And though you didn’t want her in the space you shared with Bucky, what choice did you have?

You gestured for her to enter,  “Sure.”

She stood just inside the door, her elegant ensemble completely out of place in your home. She tucked her designer clutch under her arm and gave your apartment a once over. 

“It’s so cozy in here,” she said without a drop of condescension. “I love that painting. Where did you get it?” She gestured to the framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.

“Oh that’s- I painted it,” you told her, suddenly sheepish.

“You did? Wow. It’s beautiful. You’re really talented.”

“Thanks,” you forced a smile. 

Not only was she smart and beautiful and skilled- she was nice, too?

“You um, you look really nice,” you told her. “I like your dress.”

It was painfully awkward. You were certain Tara could feel the envy radiating from your every pore. But you had to make an effort. Had to make nice. She was Bucky’s coworker; and regardless of the punishing schedule she’d set for him, she hadn’t technically done anything wrong. That you knew of. 

But the way she lit up when Bucky walked out in his tux made you wonder. 

Maybe it was unfair, you thought, to condemn her for her reaction- anyone with sight would react the exact same way. Bucky was always attractive but seeing him all dressed up made your knees weak. The custom-fitted tux hugged him in all the right places and accentuated his physique. It took every ounce of your strength not to pounce on him right then and there. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at his ensemble. “I had a little trouble with the tie.”

“I can help with-”                         “Oh, here, let me-”

Both you and Tara took a step in his direction, arms outstretched, prepared to assist him. Simultaneously, you snapped your head in the other’s direction and locked eyes. Tara flashed you a smile that you categorized as ‘almost apologetic’ and with a sweeping gesture, conceded. 

The tension in the room settled atop the three of you, forcing everyone’s eyes down.

After a deep breath and a shake of your head, you took your rightful place in front of Bucky. With nimble fingers, you adjusted the fabric of his tie until it was perfect. He shot you a look, silently apologizing for the incident. 

You wanted to brush the whole thing off. To pretend that it didn’t bother you. But it did. 

Sure, Tara was nice. But why would she feel entitled to get so up close and personal with Bucky this way? And why would she feel comfortable doing so in front of you? In your home? She was his ex, his coworker. It made no sense for her to be the one to fix his tie, especially when you were right there. Of course, it was just a bow tie; Tara hadn’t volunteered to French kiss him or anything of the sort. But the way she jumped at the chance to enter his personal bubble rubbed you the wrong way.

Maybe, you feared, Bucky allowed her to get close to him at work. Maybe the two of them spent time cozied up in her office when they were supposed to be attending meetings. Maybe she’d gotten so used to being intimate with him that this kind of task had become second nature to her. And maybe she’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of her lover in his tuxedo that she’d forgotten she had an audience. 

Maybe he wasn’t staying at work all night, laboring over this job until the early morning hours. Maybe he was sleeping at her apartment, in her bed.

The possibility trapped your lungs in a vice, cutting off your air supply. Bile rose in the back of your throat; it took everything in you to force it down. By some miracle, you remained composed, and adjusted Bucky’s tie.

“There,” you said , “All done.”

Just as Bucky tried to express his gratitude, he stumbled to the side. Tara had yanked him by the hand and began hauling him toward the door. Bucky stumbled behind her for a few paces before locking eyes with you. He slipped his hand from her grasp and doubled back to place a kiss on your cheek. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I-”

“I won’t have him home too late!” Tara called from the door with a laugh. “Thanks for sharing him with me!” 

Before you had the chance to blink, Bucky and Tara disappeared out the door and down the hall.

‘Sharing’ him? Another vicious bout of pain ripped through you. And without an audience, you were free so succumb. You doubled over, allowing the agony to take hold of you. The sharp, searing pain sliced its way from your gut to your throat, flaying you wide open. Only when it quieted to an angry throb were you able to stand upright and hobble to the couch.

After an hour or so, you forced yourself to stop thinking about them. About Bucky and Tara together. About the things that might be transpiring on the other side of town. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive. The pain in your abdomen had finally dulled and you knew that if you continued to ruminate, it would return with a vengeance. 

And so, you wiped your tears and dragged your body off the couch. You took a long shower, did your skincare, and slipped into your most comfortable pajamas. All you had to do was delude yourself into believing that Bucky was out with Sam or working with Yelena. It was the perfect fix, albeit temporary.

After your shower you climbed into bed and dove into your favorite silly sitcom. The canned laughter and over the top storylines helped distract you, helped lift your shattered spirits. With one tap of your remote you skipped half a season- expertly avoiding a storyline about the main character cheating on his girlfriend- and resumed your rewatch in a happier spot.

Still, you picked and bit at what was left of your nails. Eyed the clock every few minutes. Checked your phone more than you would’ve liked. You couldn’t help it.

Just before eleven o’clock, you heard the front door open. 

“Buck?” you called, hoping it was only him.

“Yeah…” he said. He sounded different. “It’s me.”

His keys clinked against the wall as he hung them on the hook by the door, and you knew he’d be in the bedroom soon. Knew he’d have his tail between his legs. Knew you were in for a long night of discussions and apologies. You turned off the tv and waited, expecting his slumped shoulders to lean against the doorframe any second.

But he never appeared. 

Something- instinct, intuition- nudged you out of bed.

Something was wrong. 

You cautiously made your way out of the bedroom and into the living room as the pit in your stomach doubled- tripled- in size. 

You found Bucky still standing by the front door, motionless. His eyes were downcast; his hands were shoved into his pockets. The bowtie you’d so meticulously fixed for him was draped loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his shirt were open.

“Hey…” you called. 

He barely looked up, and only for a split second. “Hi.”

The distance between you seemed much vaster than it was. He seemed to be miles away, adrift somewhere far and unfamiliar. No one moved, no one spoke. The tension in the air grew heavier by the second, nearly crushing you.

And after a while, you couldn’t take the strained silence.

“Um, how’d it go?” you asked. “Is everything okay?” 

Finally, Bucky dragged his gaze from the floor. The misery in his eyes sent a pang of anxiety ripping through your chest.

“Something h-” he gave a small shake of his head, cleared his throat. “Something happened. Between me and Tara.”

His words knocked you off balance. Your nails dug into the couch as you fought to remain upright. The unforgiving pain in your abdomen exploded once again. And a tidal wave of nausea swallowed you whole.

“It was part of our cover, it wasn’t- there wasn’t anything romantic about it,” he swore. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a panicked rush. “We weren’t supposed to be in Weller’s office- a security guard was coming and if they knew we’d taken the drive, Weller would’ve had us killed. So, Tara k-” he choked on the word. “She kissed me. She made it look like we were a couple who’d gotten, I don’t know, carried away or something. Like we were just looking for a private room to…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

Suddenly, his eyes grew wide. 

“But we didn’t- we didn’t do that!” he said, almost frantic. “It was just the kissing, nothing else. I swear.”

Finaly, he unrooted his feet and made his way toward you; he stopped just a foot from where you stood.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so- I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” he said. “I had no idea. She just did it without telling me. I didn’t want to- I didn’t want her to do that.”

His words settled into your body, creating fractures and fissures as they went. 

A storm of sympathy rained down on you as you stared at him. He was in utter agony, that was no secret. His hands shook, his face was flushed, his eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn’t wanted that kiss. Hadn’t known about it or expected it. And he was suffering. The love of your life was suffering. 

But the ghost of relationships past returned, screaming at you over and over. Gloating.

“I told you so!”

“I told you so!”

“I told you so!”

This was exactly what you’d feared. What you’d dreaded. And regardless of the circumstances, your old wounds were ripped open once again. The flashbacks hit you like a truck; the familiar words tore you to pieces. There was no surviving this; no making it out alive. It seemed that you would bleed out, that you’d be lifeless and cold in a matter of moments. 

But the first tear dripped down Bucky’s face, and brought you back to reality.

It took all your might, all your strength, but you forced your impending collapse and demise to wait. Everything would have to wait. 

“I’m s- I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.

His brow furrowed, “What?”

You breathed through the throbbing, unrelenting ache in your chest, and repeated yourself. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Buck,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She shouldn’t have ki- she shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want it. Didn’t consent to it. It’s not okay.”

He stared at you, wide eyed. Another tear spilled onto his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was far too shocked.

“Sweetheart, I don’t care about that- I’m fine,” he shrugged. “I’m worried about you. About hurting you.” He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, “About what this might- what it might do to us.”

The words came out quieter, weaker than you’d hoped. “Wasn’t your fault.” 

“Baby-”

“I’m sorry, can you-” you cleared your throat, “Can you just give me one second?” You gave him a strained smile and turned slowly back to the bedroom. Bucky faltered awkwardly in the living room as you fled.

You turned too sharply around the corner into your bedroom, knocking the point of your shoulder into the wall. But you barely noticed; it didn’t hurt. It should’ve; you’d run into this corner enough times to know that it should kill. But it didn’t. You barely even noticed it. Some tiny portion of your brain registered the hit and catalogued it for the future, for when you’d discover the bruise and wonder about its origin.

On unsteady feet, you flew into the en suite bathroom and shut the door behind you. You didn’t mean to slam it, but the panic creeping into your bones stole your sense of decorum. It turned you into a jittery, unstable version of yourself. The sound of the door banging into its frame made you jump. 

With the lock twisted into place, you leaned against the nearest wall and promptly fell apart.

The was the breakdown of the century, the monster you’d been fighting off with sword and shield. But fighting was useless. It came at you like a natural disaster. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Life-threatening. It was your own personal category 5 hurricane. Your uncontained wildfire. Your San Andreas fault.

The tears soaked your shirt in mere moments. Your breathing was ragged, labored. A burning sensation clawed at your throat, your chest, as your lungs begged for oxygen. The weakness in your knees forced you to slide down the wall, searching for the stability of the floor. 

But even as you fell to pieces, you forced yourself to stay quiet. To do your damnedest to keep Bucky from hearing. Because no matter what happened at that party, he was still the great love of your life. And you didn’t want to upset him. 

But it was too late. 

“Baby…” Bucky called from the bedroom, his voice jagged with worry. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?”

The handle of the bathroom door jiggled as he tried it, but found it locked. He sighed. 

His metal knuckles knocked gently against the wood, “Sweetheart, please… open the door.”

You didn’t answer.

“Baby, I’m-” he choked on the panic. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing- there’s nothing going on with me and T-” he didn’t say her name. “I swear to god, I swear on my life. I swear on Steve’s. It’s not like that.”

The logical part of your brain knew he was telling the truth. Nothing about James Buchanan Barnes said ‘cheater’. He was a loyal, decent person who would rather die than hurt you. Never over the course of your relationship had you ever caught him so much as looking at another woman. 

But the tortured, traumatized part of your brain was too busy falling down a rabbit hole of flashbacks to listen to reason. All at once, it grew to be too much.

Once again, bile crawled its way up the back of your throat. And though you tried to resist, you didn’t have any fight left in you. Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you threw yourself to the floor in front of the toilet. Pain rocketed through your knees as your crashed against the cold tile.

And finally, after months of staving off the nausea, you let it win. You allowed yourself to be sick. To be weak.

All of the fear and worry and pain exited your body in an almost violent fashion. It had been building up for so long, slowly taking over every cell. And now, it had forced you to the ground. Forced you to your knees. Forced you to lean over the toilet and retch, over and over again.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky called, distressed. There was a heightened sense of alarm in his voice. A pleading desperation. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

Answering wasn’t an option, as you were otherwise occupied. 

“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? But I’ll be right back.”

‘See?’ you thought, ‘He does care.’

The thought only brought on another wave of sickness.

The force with which your body lurched forward would most likely leave you sore the next day, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything other than bringing air into your lungs. 

Bucky’s voice entered your consciousness every minute or so as he checked on you; he sounded like he might be sick himself. But you weren’t able to ask.

Finally, it was over. The contents of your stomach were long gone, and you’d expelled only bile for the past few minutes. But after a spell of dry heaving, the forceful retching came to an end. You allowed yourself to slump against the nearest wall with relief. A sharp burn ripped through your throat and nose. Your hands shook. Tears clung to your cheeks and lashes. But it was over.

Your head fell into your hands, and you forced yourself to take a few deep, even breaths, though they did little to calm you. Images of Bucky and Tara still pummeled you from every angle. You wondered if you’d find her red lipstick smudged up and down his neck. 

In all honesty, you didn’t mean to say it out loud. You didn’t mean for Bucky to hear you. But you’d lost control of yourself long ago, and the words slipped out before you had the chance to stop them. 

“I can’t do this again.” 

The fire scorching down your throat banished the haunting visions of Bucky and his lost love and dragged you back to reality.

No part of you wanted to face him after the dramatic show you’d put on. After he’d kissed another woman. After everything that could’ve gone wrong did. The anticipation conjured a dark, swirling pit to open in your stomach. Would he end things tonight, after witnessing your instability? Or would he wait till the morning? Would he immediately fly into Tara’s arms? Or would he wait a few days out of respect? 

The nausea returned, but you didn’t have anything left to expel. You dragged a few greedy breaths into your lungs and forced yourself to face the facts: the longer you waited- the longer you hid- the worse it would be. And so, you pulled yourself up off the floor and rinsed your mouth in the bathroom sink.

Bucky hovered closely to the bathroom door. He was so close, in fact, that he left you almost no room to exit. 

“Are you doing alright, sweetheart?” His eyes were red; his cheeks were stained with tear tracks. “I brought you a glass of water if you’re interested.” 

He reached for you tentatively, his hand shaking ever so slightly. 

There was a time when you never would’ve avoided his touch. Never would’ve imagined pulling away from his hand. But you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to, maybe it was a reflex. But you did it. You yanked your body out of his path and tucked your arms into your chest, as though protecting yourself from some great danger. 

More than anything, you wanted to flee the room, the apartment- maybe the state. But you knew there was no point in running. Instead, you took a few long strides across the room, putting some distance between you and Bucky. It felt safer here. More comfortable.

The look on Bucky’s face nearly made you sick again.  

“Sorry,” you said, flames scorching down your throat. “I-”

“No, hey- it’s okay, I get it.” He forced the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Um, I’ll just- I’ll put this on your nightstand.” He set the glass of water down behind him and turned back to you with anguish carved into his face. 

“Baby…” he sighed. “I’m so-”

“You don’t have to apologize again,” you told him . “It’s-” 

A wave of dizziness crested over you, sending the world around you into chaos. Black, shiny spots shimmered on the edges of your vision. Desperately, you grabbed onto the corner of the nearby armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. Your nails dug into the upholstery as you breathed through your tremulous grip on the world.

Bucky took a small, cautious step in your direction. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m-” You listed to the side once again. “I’m gonna pass out.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, “What?”

And then you were falling. Falling forward. Black clouds obscured your vision, your ears started ringing. A gust of air fanned your face as you quickly folded toward the floor. A pair of strong arms locked around you suddenly. One encircled your waist; the other, your chest. And then you were out.

Everything was still black and cloudy; the sounds came back first.

The words were fuzzy at first, lacking any real, definable structure. But you could tell it was Bucky saying them. Could tell by his tone, his gentle voice, that he was reassuring you. The garbled, shapeless words grew slowly clearer until you finally made them out. 

“I got you,” he said. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”

A cool sensation glided across your cheek; it sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. It felt so familiar. Why did it feel so familiar? The cold, metal drifted across your skin again, and you recognized Bucky’s vibranium hand. 

“You’re alright, I’m here,” he told you. “I’m right here.”

Finally, you rediscovered the ability to open your eyes. It was harder than you remembered, more taxing. But you did it. And Bucky’s face was the first thing you saw- his beautiful, anxious face. He sat next to you on the bed, leaning over you with unparalleled worry. 

“Hey,” his brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”

It took a moment for you to formulate the words, but eventually, you managed an “I’m fine.”

And technically speaking, you were. You weren’t dizzy or nauseous anymore. You hadn’t been injured when you blacked out- Bucky didn’t allow that to happen. So, physically speaking, ‘fine’ was accurate. 

But the embarrassment burned your face; you were certain that your skin must be scorching to the touch. It was all just so dramatic. So over the top. The sobbing, the vomiting, the fainting… It was like something out of a soap opera. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was still thin, still brittle with concern. 

You gave a cautious nod, “Yeah. I swear.”

He relaxed the tiniest amount. But if you knew anything about him, you knew he’d remain hypervigilant for the rest of the night, just in case. Hell, he’d probably remain hypervigilant for at least a week, ready to save you if need be.

“Thanks for catching me, Buck.” 

“Yeah- of course,” a small smile crept across his face. “Always, baby.” 

He ghosted his thumb over your cheek again, “Is this- has this ever happened before?”  he asked, “Or is it something new?” 

He worried more than anyone you’d ever known. And always about you. You kicked yourself for thinking he would ever stray. For thinking that he didn’t care.

“It hasn’t happened in a long time, but I used to pass out a lot when I was younger. Whenever I was really-” You cut your sentence off at the knees. 

He eyed you, “Whenever you were really what?”

There was no sense in saying it. Bucky already felt guilty enough, adding to his shame wasn’t going to help. 

“When you were what?” he asked again, more insistent this time. Anxiety practically dripped from his words. 

You sighed. “Whenever I was really upset. Or extremely stressed.”

Bucky matched your sigh with one of his own. His was heavier, weighed down by his responsibility for your episode. He gently stroked your face once more, but pulled away before his thumb could sweep the entire length of your cheek bone. He tucked his hands safety at his sides.

“Sorry,” he said. It was almost imperceptible.

“No, I’m-” you began to try and sit upright.

“Okay, hey, let’s just take it slow, alright? I don’t think you should get up yet.”

But you were determined to sit up. If you continued to lie there, Bucky would continue to dote on you. To wring his hands. And it would only increase the evening’s embarrassing dramatics. 

Much to Bucky’s dismay, you didn’t listen to his cautionary words. You pushed yourself up to a seated position without difficulty and rested your back against the headboard. 

In a flash, Bucky was on his feet. He stood right against the bed, his hands anxiously hovering over you, poised to save you at a moment’s notice. If you began listing toward the edge of the bed, he’d catch you. Again.

But no such incident occurred. You were perfectly steady, perfectly safe. You accepted the glass of water he offered you for the second time and drained it in a matter of seconds. 

“Do you want some more?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen, “I’ll go get-”

“No, no, I’m okay,” you said. “I want you to stay here- I wanna talk to you.”

Bucky halted in the doorway, frozen. Dread bloomed in his eyes. He lost his grip on the glass in his hand and barely reacted quickly enough to stop it from shattering. 

“Oh. Okay. Yeah…” he said; his words has a wounded quality about them. 

He took a few slow steps toward the bed but stayed at a cautious distance. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened. He sucked in a sharp breath and coiled his metal hand into a tight fist. He seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something. 

But after waiting only a few short moments, he spoke again.

“You don’t- you don’t actually have to say it, if that’s okay. I don’t think I could handle hearing the words,” a broken smile flashed across his face for a split second. “But I understand. I won’t beg you reconsider- I get it. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth- if it’s worth anything.”

“What?”

He placed the empty glass on your nightstand and headed for the closet. 

“I’m just gonna grab a few things. Some clothes and stuff. And then I’ll-” he sighed, “And then I’ll get out of your hair.”

You shook your head, “What are you talking about, Buck? I just said I wanted us to talk-”

“I know, sweetheart.” Something in his words sounded like begging. Like pleading for mercy. “And I know I need to let you say your piece, but I don’t know if I can h-handle it. At least not right now. And I know that’s selfish of me. And I’m sorry. But I’m-”

He was practically falling apart at the seams. Parts of him seemed to be peeling away, stripping him down to his most raw, vulnerable self. His hands shook. His voice wavered. His breathing came in shallow, erratic bursts. His body was determined to self-destruct before you could deliver the final, deadly blow. 

You jumped out of bed on unsteady feet, your arms outstretched toward him. If you could reach his side and anchor him to the earth quickly enough, maybe you could stave off the panic attack that loomed on his horizon. 

He, of course, protested. He tried to say something, something cautioning you against getting up in such a hurry. Against running across the room. But his voice barely carried any weight. 

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Your hands cradled his face, “Breathe, baby. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands found your waist. And he dragged deep, even breaths into his lungs. He was so focused, so concentrated on staying above water that you weren’t sure he heard your whispered reassurances. But you voiced them anyway. Just in case he could hear you. In case your words helped him somehow.

 It was a long time before he came back to you. But you waited patiently for him. As you always did. 

When he finally opened his eyes, he looked you over slowly, drinking you in as though seeing you for the first time. The panic had dissipated from his expression, leaving tentative relief in its wake. It seemed that he was just grateful you were still there. Grateful that you hadn’t cut your losses and left him in the dust.  

Finally, he spoke. It was a genuine question. No levity. No humor. 

“You still love me?”

It crushed you.

“Of course- of course, I do, Buck.” Your hands slipped from his cheeks, down his chest, and wound around his back. He pulled you tighter, crushing you against his body. 

“Even after-”

“Yes,” you said against his chest. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. About tonight- about all of it.” He smoothed his hand up and down your back in an endless loop. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I know I hurt you. And it’s just so- I’m done working with her. I promise.”

This conversation felt a bit too familiar. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t he already offered to quit? And hadn’t you stopped him? It seemed that you were trapped in a timeloop of sorts, forced to endlessly relive this version of reality. You were about to, once again, stop him from quitting, but he spoke before you had the chance. 

“I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t do this anymore. I can feel-” he cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I can feel you slipping away. And I can’t keep putting what we have at risk-”

“Buck,” you sighed, “I trust you. Tonight wasn’t your fault. And if you need to keep working with-”

“No.”

And that was it on the subject. He wasn’t open to any arguments or rebuttals. 

“I’m not losing you over this,” he insisted. “I know you want to be supportive, but nothing is worth losing you.”

It was quiet- inaudible, really.  But you mustered up a “thank you” that only someone with enhanced senses could’ve heard.

The relief brought tears to your eyes. Never before had anyone actually chosen you like this. Never before had anyone dropped everything for you because they wanted to. It was a new feeling for you, and you wondered how you’d survived this long without it.

But the relief only lasted so long. 

“What about Hydra? If they’re getting stronger, if they’re coming back, shouldn’t you-”

Bucky shook his head, “The team can take care of it without me. I’ve given them everything I can; they know everything I know. And they have the drive now.” He shrugged, “They don’t need me anymore.”

The two of you remained locked in a tight embrace. A comfortable silence settled around your bodies. And for the first time in months, the suspicious voice in your head was quiet. There were no doubts, no fears. Only comfort. Finally, comfort.

“I’m sorry I reacted like that.” You unearthed your face from Bucky’s chest and did your best to look up at him. “The crying and the vomiting and the passing out, it’s…” you rolled your eyes and let out a huff, “it was a lot.”

He tightened his grip around you. 

“No, don’t be sorry. I’ve been- I’ve kind of been torturing you for months. I put you in such a… I put you in a terrible position- the worst position. And I wasn’t even there for you. I kept hurting you and leaving you and- and then tonight with the…” he shook his head. “I can’t imagine what that felt like for you.”

“But I-” You struggled against his inhuman strength until he begrudgingly loosened his grip and allowed you enough room to really look at him- though he refused to let go completely. “I made this all about me,” you said, disgusted. “She-” you had to force yourself to say the words; they tasted like vinegar. “She kissed you against your will. I know what that’s like, it’s not fun. And I made it about me- it was selfish.”

“Sweetheart-”

“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Your words were steadfast. Unflinching. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve been supportive. I should’ve-”

He took your face in his hands, “It’s all okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out so defeated, so bathed in shame. “And I’m sorry I ever thought- I’m sorry I ever even considered that you might cheat. I know you’re not the type- of course, you’re not the type.”

“It’s okay. The late nights and the phone calls and all the-”

“It’s not just that,” you sighed, “I mean, that stuff was definitely part of it. But this whole thing just felt so…” 

For a split second, you allowed your eyes to close. The memories of betrayal and infidelity clawed at you, hissing and snarling as they tore open a pit in your stomach. You gave a slight shake of your head and opened your eyes, willing the past to dissipate. 

“It felt so familiar- too familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”

Bucky’s eyes widened a bit as he put the pieces together. He didn’t know much about your past relationships, just as you intended. He knew only that your exes hadn’t treated you all that well. You never went into great detail about how or why things ended, and Bucky didn’t pry. But a knowing look bloomed across his face as he allowed your words to settle over him. 

“You’ve been cheated on,” he said. 

You nodded, “Three times.”

A sharp gasp filled Bucky’s lungs; disgust twisted his features into a horrified mask. “Three times?”

Again, you nodded. 

“In a row. We were- I was really serious about each of them. We lived together. Talked about building a future together. And then… yeah.”

Bucky was too shocked to move, to blink. 

And suddenly, his disturbed stare was too much. His hands were too big and warm against your skin. His grasp was too tight. You freed yourself from his embrace and put some distance between his body and yours. The air around him was just so heavy, so hot. A similar heat scorched your cheeks as the embarrassment of your admission caught up to you; you dragged deep breaths of cool, crisp air into your lungs. 

Bucky stayed right where you left him; you weren’t sure if it was out of respect or utter shock.

“Is that…” He paused, probably wondering if he should even ask. You nodded, assuring him that it was okay. “That’s why I heard you say, ‘I can’t do this again’?”

A fresh wave of heat struck your cheeks, and you gave a reluctant nod. 

“Yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic about it.”

“You weren’t-”

“My instincts have just been screaming at me for months, you know? And I’ve been trying really hard not to listen to them and then tonight happened and- and it was like a chorus of thousands of people screaming ‘I told you so!’” You gave a shake of your head, “It was like all the old wounds were ripped open and I was bleeding out again and it was no one’s fault but mine for not learning from my past mistakes.”

Bucky nodded.

“But it’s- I mean, obviously, this situation is different, cause you didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was just, I don’t know, muscle memory.”

“Makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. Three times is…” He stared at you with heartbreak in his eyes. “Being cheated on isn’t your fault, sweetheart. You said ‘past mistakes’ like you’re to blame, but you’re not. You know that, right?”

Your shrug was cold, detached.

Bucky took a step toward you, “Baby, it’s-”

“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” you said. A cynical smile spread across your face, “Those guys all cheated on me with an ex.” 

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Yeah,” you leaned against the nearest wall, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly, you felt too exposed. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. It was- it’s why I was losing my mind the whole time you and Tara were working together. I’m not this possessive, jealous person. I just- I thought the pattern was starting again.”

Bucky made a beeline toward you. He cautiously extended a hand in your direction and rested it against your cheek with a feather-light touch. There was something in his eyes, something sad and compassionate and concerned. The most genuine, heartfelt pity. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms gently around you, “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that. And I never would’ve taken this job- I never would’ve worked with her. I had no idea.”

“It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know.”

Bucky released you from his arms and took a step back, meeting your eyeline. “Why not?”

For a few seconds, you allowed your head to dip. Your eyes closed. Your jaw tensed. Speaking to Bucky openly and honestly wasn’t hard. He was the last person to judge or mock; he always listened with and open mind and open heart. But some things were hard to admit, even to him. He deserved the truth, though. Didn’t he? He deserved to know why you felt this way. Why you’d grown nervous at the first mention of Tara all those months ago.

“Because it’s embarrassing. Because I feel like…” you raised your head but deftly avoided eye contact. “I feel like I have this weird, very specific curse, or something. Like there’s something about me that pushes people back into the arms of their ex. Like something about being with me is so…” disgust colored your voice, “so awful that- that it kind of gives people a wakeup call, or something. And it helps them realize that the person they left behind is way, way better than anything I could ever offer them.”

He gave you the saddest smile you’d ever seen, “Sweetheart, that’s not true-”

 “Maybe if it had only happened once. Or even twice. But what’s that thing they say, ‘once is random, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern’?” The half-hearted shrug you threw his way was almost too pathetic. “When this kind of things happens to you three times- in a row- it makes you wonder if you’re the problem.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Bucky was still, his eyes trained on you. You fidgeted under his gaze, picking at the last remnants of one of your nails. The voice inside your head wailed. It wondered why Bucky wasn’t refuting your argument. Why he was completely silent. It feared that he agreed with you. That he’d taken your words to heart and finally seen the light, finally realized that there really was something wrong with you. That Tara was the better choice. That he was to be number four.

The urge to slap yourself across the face surged through you. There you were, doubting him once again. Projecting your problems onto him. Suspecting him of things he had never done- would never do. It took all of your strength, but you wrangled those skeptical, distrusting thoughts and shoved them into a dark corner of your mind. 

“But um, I know that this is my issue, not yours,” you said. “It’s something I need to work on. Cause it’s not fair of me to- I shouldn’t have put all of my shit on you. I know you’d never-”

“I would never,” Bucky insisted. He closed the space between you and cradled your face gently in his big hands. “I would never do that to you. You’re the only person I will ever want.”

You gave a slight nod. There was something shameful in your words. “I know- I know that. But the logical part of my brain was, I don’t know, hijacked. Or something. All I could think about was…” you sighed, “All I could think about was when you how going to tell me. I wondered if you’d sit me down and say it to my face- or if you’d tell me at all. I thought maybe I’d come home from work one day and all your stuff would be gone.”

His hands left your face. But before you could mourn their absence, his arms were wrapped securely, protectively around your waist. It seemed as though he was trying to save you from the pain of your past, to shield you from the ghosts. It was the same protection you offered him when the nightmares came calling, when the weight of his Hydra days grew too heavy to carry alone.

He let out a contented sigh as your arms wound around his neck and pulled you closer until you were certain that your body and his would meld into one. His heart beat against your chest, his breath ghosted across your skin. And for a long moment, you forgot the fear and agony that had plagued you these last few months. For a long moment, it was perfect.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, “Ever.”

“I know,” your arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. And so upset. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I-”

Just then, he pulled away, just enough that his eyes could meet yours.

“I know you trust me. But you had plenty reason to be upset. And suspicious.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, “You’ve been through a lot. It’s not your fault- your instincts were trying to protect you.”

“But-”

“No. No ‘buts’. Okay?” He was steadfast, almost stern. “You thought you recognized a pattern from your past, and you were scared. But you were just doing your best with the information you had. And that’s enough. You reacted in a way that makes sense, given the context. You don’t have to apologize or browbeat yourself for it. Okay?”

He eyed you for a long while until you gave him an unenthusiastic ‘okay’.

“And you aren’t cursed, by the way,” he asserted. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing about you that is going to send me running back to Tara or any of my other exes. You are…” His intense expression softened, melting into the purest form of adoration. “Everything to me. I could never want anyone more than I want you. Everything that I’ve been through- I would do it again. All of it. Because it led me to you-”

A quiet laugh left your chest.

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression grave. “I’d go back and do all of it again-  I wouldn’t change a single thing. If it brought me to you, I’d do it in heartbeat.”

There was no more humor in your expression, no more laughter bubbling on your surface, because he meant it. He really would repeat every heinous, awful thing that had ever happened to him- just to get back to you. Without a word, your tucked yourself against Bucky’s chest once again, and allowed his arms to crush you into his body. 

He was the good, trustworthy, loving man you always knew him to be. He was gracious. Understanding. Compassionate. Better than you ever dreamed. Better than you thought you deserved. He wasn’t a rerun of your past. No, he was a fresh, blank page. A clean slate. A brand-new story. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about soul-crushing plot twists. You didn’t have to fear that the story might end prematurely, or that the next page might bring heartbreak. 

You surely are about to taste your own blood on your tongue any second now if you keep biting your lip so hard. But all you do is tighten your grip on those messy, dark hair your fingers are knotted into, and you can’t fight the reflex to shift your hips away an inch so that the embarrassing sob that is growing in your throat won’t make it out.

Though you should have known that that would make him stop. His mouth pauses against your clit, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

His hands remain firmly at your thighs, thumbs soothing those slow and drowsy circles against your skin. But his eyes lift to yours, the usual bright blue of them gone dark and concentrated in the dimness of his bedroom. His gaze is fierce enough to make your breath hitch, but melted into its depths is that softness you know is there just for you.

With his gaze still on yours, he begins to kiss a languid path up your stomach, pausing just beneath your ribs and letting his eyes flutter when worshiping your breasts with his skilled tongue. Your mind and soul are soaring up to his high ceilings.

Your teeth are imprinted upon your bottom lip, and you hope you can continue keeping your breathing as even as possible, though you’re not managing all that well.

His hands move slowly across the skin of your hips, pinning you to the mattress. He doesn’t use all his strength but enough for you to feel stuck in his hold.

He crawls further up your body with that deliberate drag that leaves you shivering and panting. He hovers over you and his bare chest brushes your heaving breasts.

His face is now inches from yours, his stubble grazing your cheek, smelling like vanilla and something like cardamom, and you breathe it in automatically. His pupils are blown as they sear into yours.

“Stop that,” he orders, though his voice is a warm whisper. He reaches up, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it out from between your teeth. He soothes the imprint. “Don't you hide those pretty sounds from me.”

“Bucky, the guards,” you breathe out, your voice trembling, still weak from the way he used his tongue on you. Your face burns. The room feels enormous again, full of listening walls. “Your people. They will hear. They will think—”

Something flits across his expression. It seems to be something proud, even possessive. You could say it looks dangerous, but being the person that you are, and considering the sweet albeit intense person that he is, it turns you the hell on and makes you sigh.

“I don't care what they think. I want them to know.” He leans down, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot and smelling of you. “I want every man on my payroll to hear the way you sound when I’m the only thing on your mind. I want them to hear who I’m answering to tonight. And every other night from now on.”

With a stunned shake of your head, you stare up at him, a huff of embarrassment trying to bubble up and fall out of your mouth but it fails because his mouth is on yours, kissing you aggressively before he dives back down, not waiting for you to argue. You’re entirely overwhelmed, but damn, not in a bad way at all.

His hands lock you into place, and the way he’s eating you out has you flying straight to heaven with a one-way ticket. He’s being greedy. He’s using his tongue with a blunt, feverish sort of worship that makes your head hit his pillow with a thud.

He’s a businessman, that’s what he told you. But as his mouth works over you with all that bottled-up intensity he carries around all day, you feel the latent power he usually keeps veiled behind a tie. He’s a man who takes what he wants, and right now, what he wants is to hear you break, and you might actually, because god is he good, so incredibly good, you could definitely get used to it. Maybe you already are, but who’s to blame you for it.

The first real moan tears out of you, and you cringe internally at how loud and breathy it sounds, the way it vibrates in the cavernous room, landing in the farthest corners of the high ceilings.

Bucky grunts against you, and it sounds so purely satisfied, it even seems to rumble within your own body. You gasp, trying to suppress another moan, and he only presses harder, licking and sucking and slurping, and it makes you feel like you’re the only meal on his plate.

His thumbs dent the soft give of your hips to make sure you’re pinned the way he wants you, the way he has the best access to all of you. It’s dizzying, it makes your gut lurch in the best possible way, and you feel like a queen and a ruin all at once. He’s gentle, yeah, but it seems to be the gentle kind you would use on a porcelain heirloom right before testing its breaking point.

Your hands don’t know what to do with themselves. Gripping the sheets or pillows, touching yourself—it all doesn’t feel like enough, so you go back to sliding your fingers into his hair and basically watch them disappear in it. You feel powerful and helpless, and oh god you should really keep those noises down or you won’t be able to look at his people anymore.

He is a mountain of a man, intimidating in ways you don’t understand yet, full of secrets; and yet here he is, kneeling for you and eating you out as if that’s all he’s been waiting for his whole life.

Damn, you’re a lucky girl.

He is drinking you in, his mouth molding to you with a suction that feels like he’s trying to draw your very soul to the surface.

It feels as though each individual bristle of his stubble is caressing your inner thigh, and it's abrasive and burning but also so damn good. It makes the gliding heat of his tongue feel so soft and vivid, and it pulls the tension right out of your bones.

He tracks you through his lashes, and you’re careful not to meet his eyes or that dark gaze of his would surely make you come already. But he doesn’t stop documenting you and the way you react to him. He thrives on it, so very much that it doesn’t seem to embarrass him in the slightest.

Then he dives past your entrance, his tongue finding that soft, sharp intake of your breath. And your spine bows upward out of pure blinding pleasure. The sound that leaves you is startled, too loud for your liking and so you try to clamp your hand over your lips.

He catches your wrist.

He’s not harsh with it, but he brings your hand down to the mattress and pins it there decisively. His fingers lace through yours.

“What’d I say,” he warns, voice low, husky.

You swallow, your eyes are fluttering. “Bucky—”

“Make the noise,” he whispers as he kisses along your inner thigh, eyes on you. “All of it.”

His free hand slowly wanders upward and it almost feels possessive how he ascends your heated skin. You glimpse that little hint of something feral, something prehistoric in the trail of his eyes. You’ve seen it before, and as always, it pulls you under completely. His ferocity isn’t some thrashing kind of wild, honestly, he seems perfectly comfortable with his position, as though he’s already done the math but there’s no clear solution and he just has to keep calculating. Has to keep going.

He lunges back and buries his face in your heat, his tongue flat and broad, applying a rhythmic pressure that whites out your vision and has you moaning without thought. It’s thorough and hungry, his mouth drawing you in eagerly, and it feels like he’s trying to pull the very center of you into his throat.

“Bucky—,” you gasp, your fingers tightly clamping around his, knuckles white.

He growls, and it rattles his entire chest, it vibrates against your sensitive skin. He uses his teeth—just a graze, a tiny, sharp nip that sends a scalding current straight to your core. Your hips jerk reflexively, his hands are pinning you open, and you are forced to take every unsparing lap of his tongue.

He shifts his weight, his nose dragging through your wetness as he focuses his attention on the very top of your nub. He works his tongue in a cadence so constant it sends the pressure straight to the back of your skull until the room dissolves behind your eyelids. It feels almost like a breaking point, but hell, you would throw yourself out of those high windows if he were to stop now.

He’s fast and skilled and you’re made to take it.

“Open up,” he commands against your skin, his voice muffled and wet although you couldn’t possible open up more for him.

There is no more warning before he fills you with two fingers, sliding them deep inside you and stretching you while his thumb maintains that dizzying pressure, and the friction burns a hole through your focus. The two sensations fight for room in your head, effectively demolishing whatever was left of your pride and it makes you let out the highest moan. You’re straining upward, seeking the release he’s dangling just out of reach.

He looks up at you, his face flushed, his breathing ragged against your thigh. A stray, damp shimmer glistens on the curve of his lower lip, and he licks it clean. You watch mesmerized and utterly overdrawn. His gaze is stripped of any pretense, it’s dark and appeased and entirely fixed on the way your face is breaking.

"That's it," he coos, watching your chest heave. "Scream for me, sweetheart. I'm not stopping until you do."

He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep inside you before curling back to hook against your clit, and suddenly there is no perspective on anything anymore, and the floors are walls and the walls are floors, and—

And then his phone begins vibrating against the mahogany nightstand. It’s a sharp and intrusive sound and it’s stripping the air of its heat.

Bucky doesn’t seem to care, though. He doesn’t so much as glance over at it. His gaze stays welded to yours, his pupils taking up the beautiful blue. His thumb continues trailing your heat, collecting your slick, and he turns to watch in amazement, as he licks a long stripe up your center, making you choke on your spit.

The vibration of his phone still ringing grates against the wood, loud enough to feel like a physical itch.

Bucky is a man who has built an empire on timing, yet he seems perfectly content to let the world outside the bedroom door spontaneously combust.

The phone dies.

He keeps sucking, you keep moaning.

Then, it begins again, more insistent this time. His phone is pulsing. It seems urgent.

You feel his jaw tighten against you. Feel the shift you’ve come to recognize but never quite know what to do with. The air around him thickens by a single degree. The temperature of him changes, not in heat but in authority. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world is knocking its head against his patience.

“Bucky,” you breathe, the word leaning on the dryness in your throat. Your chest is still heaving, your skin flushed a beautiful pink. You softly pull at his hair to make him look at you, a weak gesture that feels like trying to move a mountain. “You should get that.”

His eyes meet yours. There are galaxies in them and something darker orbiting behind them. He leans in and presses a slow, devastating kiss to the inside of your thigh, all calm and relaxed while the phone continues vibrating angrily.

“It can wait,” he decides, voice an octave lower and threaded with promise as he trails a line of punishingly soft kisses along your skin.

Another buzz, the sound now an impatient thrum that seems to vibrate the very legs of the bed. It feels like a summons, a reminder of the business that pays for the guards and the maids and the high ceilings.

He exhales through his nose and lets out a rumble of annoyance. His thumb strokes a calming line along your hip, as if reassuring you that his irritation belongs elsewhere. He looks like some wild animal being interrupted mid-meal.

“Bucky—,” you start, carefully, your hand sliding to cup his face, feeling the heat of his skin, but he clicks his tongue to interrupt you.

“My girl deserves to get off first,” he hums, not letting his lips off your skin, his stubble a deliberate, intoxicating scrape against your thigh.

And when his tongue drives home, flat and strong against that hyper-sensitized knot of nerves, it doesn’t take long for that jolting pleasure to cloud your vision and bleach the dark corners of his bedroom into a searing, blinding white.

Your spine arches and snaps and leaves you suspended between the silk sheets and the cold air, held down only by his weight.

The embarrassing sob you were trying to hide earlier finally tears free, but it isn’t a sob anymore. It’s a melodic wail that echoes off the shadows-drenched ceiling. It climbs high and rings out with a clarity that makes the idea of guards and business feel like a fever dream from another life.

Your body is trying to crush his fingers in a desperate pulse that feels like a heart beating where it shouldn't.

And Bucky drinks it all in. He keeps his head down, jaw locked against you, refusing to let the moment end. That rough graze of his stubble is brutal but it keeps you somewhat in the room. He is taking the time with the mess he made, leaning into the way you are trembling, his mouth ensuring that every last bit of your control is gone.

By the time your vision starts to clear at the edges, and the room starts to solidify back into reality, you feel hollowed out, as if he’d reached inside and pulled the very soul of you to the surface. You slump into the mattress, your limbs too heavy to even twitch, your lungs burning with the effort of remembering how to breathe.

When you begin to squirm in his hold, Bucky finally pulls back, his expression bluntly victorious. He is breathing hard, his lips stained, his eyes trained on the way your ribs are still hitching with those dying tremors. His hand tightens at your hip.

Then he rises over you in one fast movement, bracing himself above you with his weight carefully balanced. You don’t need any more physical proof that he wants you, considering how hard and ready you can feel him against your leg, with his control barely in check; and it makes your lungs seize up.

Wordlessly, he leans down to pull you into a slow kiss that goes so deep, your thoughts evaporate and your fingers tangle in his hair. He groans against your lips, breathing your name. You feel him twitch against you as he lets his hand slide back between your bodies—when the door rattles with a knock.

Bucky stills with his forehead on yours, eyes still closed, jaw a block of ice. “Boss?” a slightly hesitant voice comes through the door.

His nose presses into the crook of your neck. For a long second, he just breathes you in, a deep, possessive inhalation as if he is trying to pull in all of your scent to survive the coming interruption.

With a low curse that is more a growl than a word, he rolls onto his side and promptly pulls you with him, tucking you into his chest. His body angles slightly toward the door, building an instinctive shield. His arms remain draped over you, his left hand splayed protectively across your back.

“What,” he calls, voice suddenly stripped of warmth. There is a pause on the other side.

“Sorry, boss,” The voice is male. Sounding even more hesitant now. And definitely embarrassed. “But, uh— it’s important. You are needed.”

You want to let out a heavy sigh. But you’ve seen this coming, really.

Bucky closes his eyes briefly and there is something pinched around them. He’s not usually a short-tempered man, at least not with you, but right now he looks ready to snap at the door.

“I’m busy,” he replies flatly, and you believe his voice is only calm for your sake.

Another pause. The poor man outside is probably staring at the door waiting for it to shoot him.

“It’s Sam,” he explains carefully, seemingly afraid to say too much.

You know Sam. Or, you have heard Bucky mention Sam. Sam, the colleague. The one your boyfriend refers to with a mix of irritation and reluctant brotherhood. A pain in the ass, he told you with a half-smile. But loyal. Does good work. One of the few men he trusts to argue with him and live. You had laughed at the way he said it so seriously. He hadn't really laughed with you, but he kissed you stupid afterwards and so you no longer thought of it.

Bucky gives a long exhale.

“Give me five.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hurried footsteps retreat down the corridor.

And Bucky doesn’t make a single attempt to leave your side. He just peppers your neck with tiny kisses.

You try to turn to his face. “Bucky, you should go.”

His eyes meet yours, and the stoicism buckles immediately. Back is the softness.

“You come first,” he hums, and his thumb brushes your cheek. There is something apologetic in the gesture, though he hasn’t done anything wrong.

You smile faintly and let a slow pout form on your lips. “I don’t want to hold you back from work.”

“You’re not,” he reassures you softly, leaning down to kiss you with a lack of the urgency he should probably be feeling right now.

But then he’s shifting away, sitting up on the edge of the bed, and the loss of his heat is a stinging chill. The chandelier light spills over his naked back, over the breadth of his shoulders. Your eyes glide down the tiny pink scars on his left shoulder with a sinking feeling in your stomach—those scars are another mystery he hasn’t let you into yet. But all you want to do is kiss them and hope to make it better, even if just a little.

You watch the way he runs a hand through his hair, reassembling himself piece by piece. By the time he stands, he has edges. He always seems different when he’s no longer touching you.

He pulls on a pair of dark trousers and doesn’t bother with a shirt. The phone is in his hand now. He checks the screen, jaw grinding briefly before he glances back at you. And the hardness that stepped into his eyes softens again, dissolving the moment they meet your face. It’s almost ridiculous, how quickly it happens. Like watching a knife remember it was once a piece of silver meant for candlelight.

You’re still half-sunk into the bed, hair falling around your shoulders, limbs loose, and sheets wound around your naked body. Around you, it smells of cedar, expensive soap, and Bucky himself, which is somehow warmer than both.

“Stay here,” he says gently. “I’ll handle it.”

Handle it.

The words mean spreadsheets and contracts in your mind. Annoying colleagues. Late- night negotiations.

He walks back to his bed to press a tender kiss to your forehead.

You push yourself up slightly on your elbows, the blanket sliding down your side. And you definitely see the way his gaze drifts for an appreciative and unashamed moment before it returns to your eyes. There is a small smile tugging at his mouth, and it’s the one you always get to see when you’re the only audience.

“Make yourself at home while I’m gone, yeah?” he whispers, nodding toward the massive wardrobe along the far wall, keeping his attention on you. “If you get cold, grab a shirt of mine. Top shelf on the left.”

You smile at him, nodding softly.

His eyes move over you slowly, and there is something warmly adoring in them that makes your chest tighten in a strange, bright way. He reaches out to brush his fingers along your jaw. The touch is thorough, absentmindedly tender, soothing out something only he can see.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he adds, voice rougher now. Reluctant. “Didn’t plan on having to step out. Told Sam he better handle his own ass today. Should’ve known better, though.”

“You’re the boss, Bucky,” you ease lightly. “I assume dramatic interruptions are part of the brand.”

His mouth curves.

“Unfortunately.”

He kisses your forehead once more, lingering long enough to make your lashes flutter.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs sweetly. “Soon as I’m done with this.” His thumb traces your cheek. “I’m coming right back. Gonna give you my full attention.” His eyes darken slightly, voice dipping just enough to send a warm shiver through you. “Cuddle you properly. Maybe take things a little further.”

Your stomach does a small, excited flip. “Maybe?”you tease, leaning into his touch.

He presses his smirk against yours. “Definitely.”

With that, he pulls back and straightens, that sovereign steel slipping back over him piece by piece. It’s almost visible, the way he steps into whatever role the rest of his world knows him for. The man who answers phones about Sam and things that sound suspiciously more complicated than spreadsheets.

At the door, he glances back once more. Same softness, just for you. “Lock it behind me, doll.”

The door opens. His phone lifts to his ear.

His voice changes instantly as he steps into the hallway.

“Get Wilson on the line,” he demands, tone clipped. “Now.” And then the door shuts.

You’re left in the echo of him and his scent in the sheets, his warmth still imprinted on your skin.

You don’t get up immediately to lock the door. He can get just a little too protective sometimes, so you don’t deem it necessary to lock the door when he’s just out taking a call. And you’re sure his guards would be in much worse trouble if they were to enter and see you nakedly spread out in his bed.

So you flop back into the mattress—that certainly was expensive too, due to the way it feels—and stare at the ceiling for a moment.

Then you laugh, incredulously. A quiet little wheeze of disbelief escaping into the big room.

Because really. What on earth.

You roll onto your side, pulling the blanket with you, and glance around the bedroom again like maybe you hallucinated the last two hours. Or the last two months.

The place is obscene.

And not in a tacky-rich, or gold-fountain rich kind of way. This is the quiet kind of wealth. Everything is polished wood and deep colors and furniture that probably has a historical backstory longer than your résumé.

There’s a fireplace bigger than your entire first apartment. A chandelier that looks like it was handcrafted by depressed angels.

And somewhere downstairs, there are actual maids.

Maids.

And guards.

Actual human beings whose job description probably includes phrases like protect the property and stand menacingly near large gates.

Meanwhile, you used to eat instant noodles on a couch that leaned slightly to the left like it had given up on life.

And somehow—how the fuck—you have ended up in the bed of a man who owns more suits than you own pairs of socks. A man who is tall and broad and so absurdly handsome, who steps into those razor-sharp tailored suits as though they were invented solely for him. Who wears that self-confident authority in his voice that makes the people around him straighten without realizing why.

And yet, he was on his knees for you just moments ago.

The thought sends heat creeping up your neck again. But in a giddy way.

You bury your face briefly into the pillow with a muffled groan. Because honestly, how did you pull that.

A man like Bucky should logically be dating a diplomat. Or a CEO. Or some terrifyingly poised woman who drinks champagne for breakfast and owns fifteen languages.