Look For Me In The Moon

The door creaked open at exactly 7:42 a.m.

You noticed because it was quiet—too quiet for this hour in early fall when regulars shuffled in with tired eyes and worn travel mugs, rustling newspapers and complaining about the cold. But this time, no one said anything. Not a single familiar boot scraped across the tile. No jacket slung onto a stool. Just a hush, like the whole place was waiting for something.

Or someone.

You didn’t look up right away. You were halfway through stacking cinnamon scones in the front display case, half-tuned to the hum of the café’s old indie playlist and half-cursing the crooked chalkboard sign that kept tilting like it had a grudge against gravity.

The bell over the door gave a quiet chime. And then: stillness.

Your eyes flicked up.

He didn’t look at you first. He was reading the chalkboard, lips slightly parted like he wasn’t just scanning for caffeine options—he was reading it like he needed to decipher it. Like he was trying to understand this new terrain: small-town morning rituals written in curly white lettering, soaked in too many exclamation marks and too much optimism.

He wore a leather jacket—worn at the collar, creased at the elbows. One hand in a pocket, the other gloved. The shape of it struck you: not thick winter gloves, but one singular dark glove. The other hand was exposed—metal, black and gold glinting under the weak light as if it breathed differently than the rest of him.

He was too still. Still in a way that told you movement cost him something.

And then he looked at you.

That was it.

That was the moment you felt the pull. The drop.

No romantic swelling music. Just your breath, catching somewhere behind your ribs. And a thought that came uninvited:

He looks like someone who hasn’t been warm in a long time.

His eyes were the kind you don’t expect to find in a sleepy town like this—cool, storm-colored, like they’d seen cities burn and hearts close. But they weren’t cold. That’s what undid you.

There was kindness there.

Tired kindness. Tense kindness. But real.

He stepped forward. Careful steps. Measured. Like every inch of him was trying not to occupy too much space.

“Hi,” he said.

Just one word. One syllable.

Rough-edged, but gentle. Like someone who knew what it meant to be feared and was doing everything not to be.

You blinked. Words escaped you. It was ridiculous—you weren’t the nervous type. But something about the way he looked at you, like you were the one unfamiliar thing in the room, shook your center of gravity.

“Hi,” you said back, trying not to sound like your heart had just tripped over itself. “What can I get you?”

He looked at the pastry display. At the coffee list. Then at you.

“I’m… not sure. Whatever you’d recommend,” he said quietly, voice low like it was half apology, half surrender.

Your chest ached.

You don’t have to try too hard, the song in your head whispered. You already have my heart.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He nodded once. Barely. But you saw it. A flicker of trust. Like maybe the world hadn’t completely shut him out yet.

By 7:48, you’d handed him a mug—something warm, cinnamon-laced, not too sweet—and a cranberry scone still steaming from the oven. He didn’t ask questions. Just gave you a faint thank-you that settled over your skin like a snowfall.

He picked the back corner. Away from the windows. Back to the wall.

You watched him go. How he moved like someone who didn’t want to be seen but didn’t want to be alone either. Like the space between those two things was the only place he knew how to live anymore.

You didn’t stare.

Much.

But you noticed.

The way his eyes scanned the café like a soldier in a new war zone. How he sat with both feet flat on the floor, metal hand resting near his thigh like it was ready to act but didn’t want to be.

How he kept looking at the door.

He wasn’t just new to town.

He was unmoored.

You turned back to the counter. Your hands were warm from the mug, but the rest of you felt cold now—like he’d carried winter in with him, quiet and slow.

Still, beneath it all, you could feel something else stirring. Something not cold.

Hope, maybe.

Or the beginning of something unnamed.

You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know his story.

But when he looked up one last time before leaving, eyes catching yours across the café—

It wasn’t loneliness in them.

It was something older. Something deeper.

Recognition.

Like maybe he’d seen this moment before. In a dream. In a memory he wasn’t sure belonged to him.

And just like that, it happened.

The invisible thread. The quiet click.

The knowledge that this wasn’t just a stranger walking into your café.

He had you at hello.

The next morning, he’s back.

You don’t hear the door open—you feel it. That hush again. Like the café itself inhales when he enters.

You glance up from behind the counter, hand wrapped around a still-warm mug. He’s dressed the same: dark layers, leather jacket zipped halfway up, gloved hand gripping the door handle a moment longer than necessary.

He’s rain-speckled. Drops cling to the ends of his hair, darkened by water. The shoulder of his jacket shines where the drizzle hit hardest. He looks like he’s walked through more than just the rain to get here.

But he’s here.

You don’t speak. Just nod, quiet and knowing. Then you turn and start preparing his order without asking.

He notices. You know he notices—because he hesitates.

You can feel his eyes linger on your hands as you reach for the cinnamon scone. You slice it in half—he always eats half, then carefully wraps the other like he’s saving it for someone who never shows up.

You hand him his mug, same way you did yesterday. Your fingers brush his gloved hand for half a second.

This time, he looks at you when he says, “Thank you.”

Still soft. Still quiet. But this time, there’s weight in it.

Like the word itself has to pass through something dark to reach his mouth.

He chooses the same booth. Back corner. Back to the wall. Eyes on the door.

The second he sits down, a few of the regulars filter in, boots squeaking on the damp floor. You catch Bucky’s jaw clench when one of them—Sammy, old local with no awareness of personal space—steps too close behind him while moving past.

It’s not a dramatic reaction. No sharp movement. Just the subtle tension of someone ready for a fight that won’t come.

You watch him try to relax.

Try to melt into the quiet.

The way he flinches—barely—when a cup falls behind the counter and crashes on the tile.

The way his metal fingers twitch when the wind pushes the door open too hard.

The way he always watches the door—not paranoid, just… prepared.

And the way he says “thank you” like it’s foreign on his tongue. Like it’s something he’s still learning how to mean.

He walks like a man who’s afraid of his own gravity.

Not afraid of hurting someone.

Afraid of being too much.

You don’t speak much. Not yet.

But you bring him a sugar packet without asking. And when he struggles to open it, gloved fingers slipping, you slide a small butter knife across the table without looking directly at him.

He stills.

Looks up, surprised. Maybe even a little…embarrassed.

“You’re okay,” you say, quietly.

And that—that is when it happens again.

He looks at you. Really looks. Something unreadable flickers in those eyes. Something worn and bruised, but curious. Not about the coffee. Not about the weather.

About you.

“You don’t have to try too hard…”

That’s what you think as you meet his gaze.

“You already have my heart.”

On the third morning, you finally ask.

“So,” you say, keeping your tone light as you pour his drink, “are you just passing through, or…?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Trying to be less haunted,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing.

“Thought a small town might help.”

Your chest tightens—not because it’s dramatic, but because it isn’t.

You nod. Like you understand. Because maybe you do.

You don’t ask what haunts him. You don’t ask his name.

But the next morning, you get it anyway.

“Bucky,” he says softly, when you hand him his coffee with that same tiny smile you’ve started reserving just for him.

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says. “You should know it. Since you keep saving my life with these scones.”

Your laugh is soft but genuine.

“Bucky,” you repeat, tasting the name.

It feels right in your mouth. Like it’s meant to be said quietly. Meant to be kept close.

Tuesday morning. It rains again.

The windows fog. The smell of cinnamon, espresso, and wet pavement fills the café.

A tray clatters to the ground near the front. A customer curses. You see Bucky stiffen—his hand shoots halfway toward his hip like it’s habit. Instinct. Then stops.

His eyes go distant.

Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You act fast.

“Careful with those,” you say with a soft smile, stepping out from behind the counter to help the customer. “We’ve only got most of our mugs left.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. But he does come back. Slowly. And when you bring him a napkin a few minutes later, he murmurs, “Thanks,” with something close to relief in his voice.

That’s when you realize: he’s used to protecting himself.

You want to be the kind of place where he doesn’t have to.

He stands to leave. You hand him his to-go drink, as always. Your fingers brush over the back of his glove. Just lightly. Bare skin to fabric.

He pauses.

And then—

That faintest flicker of a smile.

Not the kind people notice. The kind people feel.

“Don’t say goodnight… You had me at hello.”

You smile back. Not expecting anything. Not asking.

But you realize, watching him step out into the soft drizzle again:

He’s not just staying for the coffee.

He’s staying because for the first time in a long time,

this place doesn’t feel dangerous.

He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back.

It’s not the coffee.

It’s not even the scone.

It’s you.

The way your voice doesn’t try to fix him. The way you don’t flinch when he walks in. The way your fingers brush his hand like he’s not made of broken pieces.

He doesn’t have the words for it yet.

But if he did, they’d sound like this:

“She looked at me like I wasn’t a weapon.”

“And for a second, I believed her.”

It starts on a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday that drizzles instead of storms.

The sky is gray, the sidewalks are wet, and you’re wiping down the counter when he walks in.

You don’t look up right away.

You don’t need to.

You feel him before you see him—like gravity shifting in the room.

The quiet kind. Familiar now.

He doesn’t go to his usual booth.

Instead, he chooses a table one seat closer to the counter. Just close enough to be noticed, not close enough to require explanation.

You raise your eyebrows. “Switching it up?”

Bucky—because you know to call him that now—glances toward the old record player in the corner.

“Better view of the playlist.”

He doesn’t look at it.

He looks at you.

You smile without asking more. And you hand him his drink without waiting for him to order it.

Late morning, it starts.

The café’s playlist is always a little bit yours—an eclectic mix of rainy-day indie, old soul, and songs that sound like they’ve been aching in someone’s chest since before they had a name.

And then it happens.

The old speakers crackle gently. Then:

Close your mouth now, baby, don’t say a word…

’Cause you ain’t saying nothin’ I ain’t already heard…

He stills. Subtle, but you know him now.

His grip tightens just slightly on the ceramic mug.

Plus, all them words get buried when the beat’s so loud…

And the speakers blowin’ up to this dance song…

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

The way his eyes shift—not away from the sound, but into it—tells you everything.

You’re wiping down a table later when the chorus returns, and without thinking, you hum it.

Just a bar or two. Soft. Absent-minded.

But his head lifts. Eyes locking on yours.

“You know this one?” you ask, casually.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quieter than usual:

“Used to.”

Like it belonged to a version of him that’s buried too deep to reach most days.

You nod. You don’t push.

But something flickers between you—the unspoken understanding of what it means to lose whole decades, and still show up for the morning.

You don’t mean to tell him.

But it’s one of those late afternoons when the rain comes soft against the windows, and the air smells like cinnamon and wet leaves.

It’s quiet. No customers. Just you, a rag in your hand, leaning on the counter as he sits nearby, elbow on the table, thumb grazing the edge of his mug like it’s something to be studied.

“This town helped me breathe again,” you say, almost too low to hear yourself.

His eyes lift. Watching.

“I lost someone,” you say, because you don’t know how else to phrase it. “And after, everything felt like a fire drill. Like I was going through the motions of being alive.”

You exhale, then glance away. “Coming here… I don’t know. Something in the quiet made it feel okay to be sad.”

You risk a look.

He hasn’t moved.

But he’s listening. Like if he shifts, even slightly, he’ll miss something vital.

He doesn’t respond with a story of his own.

But he stays.

You’ll learn that’s how Bucky says the important things: not with words. But with presence.

The door swings open too fast. The bell clangs sharp—louder than it should be.

It startles you, but it stiffens him.

He doesn’t panic. Doesn’t snap. But you see it—the way his whole body locks. The flicker in his eyes like something deep in him is checking exits.

Without thinking, you step around the counter.

Your hand finds his sleeve.

Just a light touch.

A tether.

“Hey,” you say gently, like the sound of your voice can pull him back. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t pull away.

In fact… for a split second, he leans into the touch.

Then it’s gone.

You both move on like nothing happened.

But it happened.

And the air remembers.

It’s nearing close.

You’re behind the counter, and he’s finishing the last sip of his drink. Neither of you seems eager to move.

Outside, the rain’s eased to mist.

He stands, slowly. Shrugs on his jacket.

You don’t have to try too hard…

You already have my heart…

The song plays again. The line lingers in the room.

And when he heads for the door, something in your chest tightens.

“Don’t say goodnight…” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

But he hears it.

He turns halfway. Eyes soft.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a small smile. “It’s the lyrics.”

A pause.

“See you tomorrow?”

It’s a question. Not a promise.

But you nod like it’s both.

As he turns again, you catch him watching you—not like a soldier.

Not like someone surveying a room.

Like someone seeing light.

“You’re staring, Barnes,” you tease, grabbing a dish towel.

He smirks. Almost too subtle to catch.

“You know my name.”

“You told me.”

A beat. A breath.

Then—just before he pushes open the door—he says it:

“Sunshine.”

Soft. Almost swallowed by the wind.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

But he doesn’t take it back.

The apartment is too quiet.

He sets the coffee cup on the small table like it’s breakable.

The song still plays in his head.

Your voice, humming it, somehow louder than the original.

He lowers himself to the couch. Leans back. Stares at the ceiling.

And thinks—

She doesn’t flinch when I go quiet.

She doesn’t push when I pull back.

She makes the silence feel less like punishment.

He closes his eyes.

Lets the quiet wrap around him.

And for the first time in years…

It doesn’t feel like armor.

It feels like breathing.

It happens after midnight.

After the rain has stopped. After the apartment has gone still.

After he’s let himself fall asleep for once without the TV humming low like a safety net.

He dreams in layers.

Not chronological. Not logical.

Just images, sound, sensation.

The dream begins the way most do:

Too loud.

Guns. Screams. Dust in his mouth. He’s running—he’s falling—he’s fighting someone he doesn’t recognize, who wears his face, who calls him asset—

Then—

You don’t have to try too hard…

The song threads in from nowhere.

Like light filtering through broken glass.

The chaos doesn’t stop, but something softens around the edges.

And then it’s your voice—not yelling, not commanding.

Just laughing.

He’s sitting at a booth that doesn’t belong to any place he knows.

Not really.

But there’s coffee in his hand. And you’re behind the counter, humming like the world is simple.

You say something—he can’t make out the words—but your eyes are warm and the light through the window looks like home.

You bring him a scone, set it down gently, brush his fingers when you do.

You don’t got a thing to prove…

I’m already into you…

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes.

That part always breaks the dream.

You’re sitting beside him now.

You’re not saying anything.

Just resting your head on his shoulder. Like it’s allowed. Like it’s safe.

And he doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t pull away.

He leans into it, just slightly, until—

“Sunshine,” he murmurs.

You look up, smile like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What?”

He smiles back.

“Nothing.”

But this time in the dream, he doesn’t lose it.

He holds onto the moment just a little longer.

He wakes slowly.

The sheets are tangled. His throat’s dry. The sky outside is still blue-black.

But something’s different.

The weight isn’t gone. But it’s not pressing quite as hard.

And when he turns his head on the pillow, he whispers the word again like a secret:

“Sunshine.”

Not nothing.

This time, he means it.

You’re already behind the counter, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hair pinned back messily. It’s early enough that the world still feels like it’s exhaling from a bad dream — fog on the windows, street slick with last night’s rain, the air thick with quiet. Your hands are busy, but your heart feels like it’s listening for something.

The bell over the café door chimes.

You don’t look up immediately.

You don’t have to.

His footsteps are heavier in the mornings — not in volume, but in presence. Like he carries gravity in the soles of his boots.

He walks in like he’s still deciding if he’s allowed to.

You glance up as he approaches the counter, his eyes scanning for you — like he doesn’t breathe right until he finds you behind the bar.

You slide his drink across the counter before he can open his mouth.

“Morning,” you say gently.

He looks down at the drink. Then back at you. Something flickers in his expression — not quite a smile, not quite disbelief.

“You remembered.”

He always says it like that. Like remembering him is an act of rebellion against everything he’s known.

“Of course I did.” You tap the lid. “And your scone’s waiting in the warmer. But I left a note.”

You hand it to him on a napkin scrawled with your messy handwriting:

“Wednesdays suck less with pastries.”

His lips twitch. A real smile tries to break through.

He doesn’t comment.

But the corner of his mouth betrays him — and that’s enough.

He moves toward his usual booth, only—

Today, he stops one seat closer to the counter.

“Your usual table’s open,” you say, teasing.

“Better view of the record player,” he mutters.

You catch the faintest flush in his ears.

You don’t point out that the record player is behind him from that seat.

You wipe down the counters. He pretends to read.

He’s brought a book the last few days. You know the title. You know it because he’s had it open to the same page every single time.

Today is no different.

“You know,” you say, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder, “for a guy who keeps coming in with a book, you’re not making much progress.”

He doesn’t look up.

“You timing me?”

“I’m just concerned you might’ve forgotten how to read.”

That gets a snort out of him — low, surprised.

Then, before he can stop it — he laughs.

Not just a breath. Not a polite exhale.

A laugh.

It catches both of you off-guard.

He brings a gloved hand up to his mouth, like it slipped out without permission.

Your chest tightens. Not with worry — with wonder.

“Was that…” You narrow your eyes. “Was that a laugh?”

He mumbles behind his fingers, “Don’t get used to it.”

Too late.

There’s a lull in the rush. You’re both standing behind the counter, pretending not to be watching each other. The song on the record player has faded into some soft acoustic hum.

Out of nowhere, he says, “I used to draw.”

You blink.

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

Just… wait.

“Before everything,” he adds after a beat. “Back when it was just something I did. Before it got… lost.”

“What happened?” you ask, gently.

His jaw tightens. Eyes stay on the wood grain of the counter.

“Forgot how to.”

You consider that. Let the silence stretch long enough that it doesn’t feel like a demand.

“Doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t have a name yet.

But it’s starting to grow teeth.

The café playlist shifts. And you feel it before you hear it.

That one track. The one that hit him last time.

And this time, the room seems to still as the lyrics begin.

Close your mouth now, baby, don’t say a word

’Cause you ain’t sayin’ nothin’ I ain’t already heard…

You hum it as you rinse a cup. Barely aware of it.

He’s watching you again.

Not like a soldier scans a threat.

Like a man who’s watching sunlight stretch across floorboards.

You don’t have to try too hard…

You already have my heart…

He closes his eyes.

Not in pain.

Just—like it hurts to be seen this clearly.

You don’t got a thing to prove…

I’m already into you…

And in that moment, something invisible uncoils between you both.

Something heavy and golden and quiet.

You’re both behind the bar again — you asked him to help restock cups, half-joking.

He said, “Bossy,” with a ghost of a smile.

You reach for a ceramic mug at the same time.

Your fingers brush his glove.

And neither of you move.

Not for a second.

Not for two.

His gloved thumb shifts — just barely — over the ridge of your knuckle.

You feel the shape of the moment. Warm and fragile and wanting.

Then—

The bell over the door rings.

You flinch.

He steps back.

But your hand still feels the shape of his.

And for a moment — neither of you say anything.

The mug is in his hands.

The one you let him keep.

Not the chipped ones. Not the plain ones.

The good one.

“It’s just a cup,” you’d said.

But he remembered what he told you in return.

“No one’s ever let me keep the good cup before.”

He didn’t mean to say that out loud.

But it was the truest thing he’d said all day.

He sets the mug on the table, next to the sketchbook.

Open now.

The page is half-filled with a pencil rendering — soft lines, gentle shading.

A face. Not finished. Not labeled.

But it’s you.

Your profile. Your hands. The shape of your jaw when you smile.

The song plays again — on his old speakers. He downloaded the playlist. Needed to keep something from the café with him.

You don’t have to try too hard…

He presses the pencil to the page. Doesn’t draw.

Just holds it there.

You already have my heart…

He whispers it.

Not to the page. Not to the song.

To you.

Wherever you are right now.

He dreams.

For once, it’s not war.

It’s not metal or blood or sirens or glass.

It’s the café.

Afternoon sun warming the floor.

You’re there, behind the counter. Wearing that oversized sweater. Hair up in a clip. Humming. Smiling.

He’s sitting across from you.

No glove.

Your hand is wrapped around his.

You’re calling him something soft.

“James.”

The name sounds safe in your mouth.

He wakes up before he answers you.

As he leaves that night, you pause with the key in your hand, ready to lock the door.

“Same time tomorrow?” you ask.

You’re still facing away from him when he answers.

“Yeah.”

Then—

“I like the quiet here.”

You turn just enough to meet his eyes.

You don’t say it.

But it’s there in your smile.

In the breath between you.

It’s not the quiet.

It’s you.

The morning starts with a missing piece.

No boots at the door. No quiet knock of knuckles against wood. No half-smile from the man who’s come to feel like gravity disguised as routine.

You keep glancing at the entrance anyway, like the bell might ring if you will it hard enough.

It doesn’t.

Still, you make his drink. Just in case. You set it on the warmer, and every few minutes you check it—switching it out for a fresh one before it goes cold.

You tell yourself it’s muscle memory. Not hope.

When he finally walks in—late, soaked in the gray of the day—something in your chest unstitches.

His jacket is damp from the rain. His hair curls slightly at the ends. He looks tired in that way you’ve started to recognize—not from lack of sleep, but from holding back everything he won’t say.

You say nothing about the absence. Nothing about the hour.

Just:

“It’s still hot.”

And when you slide the cup toward him, it feels like offering shelter instead of coffee.

He doesn’t smile, not really, but his eyes soften. And that’s enough.

Outside, the storm hits its stride.

The windows fog at the corners. Rain streaks across the glass like brushstrokes. The world turns watercolor.

Inside, it’s all warm light and the hush of things unspoken.

He stays longer. Doesn’t pretend to read. The book in his hands is open, but the pages don’t turn. Every so often, his gaze finds you like he doesn’t mean it to.

You catch it once. Hold it.

He doesn’t look away.

Later, you say it without planning to.

It slips out soft, like a confession disguised as a comment.

“This place didn’t used to feel like home. Not until recently.”

You don’t say because of you.

You don’t have to.

He stills. Hand around the mug, knuckles pale.

Sets it down.

He looks at you like he wants to say something that would crack his chest open—but instead, he just exhales. Slow. Measured.

His mouth opens.

Closes.

A small shake of the head.

You don’t push.

You just smile.

And something in him shifts at the sight of it—like a fist slowly uncoiling.

Evening falls without fanfare.

The café empties. The storm presses close against the windows.

He’s still there, drying mugs that don’t need drying. Like he belongs behind the counter now. Like he’s forgotten how to leave.

“You know this isn’t your job, right?” you tease.

He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

You hand him the same mug you let him take last time. No words, no ceremony. Just an understanding.

Then—something different. Something new threads the silence.

You almost say it:

“Wanna come over?”

“Do you want to stay?”

“Walk me home?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

The air between you pulses, like it knows how close you are to saying something that could change everything.

And instead, he says:

“You hum when you’re thinking.”

You blink. Caught.

“I didn’t realize.”

“I like it,” he says. Simply. No pretense.

Like he means it.

The playlist shifts again. A soft beat. Familiar now.

You hum under your breath, not thinking.

You don’t have to try too hard…

You already have my heart…

He hears it. You feel his attention before you look up.

Then—

“You already have my heart.”

It comes so softly, like he’s saying it to the rain. To the empty room. To no one.

But you hear it.

You stop moving. The cloth stills in your hand.

You turn, and he’s standing there, eyes on yours. Unmoving. Unapologetic.

He doesn’t take it back.

And you don’t ask him to.

That night, in a room that’s never felt more hollow, he sketches again.

The mug you gave him rests beside the paper. Still warm from memory.

He draws your laugh—not your face, exactly. Just the shape of your mouth mid-smile. The curve of your eyes when you tease.

He doesn’t show anyone.

He doesn’t need to.

She doesn’t know, he thinks, watching the lines take shape.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me.

Then, quieter:

Or maybe she does.

And she’s waiting for me to catch up.

In his sleep, he dreams.

Of you.

Of the café, candlelit and empty. Music curling around the corners.

You’re there—barefoot, swaying. Humming that same song.

He watches from a distance. Doesn’t want to disturb the way you glow in the low light.

Then you turn.

Reach for him.

“You don’t have to try,” you whisper.

And he takes your hand.

Wakes up with his fingers curled into nothing.

The next morning, he opens the to-go bag you packed.

Inside: the spoon. A worn, unassuming one.

There’s a note wrapped around the handle:

“For late-night cereal.

Or ice cream.

Or bad dreams.”

He reads it twice. Once for the words.

Once for what they mean.

Something in his chest cracks open. Quietly.

Like breath through broken ribs.

He walks in earlier than usual the next day.

Doesn’t order right away. Just stands in front of you, eyes full of something steady.

When he reaches for your hand—he doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t need to.

And you let him.

Because this time, you don’t flinch.

Neither does he.

The café hums low, the way it always does after close—like it exhales with you, both of you finally breathing now that the world is gone.

You’re wiping down the counter. It’s habit by now. Not because it needs it. Because it’s how you delay endings.

Bucky reaches for a towel without asking, like he always does now. But today, there’s a quiet about him. Not the guarded kind. The kind that comes from being somewhere you don’t want to leave.

You hand him a fresh cloth. His gloved hand brushes yours as he takes it—leather warm from the air. He starts to wipe the far edge of the counter.

And then it happens.

The glove slips.

Just a bit. Not much. But enough.

The gleam of metal catches in the lamplight—smooth and quiet and unmistakable. Not warlike. Not monstrous. Just… part of him.

His hand stills.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move to hide it.

He waits.

You don’t gasp. Don’t freeze. You just pick up another rag and start wiping the other end of the counter like nothing’s changed. Because nothing has.

He watches you. Long. Hard. Like he’s reading your silence and doesn’t trust it at first.

Minutes pass.

Then, without looking up, he says—quiet, almost like it’s breaking something in him:

“Most people look.”

You pause. Just for a second.

Then you glance over, soft and unshaken.

“You’re not most people.”

There’s silence. A long, soft, waiting kind.

And then he says, low and steady—

“Neither are you.”

He doesn’t smile. But something in his shoulders loosens. Like you just told him he could stay.

Later, thunder growls low, like the sky is thinking of collapsing.

Rain taps the windows, insistent. The lights flicker twice—nothing dramatic, just enough to draw both your eyes to the ceiling at the same time.

You’re at the register, half-laughing.

“Well. That’s a vibe.”

Bucky shifts his stance. Glances out the window. The street outside is ghosted over—wet and reflective, traffic down to a crawl.

You glance at him—then the rain—then back again.

And you say it. Light, no pressure.

“You can wait it out here. I’ve got tea. A really ugly blanket. Probably some old books I lied about finishing.”

He doesn’t answer at first. His jaw flexes once.

Then:

“You sure?”

You nod.

“Of course.”

And maybe he doesn’t realize it yet, but this is the first time he accepts a kind offer without thinking it’s conditional.

He follows you to the back corner couch. You bring out mismatched mugs, light one small candle—lavender, half-burned. You sit cross-legged with your tea. He lowers himself to the edge of the couch like he’s afraid he’ll break it—or worse, break the moment.

But he stays.

And you don’t ask him to explain why.

“You cook?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Used to. Not much opportunity now.”

You hold up a dusty box of pasta. “Well. Welcome to culinary mediocrity.”

The kitchen’s small—barely two people wide—but you move around each other like you’ve done this before. Like you’ve been doing this in dreams.

You hand him the wooden spoon. He holds it like it’s a grenade. Squints at the back of the box like it’s written in code.

“What does ‘al dente’ mean?”

You laugh.

“It means ‘not mushy.’ Stir slowly. Pretend you care.”

He stirs like he’s defusing something.

Then, softly:

“I haven’t done this in a long time.”

You don’t press. Just smile and say:

“You’re doing fine.”

And maybe you mean the soup. But maybe you mean more.

He doesn’t answer. But he stirs with more care than before.

Dinner’s done. Dishes are drying in the sink. The rain hasn’t stopped.

You hand him a folded blanket—soft, a little faded. Your favorite one. You don’t say that, but maybe he can tell by the way you pass it over like it matters.

He spreads it out on the couch. Settles in slowly. Like it’s new territory. Like the couch will reject him if he breathes wrong.

You go to switch off the lights.

He watches you the whole time.

And just as you’re turning away, he says—quiet, but not uncertain:

“You make it easy to stay.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t say anything.

But later—when he’s curled under the blanket, half-asleep—you walk over and tuck the edge of it tighter around his shoulders.

You pause there, fingers brushing the fabric.

And he doesn’t open his eyes.

But you feel it—the way he exhales, just a little easier than before.

It’s past midnight. The storm is softer now—like the world is whispering instead of yelling.

You’re washing a mug at the sink when you start to hum.

You don’t realize you’re doing it until the lyrics slip out, barely a whisper:

You don’t have to try too hard…

From the couch, voice rough with sleep, he answers:

“You already have my heart.”

You freeze, fingers still on porcelain.

You turn, slow. His eyes are open now. Watching you in the quiet.

“You keep saying that.”

He shrugs. One shoulder under the blanket.

“Because it keeps being true.”

And the room is silent.

But everything inside you is loud.

Hours pass. Neither of you sleep.

There’s no light except the soft gold from the hallway and the blue-gray shimmer of moonlight against the windows.

You’re curled up in the chair across from him. He’s on his side now, facing you.

And then, not looking at you, he speaks.

Low. Raw.

“I forget how to be around people sometimes.”

You shift. Watch him carefully.

“You don’t have to try around me.”

His eyes flick to you. Almost searching.

He nods. Then—another breath.

“I’m scared of messing this up.”

You smile, small. Sad. True.

“Me too.”

He studies you. Then he says:

“I never thought someone like you would notice someone like me.”

You lean forward, just a little. Just enough.

“It’s all I notice.”

And for once, he doesn’t look away.

Next morning. The rain is gone. A film of light lays over the floorboards.

He sits at the table while you make breakfast. The good mug in front of him.

And in the notebook he never lets anyone see, he writes:

She didn’t ask what I’ve done.

Didn’t ask who I’ve hurt.

Didn’t even ask what this was.

She just asked how I wanted my coffee.

I think that might be the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

Later that afternoon, the café’s empty. The air smells like cinnamon and vanilla and something sweet neither of you can name.

You’re locking the front door.

And he reaches out—slow, but certain.

Fingers curl around yours.

Not by accident. Not because you’re brushing past each other.

On purpose.

You look down.

Then up.

And he says it. Soft. Fragile. Weighted.

“There’s something I need to tell you. About before.”

You nod.

“Okay.”

But he doesn’t say it yet.

He just looks at you like maybe he’s scared this is the last moment before it all changes.

Like you’re the thing holding him still in a world that keeps spinning too fast.

And you squeeze his hand.

You don’t ask him to be brave.

But you stay anyway.

And that? That’s braver than either of you has ever been.

It happens just after midnight.

You’re curled up against him on the couch, the blanket tucked under your chin, the warmth between your bodies soft and steady. Your head rests on his shoulder like it belongs there. His gloved hand is draped over your knee.

The movie’s still playing, but you’re asleep now. He can feel the rhythm of your breathing shift.

And he’s not watching the screen anymore. He’s watching you.

He thinks, quietly: This feels like something real.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he hears the buzzing—

A low, harsh vibration against the wood of your coffee table.

Your phone doesn’t ring. His does.

He shifts slowly, careful not to wake you.

CALLER ID: Sam Wilson

He answers low. Quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Buck. We need you.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

His gut tightens.

“How long?”

“We don’t know. Could be a week. Could be three. It’s bad. It’s not covert. It’s not clean. We go in fast, we end it faster.”

“I can’t— I need to tell—”

“There’s no time. I’m sorry.”

There’s silence.

Then a breath.

Then:

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

He ends the call. Looks back at you.

You’re still asleep. One hand curled under your chin. Lips parted slightly. Trusting.

He wants to wake you.

To say goodbye.

To say I didn’t leave you, not really. I’m coming back.

But you look peaceful. And part of him—selfishly, stupidly—doesn’t want to see that peace turn into panic.

So he doesn’t say anything.

He just kneels beside the couch for one moment longer, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. He thinks about writing a note. But what would he say?

“I’ll be back.”

“Don’t stop waiting.”

“This was real to me.”

It all sounds like lies when he’s not sure if he’ll survive.

So instead, he kisses the edge of your blanket, whispers:

“Please still be here.”

And walks out the door.

—

You glance at the clock.

9:07.

Nothing unusual.

9:12.

You find yourself checking the door.

9:18.

Still not there.

You make his drink anyway—out of habit, you tell yourself.

You steam the milk exactly how he likes it. You even pick the mug he always pretends not to care about but never fails to use.

It’s warm in your hands. It feels like waiting.

By 10:00, it’s cold.

You throw it out before anyone can ask.

He’s not late anymore.

He’s just not coming.

You still make the drink.

Still pick the mug.

Still set it down in the same spot.

The pastry too.

By the end of the shift, it’s dry. The sugar glaze is hardened and cracked.

You wrap it anyway. Put it in a bag.

You don’t know why.

The coffee smells like memory now.

Somewhere in the Alps, or maybe the Andes. He doesn’t know anymore.

It’s snow. Cold. Gunfire. Broken comms.

He’s crouched behind a ruined truck. Blood on his sleeve—some his, some not.

He should be focused. But instead:

He thinks of your laugh.

The way you hummed around the kitchen.

The softness in your eyes when you told him he didn’t have to try so hard.

The way your hand rested just near his knee, like you belonged there.

And he thinks, too late:

“I should’ve woken her up.”

You don’t want to spiral.

You don’t want to jump to conclusions.

But you’ve never been this wrong about a feeling before.

The look in his eyes when he held your hand.

The way he whispered “you already have my heart.”

None of it felt halfway.

And yet—

Here you are.

No call. No message.

Nothing.

You sit down in the back room of the café, shaking slightly. You don’t know if it’s anger or fear or something worse:

Hope.

Hope that he still might walk in.

Hope that you didn’t just imagine it all.

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper.

And still—

You make his drink.

He’s back at base. Finally.

Bandaged. Bruised. Bone-weary.

His hands shake as he opens his pack. Amid the gear, the blood, the torn field notes—

The spoon.

Your spoon.

The one you tucked into his bag with that post-it:

“For late-night cereal. Or ice cream. Or bad dreams.”

He presses the note to his forehead.

Fists the spoon in his hand like it’s armor.

“She thinks I left.”

“She thinks I didn’t care.”

“She probably stopped waiting.”

He wants to scream.

Instead, he curls on his side and whispers your name.

You:

Sitting on his windowsill. You came here once, unable to stop yourself.

The place is cold. Impersonal. Like it shut down the second he walked out.

You leave a small mug on his counter.

His favorite one.

Just in case.

Him:

That same night, he stares at a payphone.

Doesn’t dial.

Doesn’t even know what he’d say.

Doesn’t know if you’d pick up.

Doesn’t know if your silence would be worse than the distance.

You:

Lying in bed, the spoon you gave him now curled in your fist. You kept another one. A matching set.

You whisper into your blanket:

“Where are you, Bucky?”

“Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

You stop making his drink.

It feels like letting go of something you didn’t want to admit you were holding.

You tell yourself maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe you read too much into the silences. The glances. The “you already have my heart.”

That one hurts the most.

You tell yourself maybe you dreamed it.

Maybe you wanted something so badly it started to look like love.

The café feels colder now.

You hum less.

The window where he used to sit starts to feel like a bruise.

You sit at his table.

It’s raining again.

The kind of rain he used to linger for.

You make tea just for yourself.

You start to close up for the night when the bell above the door doesn’t ring.

And somehow, that silence feels louder than any goodbye could have.

You look at the empty spot where his cup used to be.

You whisper it, this time, out loud:

“Where the hell did you go?”

You don’t expect an answer.

But you still wait a second longer before turning out the lights.

(Border)

The café is dim. Quiet. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft clatter of your nervous hands cleaning cups that are already clean.

You’ve stopped humming.

Stopped looking at the door.

But you haven’t stopped hoping.

That’s the cruelest part.

And then—

The bell chimes.

You freeze. Back turned.

You feel it.

That gravity shift.

That soul-deep awareness that he’s there.

You close your eyes. Grip the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles scream.

Then, a voice. Rough. Ragged. Like it’s clawing its way out of regret.

“…I didn’t know how to come back.”

You turn. Slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky.

Bruised. Dirty. A split lip. A healing gash under one eye. One arm still bandaged.

But it’s him. He’s here.

And he looks like he’s been walking through hell just to reach this moment.

You don’t say anything.

Don’t move.

Your chest rises and falls too fast.

Your throat is tight and your stomach is full of glass.

He takes a shaky step forward.

“I wanted to wake you. I should’ve told you. I—I didn’t think I had the right—”

You hold up a hand.

He goes quiet.

You’re trembling now.

“You left.”

Just two words. But they tear out of you.

“I know.”

“You didn’t say a word.”

“I thought—” he swallows hard, “—it would be easier if I didn’t.”

You shake your head. A harsh, bitter laugh slips out.

“Easier for who?”

And that’s when he sees it.

Not just the anger in your voice—but the hurt behind it. The rawness under the rage.

Your hands are fists. Your chest is heaving. Your mouth quivers.

You want to scream.

You want to collapse.

You want to kiss him until it erases all the missing.

But mostly—

You just want him to hold you like he should have before he walked out that door.

He moves toward you. Slow. Wary.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t care. I never—”

He reaches for your arm.

You smack his hand away.

Then you grab his collar.

Pull him to you.

And you kiss him.

Hard. Desperate. Furious.

Your teeth clash. Your lip splits.

He gasps into your mouth like he’s drowning and your kiss is oxygen and punishment all at once.

He doesn’t pull away.

He leans into it. Hands flying up—one gripping the counter behind you for balance, the other cradling your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

The kiss slows. Softens.

And then stops.

He pulls back, breathing like he just survived a war.

You won’t look at him. You’re crying now. Quiet, messy tears that drip down your chin like shame.

“I hate that I missed you this much,” you whisper.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I hate that I made you wait.”

You finally look up at him. Red eyes. Wet lashes.

And he sees everything.

“I didn’t want to need you,” you say. Voice breaking. “But I do.”

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Then need me.”

“Don’t say good night,” you say—almost a dare.

He breathes out—like a man who’s been holding it in since he left.

And then he says it.

Low. Wrecked. Certain.

It’s quiet when you stir. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.

No café noise. No city hum. Just the soft hush of a world not quite awake yet.

You shift beneath the blanket—his blanket. The one he threw over the two of you sometime around 3am. Your back is to his chest, his arm draped loosely over your waist, fingertips curled in the fabric of your shirt like he’s still trying to anchor himself to you in his sleep.

You can feel his breath, warm and even against the curve of your neck.

He doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t dream.

Just rests.

For maybe the first time in years.

You reach down. Lace your fingers with his. Slowly. Gently.

He stirs, but doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his grip tightens slightly, and his voice—rough with sleep and rasp—comes against your skin like something holy:

“Still here?”

You nod, not trusting your voice yet.

“Good,” he mumbles. “Didn’t want to open my eyes and find out I made you up.”

You feel your chest crack open a little at that.

Because it’s not a line.

It’s not pretty.

It’s just true.

You press your forehead against his arm and whisper:

“You didn’t.”

“I’m here.”

He lets out a shaky exhale, then presses a slow kiss into your shoulder—like it’s a thank you.

The kitchen is small. Sun-washed.

The kind of space made for mugs with chipped handles and sleepy morning songs that hum just beneath conversation.

You hand him a spatula and tell him to flip the eggs.

He stares at the pan like it’s a disarmed landmine.

“It’s not going to explode, Bucky.”

He side-eyes you.

“You don’t know that.”

You laugh. “You’ve survived wars. You can survive breakfast.”

He flips the egg—terribly.

You grin and bump his hip with yours. “Good enough.”

He mutters something under his breath about “civilian combat,” but when you glance at him, he’s smiling. Really smiling. The rare kind. The kind that feels like sunlight.

You eat with your knees touching under the table.

He watches you more than he eats.

Like he’s memorizing you.

You raise your brow at him mid-sip.

“What?”

He just shrugs a little, mouth tilted up.

“You’re the first thing I’ve wanted to wake up to in a long time.”

You freeze for a second, your chest rising slowly.

Then you whisper:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He reaches across the table.

Takes your hand like he means to keep it.

You end up on the couch after breakfast. He’s sitting back, legs spread, arms along the cushions. You’re curled beside him, knees tucked up, one of his arms around your back. It’s lazy. Comfortable. But there’s a hum beneath it—like something unsaid is pacing the room.

You glance up at him.

He’s already watching you.

That same look in his eyes again—recognition.

Not like you’re perfect. But like you’re his.

You blink. Smile softly.

Then whisper:

“Hey.”

He tilts his head, just a little.

“Hmm?”

“You already had me.”

His brows furrow. He’s not confused in the bad way—just a little lost in how honest it feels.

So you elaborate. Eyes still on him.

“From that first day. The way you said hi. The gloves. The stillness in you. It didn’t scare me.”

“I think… maybe that was the moment. Even if I didn’t know it yet.”

He doesn’t speak.

Just blinks. Slowly.

A long pause.

Then—quiet, like he’s offering it from the deepest part of himself:

“Hi,” he says.

“I’m Bucky.”

And it wrecks you.

That he’s still trying to earn it. Still trying to believe this isn’t just borrowed time.

You crawl into his lap—gently, deliberately.

Straddle him with care, your knees on either side of his hips. You’re not rushing.

He looks up at you. Like you’re the answer to a question he never thought he was allowed to ask.

You whisper:

“That’s it. I’m yours.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

Hands coming to your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

He doesn’t pull you closer.

You do.

And then—

Not urgent. Not desperate.

Just full.

Of history.

Of hesitation finally released.

Of love that’s been blooming in the shadows, now stepping into the light.

You kiss him like he’s precious. Like you’re learning him. Like your lips are asking “Are you ready?” and his are answering “I’ve always been.”

He deepens it slowly, tilting his head, one hand curling up into your hair, the other pressing flat to your back like he wants to feel every breath you take.

You pull back only when you’re both breathless.

Your foreheads rest together.

And in the silence, you hum the song again.

“Hold, hold, hold, hold me tight now…”

His voice is a whisper, matching yours:

“’Cause I’m so, so good to go…”

You smile. Eyes closed.

He brushes his thumb beneath your lip, voice softer now.

“Don’t say, don’t say good night…”

And together, at the same time, you say:

“You had me at hello.”

(You’ve got mail!) DONT SAY DONT SAY GOODNIGHT YOU KNOWWW! YOU HAAD ME AT HELLOOOOO!!! oh my god this is my favorite dcom song every. WELL ONE and I was thinking about it and was like awww omg Bucky with this would be so cute :((( AND THEN I REMEMBERED I MAKE FICS. I promised 3 fics I just forgot to post it. So here’s 2/3!!

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

It’s a Thursday when Stark makes the announcement.

Tony Stark stands on the lounge coffee table in his socks and dress shirt, arms spread like a game show host.

“Formal gala next Saturday!” he declares. “Right here in the penthouse. Black tie. String quartet. Be sparkly, be charming, be fashionably unarmed.”

“Another one?” Sam groans.

“It’s an annual Stark tradition,” Tony replies. “You’ve survived worse. Plus, open bar.”

You blink.

You try to act normal. Cool. Unbothered. But something in your stomach flutters.

Fancy events aren’t exactly your comfort zone. You’re more a “cozy café and soft playlists” kind of person. The thought of gowns and heels and being watched makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You give a little nod, mostly to yourself. “Cool. Sounds fun.”

Across the room, Bucky looks at you from where he leans against the wall, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything, just raises a brow like he’s already reading your mind.

You pretend not to notice. You’re getting very good at pretending.

The days leading up to the party pass in a blur of missions and meetings and movie nights on the couch. Somewhere in there, Nat and Wanda stage a coup.

“You’re not wearing something you already own,” Wanda declares. “This is not a ‘recycle your last wedding guest outfit’ situation.”

“I wasn’t going to-”

“Yes, you were,” Nat says, cutting you off. “We’re going shopping. You’re coming.”

“I have dresses.”

“Non-negotiable,” Wanda says sweetly, tugging you toward the elevator.

You open your mouth to argue but are immediately handed your jacket and pushed toward the elevator.

It’s a whirlwind. Nat is a force of nature, striding through boutiques like she owns every mannequin. Wanda flits between colors and fabrics like a kid in a candy store. You mostly follow, trying not to get overwhelmed.

Until you see it.

It’s tucked behind a rack, almost hidden. Deep sapphire blue. Long. Satin. High neckline. And when you pull it out, the back dips low. Dramatic, elegant and beautiful in a way you don’t usually let yourself wear.

You hold it up, hesitant.

Nat appears behind you. “Oh, that’s the one.”

You laugh. “No, it’s too much.”

“It’s perfect,” Wanda says. “And so are you.”

You blush. “I’ll try it on."

You do try it on. Alone. And when you turn toward the mirror, your breath catches. It fits like it’s been made for you. The satin clings and drapes in all the right places. Your hair, loose and natural, spills perfectly across your shoulders.

For a second, you see someone else in the reflection.

Someone effortless.

But then the light shifts, and the old doubt creeps in… quiet, uninvited. Not loud or cruel. Just a whisper.

The dress is beautiful. You’re just wearing it.

You step out of the fitting room slowly.

Still, when you step out, Nat and Wanda audibly gasp.

“That one,” Nat says. “No contest.”

You smile back, but your voice is soft. “Okay. Just in case I don’t chicken out.”

They don’t argue.

Back in the tower, nothing changed… on the surface.

You had breakfast with Bucky. Teased Sam during movie night. Trained with Steve and actually knocked him off his feet once, which became a three-day bragging right.

But in the back of your closet, behind your “safe” black dress… that sapphire gown waited.

And sometimes, when you were alone, you took it out and ran your fingers along the satin.

The week passed in fragments.

Mission briefings. Morning coffee. Shared elevator rides. Stark’s party was all anyone could talk about, mostly because Tony wouldn’t shut up about the custom glass champagne tower being shipped in from Paris. Steve had started practicing his waltz “just in case.” Sam was planning a pre-party playlist “for the vibe.”

But if someone looked closely, if they knew where to watch, there was something else underneath it all.

Something unspoken.

Something that looked a lot like almost.

You weren’t entirely sure when it had started, the slow unraveling of comfort into longing. Maybe it was the way Bucky always poured your coffee first without asking. Or how he lingered at the edge of rooms when you laughed too loud, eyes flicking toward you like it was a sound he didn’t want to miss. Or how his voice always softened when it was just the two of you, even if his words didn’t.

He was still Bucky. Still sharp-edged and dry-humored, still grumpy in the mornings and skeptical of movie nights. But with you… he was something else, too.

And with him… you let yourself be a little more, too.

You didn’t tell anyone about the flutter in your chest when he passed you a protein bar without looking, knowing exactly which kind you liked. Or the way your heart stalled when he leaned close during training, murmuring corrections just low enough for only you to hear.

“You’re dropping your left shoulder,” he said on Monday, fingers brushing your arm to correct your form. “You’ll get thrown off balance.”

You nodded, distracted not by the advice, but by the feel of his touch, light, careful, familiar.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“Anytime,” he replied, already a few steps away.

He didn’t say much. Never did. But his presence lingered like a gravity field. Constant, quiet, and hard to pull away from.

On Tuesday, you walked into the lounge to find him asleep on the couch, book splayed open on his chest, the TV playing some old black-and-white movie.

You stood there for a moment, just watching. His features, usually guarded, were softer in sleep. Less worn down by memory. More like the man he let you see in glimpses.

You sat beside him without waking him, gently pulling the blanket over his shoulders.

He mumbled something. Your name, maybe.

You didn’t ask.

Wednesday, he found you in the kitchen at midnight, digging through the fridge.

“You always eat like this before missions?” he asked, leaning on the counter, arms crossed.

“I get hungry when I’m anxious,” you said, holding up a half-eaten leftover taco. “Don’t judge me.”

He smiled, actually smiled, and shook his head. “Not judging. Just wondering why you never share.”

You slid the other half toward him. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “This is awful.”

You laughed. “You’re welcome.”

By Thursday, the party talk has fully taken over the tower.

Tony hands out gold-foiled invitations (dramatic, unnecessary, very Stark). Wanda drags Sam to a tailor for a fitted tux.

And you… pretend you’re not thinking about it.

“Do you have something to wear?” Bucky asks over lunch.

“I’ve got dresses.”

“Multiple?”

“Yeah. I bought a new one with Nat and Wanda but I don't know if I'm gonna wear it.”

“Why?”

“It’s not really… me.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

“I liked it!”

“Then it is you.”

He gets you.

Saturday comes fast.

The tower transforms. All warm lights and string music, trays of champagne and crystal bowls of things no one can pronounce. Everyone looks like movie stars.

Wanda curls her hair into soft waves and wears a wine-colored dress that makes her look like royalty. Nat, of course, wears black. But somehow manages to make it look like it belongs in Vogue.

The guys are in suits. Steve somehow looks both uncomfortable and handsome. Sam gets complimented three times by the catering staff.

And you?

You’re upstairs. In the dress.

Frozen in place.

The clock ticks. Time passes.

And for the first time in months, you’re not there.

You can feel the nerves setting in.

It’s the dress.

It’s always the dress.

You keep pacing your room, staring at the mirror, biting your lip. The makeup is done. The heels are on. The earrings are clasped. But still, you hesitate. Looking at yourself feels like holding your breath.

The dress looks the same as it did in the store. A deep sapphire blue, smooth satin, the neckline high and elegant, the back open and dramatic. It clings to you in a way that should make you feel powerful. Beautiful.

But tonight… it just feels like it isn’t yours.

You’re not panicking. Not exactly.

It’s quieter than that. A slow, creeping sense of not belonging. Like the longer you stare at yourself, the more the magic unravels thread by thread. The dress is stunning. That isn’t the problem. The problem is how perfectly it fits.

Because sometimes, when something fits too perfectly, it feels like it’s shining a light on everything you wish it could hide.

You sigh and stand, adjusting whatever you think could be wrong with it.

Downstairs, Sam glances at the elevator again.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asks.

“Probably fixing her hair,” Wanda says, sipping a drink.

“She’s never late,” Steve adds.

“She’s not,” Nat agrees. “You want me to go check?”

Before anyone else can answer, Bucky stands up from the leather armchair near the bar.

“I’ll go,” he says, too fast. “She’s probably wearing heels. Better if I go.”

No one argues.

Not even Sam, who raises a brow but says nothing.

Bucky adjusts his suit jacket, smooths down his tie, and heads for the elevator, ignoring the flutter in his chest.

You brush your hands over the fabric. The material shimmers when you move. Your heels are black and slim, your earrings match. On paper, it all works.

So why can’t you walk out the door?

You glance at the clock. Nearly 40 minutes late.

Your stomach drops.

“Damn it.”

You move toward the chair, where your backup dress still waits. The black one. Safe. You’ll throw it on, pull your hair into a low slick bun, and no one will even-

Knock knock.

You freeze.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Y/N?”

Your heart jumps. Bucky.

You nearly trip over your own heels rushing to the door.

“Coming!” you call, trying to gather yourself. You crack the door open, just wide enough to peek out.

And then forget how to breathe.

Bucky stands in the hallway in a tailored black suit, no tie, collar open just enough to be unfair. His hair is slicked back slightly, but still soft. He looks like he’s walked out of a noir film. And he’s staring at you.

Staring.

His eyes drop, slowly… from your face, to the curve of your shoulders, to the way the blue satin hugs your waist and falls in a soft, perfect line. His lips part just slightly.

He blinks once.

“Wow.”

You flush immediately. “What- what are you doing here?”

He clears his throat. “You’re late.”

Your brow knits. “What?”

“You’re never late,” he says softly. “Sam, Nat, Steve… everyone noticed. They were worried. Natasha was about to come up, but I figured… heels. Safer if I came.”

“Oh.”

You glance at the clock again and wince. “I didn’t realize. I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, voice gentle.

You reach for the door. “You should go. I’m just going to change dresses. I’ll be down in five-”

His hand, cool metal, presses gently against the door.

“Wait.”

You pause.

“What do you mean, change?”

“I…” Your voice falters. “I don’t think this is the right dress.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly. Not judging, just reading you.

“Why not?”

You look down at your hands. “It’s just too much. I thought it looked better in the store. It's fine.”

The words are barely a whisper.

Bucky is silent for a long moment.

Then he steps closer, just slightly, enough that the air between you shifts.

“Y/N.”

You look up.

“You’re already wearing the dress,” he says, his voice quiet but certain. “And you look…” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “You look incredible.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

He tilts his head, eyes warm. “You walk into that room tonight, no one’s gonna be able to look at anything but you.”

You blink. Your chest aches in that soft, quiet way that comes from being seen — really seen.

He lets the moment breathe between you, then offers you a small smile.

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

And then he turns and walks away.

Just like that.

Leaving you breathless in the doorway.

Five minutes later, you’re still staring at your reflection. The dress hasn’t changed.

But maybe… you have.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and the room stills.

You step into the penthouse, the soft click of your heels echoing beneath the music. The lights are low and warm, spilling golden across the polished floors. Glass clinks, laughter hums, and in the middle of it all—Bucky looks up.

His heart stops.

You move slowly, a soft wave of deep sapphire satin sweeping around your legs as you walk. Hair swept to the side, silver glinting at your ears, that impossible dress catching the light with every step. But it isn’t the dress that stuns him.

It’s the way you hold yourself.

Quiet. Glowing. Real.

Everyone notices. Sam gives a low whistle. Nat smirks like she’s known this moment was coming. Even Steve, standing near the drinks, raises his brows in quiet approval.

But Bucky?

He doesn’t move.

He just watches you cross the room, like time has slowed and sound has faded and the only thing that matters is you.

You find him near the balcony doors, where the crowd is thinner, the music softer.

“Hey,” you say, voice light but a little breathless.

His gaze travels over you again, slower this time.

“You came,” he says, as if there had been any doubt.

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Took me a while.”

He offers his hand, not breaking eye contact. “Dance with me.”

Your breath catches.

The music shifts into something slower—something with strings and soft piano. You hesitate for a moment, then place your hand in his.

He pulls you gently toward the floor.

You fit together easily.

Your hand on his shoulder, his at your waist. The press of satin and silk. The low hum of music. And somewhere beneath it all, the quick, fluttering beat of your heart — mirrored in his.

Bucky doesn’t speak for a moment. He just sways with you, moving like the rest of the world has faded behind you both.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

He smirks, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m old.”

“I didn’t want to say it.”

He chuckles, low and quiet. “You almost didn’t come.”

You shrug, trying to play it off, but your voice betrays you. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It is,” he says gently. “You are.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his. You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t say anything.

The dance ends, but neither of you let go.

The music shifts again. Someone laughs near the bar. A camera flashes. But here, in this small space between breaths, you stand close. Too close. Not enough.

“Wanna get some air?” Bucky asks softly.

You nod.

The balcony is quieter. Cooler. The city stretches out below you, lights twinkling like a second sky. You lean against the railing, your hands brushing the cold metal.

He slips off his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest.

“It’s not cold,” you say.

“You’re still getting the jacket.”

You smile, tugging it tighter around yourself. It smells like him — clean soap, something warm and familiar. The sleeves are too long.

“I feel like a kid playing dress-up.”

“You look like a goddess.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t.

You turn to face him, the night wind catching your hair, your cheeks flushed from dancing, from nerves, from him.

“I meant what I said,” Bucky tells you. “Downstairs.”

You bite your lip. “About the dress?”

“No,” he says. “About you.”

There’s a beat of silence, full and fragile.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it for a while now,” he admits, voice low. “You’re not just part of the team. You’re not just… around.”

You blink.

“You’re the best part of my day,” he says. “And that dress didn’t change that. It just made it harder to keep pretending I don’t want to hold you like this all the time.”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

And then?

You kiss him.

It’s soft, barely more than a press of lips. But it carries months of unspoken things. Warmth. Tension. Relief. All of it wrapped in satin and city lights and the sound of your heart racing like it finally has somewhere to go.

When you pull back, he’s already smiling.

“I should’ve worn this dress a long time ago,” you whisper.

He leans in again, forehead resting against yours.

“Doesn’t matter what you wear,” he murmurs. “I’d still fall for you.”

The tower feels different the next morning.

Maybe it’s the way the sun comes through the floor-to-ceiling windows in lazy gold streaks. Or maybe it’s just you.

You pad quietly into the kitchen, still wearing soft pajama pants and one of your oversized sweatshirts. Hair a little messy. No makeup. Bare feet against the tile. And yet, for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to shrink yourself.

You’re not glowing. You’re not dressed up.

You’re just you. And it feels… enough.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

You turn, startled, to find Bucky leaning against the counter, mug in hand, already dressed in his usual black T-shirt and jeans, the picture of quiet calm. His hair is a little rumpled. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s probably been up for hours.

“You’re up early,” you say, grabbing a mug of your own.

“Old man body clock,” he says with a smirk.

You roll your eyes and step closer. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“Since last night,” he replies, voice lower now, softer. “Wanted to see you again.”

And just like that, you melt.

He hands you the coffee. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.

The rest of the team trickles in slowly.

Wanda first, hair tied up and looking far too put-together for 9 a.m. She spots the two of you leaning together by the counter and arches a brow.

“Good morning,” she says, sing-song.

You sip your coffee like it’s not obvious. Bucky stays still beside you.

Then comes Sam, dramatically hungover. “If anyone mentions classical music or champagne, I swear I’ll jump off the roof.”

Steve follows, clean and annoyingly alert. “Nice party.”

Natasha, last, in her I don’t do mornings sunglasses, grabs toast and mumbles, “You two looked cozy on that balcony.”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “What?”

Nat doesn’t even look up. “Relax. We all saw it coming.”

You blink. “Saw what?”

“You and Barnes. I mean, please,” she says, waving her toast. “The tension has been driving everyone insane for months.”

Sam nods, dead serious. “I literally bet Steve ten bucks it would happen before the end of the year.”

“I won,” Steve says, smugly.

Bucky chuckles beside you. Quiet, amused.

He reaches down under the table and laces his fingers through yours.

And just like that, the noise fades. The teasing doesn’t matter. The looks don’t matter.

All you can focus on is the warm weight of his hand, the soft pressure of his thumb brushing the back of yours.

You turn to him, lips tugging up.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

You nod. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I just… didn’t think it would feel this easy.”

Bucky smiles, small and sincere.

“It was never supposed to be hard,” he says.

You look at him then, really look, and something inside you softens.

For weeks, months, maybe, you’ve been carrying this quiet ache around like armor. The weight of feelings you didn’t know what to do with. The fear of hoping too much. Of reading into things that weren’t there. Of thinking you mattered more to him than you did.

But now, standing in the golden spill of morning light, fingers still twined with his under the table, you don’t feel foolish anymore.

You feel… known.

And that scares you more than anything.

“You’re always so calm about this stuff,” you murmur, eyes on your joined hands. “Like you already knew.”

“I didn’t know,” he says, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just hoped.”

You blink, surprised. “You?”

His smile turns a little crooked. “You think I spent all this time saving you the last cup of coffee every morning just because I’m a gentleman?”

“You don’t even like mornings.”

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s how serious this is.”

You laugh then, a soft, genuine sound that makes something in his chest ease.

“I guess I thought I’d have to be… different,” you say after a beat. “To be noticed. To matter. I’m not the loudest or the strongest. I’m not Nat. Or Wanda. I’m just-”

“You’re you,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “And that’s always been enough.”

You swallow hard, throat tightening around the words you don’t know how to say.

“I notice everything about you,” he adds, quieter now. “The way you wrinkle your nose when you’re reading something complicated. The way you hum off-key in the lab. The way you always walk out of the room last because you’re checking that everyone else is okay.”

You look up at him slowly.

“You think no one sees you,” he says. “But I do. I always have.”

Something unspoken passes between you. A slow, electric stillness.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, eyes soft. “I didn’t want to risk losing what I already had with you.”

“And now?”

“Now I’d rather risk it than pretend anymore.”

You blink fast, like that might keep the emotion at bay. It doesn’t work.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans in, forehead brushing yours for the briefest second, not quite a kiss, just… closeness.

“I’m in this,” he murmurs. “Whatever it looks like. However slow you need.”

You nod, the edges of your smile trembling.

“I’m in this too,” you whisper.

The kitchen fades away.

The clinking dishes, the sunlight, even the teasing voices echoing from down the hall. It all fades. There’s only the soft grip of his hand on yours and the quiet warmth building between you, solid and real.

And for the first time in a long time, you’re not wondering what comes next.

You’re just here.

With him.

A Tuesday Morning, Three Weeks Later

The tower is quiet.

Not silent, the way no home is ever truly silent, but the kind of soft hum that means the world is at peace for a little while.

The sun has barely risen, casting a warm gold light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere down the hall, the elevator chimes. In the distance, the coffee machine gurgles to life.

And in the kitchen, you stand barefoot in one of Bucky’s sweatshirts, stirring cream into a mug with your eyes still half closed.

Behind you, footsteps.

You don’t need to turn around.

“You’re up early,” you say, voice husky with sleep.

“Technically,” Bucky replies, stepping up behind you and wrapping an arm loosely around your waist, “I haven’t slept yet.”

You lean back into his chest without hesitation.

“You brooding again?”

“Just watching the sky.”

“Romantic.”

He kisses your temple. “You bring it out of me.”

You snort and hand him his mug. “Don’t lie to me before caffeine.”

You move through the morning with the ease of something settled. Something earned.

He leans against the counter while you make toast. You sit cross-legged on a barstool while he recaps an old dream he can’t make sense of. You pass each other plates and comments and quiet smiles like it’s always been this way.

Like there was never a time you weren’t his favorite part of the morning.

At some point, Nat wanders in, squinting at the sunlight. She takes one look at the sweatshirt you’re wearing and smirks. “That’s not yours.”

You sip your coffee, unbothered. “It is now.”

Nat grabs an apple and mutters something about “finally” before disappearing again.

Bucky looks at you, eyes warm with amusement. “Subtle.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping closer. “She’s not.”

You lean into him again, letting your forehead rest against his chest. He smells like coffee and clean soap and something that just feels like home.

“Did you think it’d feel like this?” you ask softly.

He considers it. “I hoped.”

You tilt your face up toward him. “Me too.”

His eyes drop to your lips, but he doesn’t move just yet.

“Hey,” he says gently, voice barely above a whisper. “You know what I see when I look at you now?”

“What?”

“Everything I ever thought I couldn’t have.”

You blink, chest tightening, not with fear, not with nerves, but with something whole. Something steady.

“You always had me,” you say.

“I know,” he whispers. “Took me a minute.”

You smile, eyes crinkling, and then he kisses you. Slow, soft, like he has all the time in the world.

Because he does.

Because you do.

Because after all the waiting and wondering and quiet hoping…

He frowned. “You thought I wouldn’t be?”

“Well… the ad had strong ‘written by someone who owns five swords, weird collection and lives in a basement’ energy.”

A voice called out from inside, “Only two swords, thank you very much.”

You blinked. “There are actually swords?”

The guy in front of you — still not smiling, still not blinking — huffed. “Just come in.”

You stepped inside, tugging your suitcase behind you. The apartment was surprisingly spacious and clean, though a little chaotic. A bookshelf leaned slightly to the left. Someone had taped a paper label over the thermostat that read DO NOT TOUCH UNLESS YOU WANT WAR. There was a slightly burnt smell coming from the kitchen.

A second guy emerged, this one barefoot but put-together, wearing a henley and grinning like you’d just made his day.

“Hey! I’m Sam,” he said, reaching out to shake your hand. “Ignore Bucky — he only acts like he hates everyone. It’s not personal.”

“...Bucky?” you asked, glancing back at the door guy.

“Unfortunately,” he muttered.

Sam stepped aside to let you pass. “You’ll love it here. Unless you like silence or boundaries. Then you’re doomed.”

The apartment was cluttered but cozy. Mismatched throw pillows, a dying plant in the corner, and a whiteboard on the wall that read: NO CRYING DURING MOVIE NIGHT UNLESS IT’S DEAD POETS SOCIETY DO NOT FEED THE CAT IN THE APT. HE’S A MENACE BATHROOM IS NOT A THERAPY ZONE AFTER MIDNIGHT

“Third room on the left.” Bucky said, pointing lazily. “Bathroom’s across the hall. Don’t leave dishes in the sink. Don’t play music at night. Don’t be weird.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a normal roommate rule.”

“It is,” Bucky said.

“I tried to remove it from the ad,” Sam added. “He put it back twice.”

You smiled too brightly. “Okay. So no cats, no dishes, no weirdness. What happens if I fail?”

“Then you’ll fit in,” Sam said.

You were mid-unpacking, humming to yourself and trying to wedge a shelf into place when there was a soft knock at your door. You opened it to find Bucky standing there, still looking vaguely annoyed by the concept of social interaction, holding out a chipped mug.

“Here,” he said. “Figured you might want coffee. Or tea. Or… whatever.”

You took the mug cautiously. “Is this an olive branch or a bribe to never talk to you again?”

“Ceasefire,” he said. “Until dishes pile up.”

“Wow. You really know how to win people over.”

Behind him, Sam poked his head around the hallway corner. “Did he offer you coffee? He never offers people coffee.”

“She’s new,” Bucky muttered. “Give it time.”

Sam grinned. “This is progress. You guys are gonna be best friends by Thursday.”

Bucky gave him a tired look. “Go away.”

“I live here, Barnes.”

You stifled a laugh behind the rim of your mug. “So... this is the vibe, huh?”

“Yup,” Sam said proudly. “Mild chaos, emotional repression, and excellent breakfast food. Welcome home.”

Bucky started to walk away, but then paused and turned slightly. “I’m not great with new people. Or... people.”

You smiled, this time genuinely. “That’s okay. I talk enough for two people anyway.”

He gave the smallest nod and disappeared down the hall — but not before you caught it: the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

After two weeks, you’d settled into life with your new roommates, and surprisingly, you had already found a job at a school just a short walk from home. Things were falling into place more easily than you expected. Or you thought.

One evening, Sam stood in front of the TV, rubbing his hands together like he was about to address a stadium crowd. “Alright, team, it’s house meeting time. Grab a seat, grab a snack if you want. We have pressing issues to discuss.”

You sank into the sagging couch, the fabric rough against your arms, and rested your mug on the coffee table. Across the room, Bucky occupied the armchair with all the enthusiasm of a cat being forced into a bath. His hoodie was pulled tight over his head, shadowing his face, but you caught the faint twitch of an eyebrow when he caught your eye.

Sam cleared his throat dramatically. “Issue one: mugs. Specifically, the mug graveyard in the sink.”

You raised your hand like a kid in class. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sam shot you a knowing look. “Please. The oat milk mug. The one with the questionable smell.”

You glanced at Bucky, who grimaced. “I rinsed it.”

“But you didn’t wash it,” Sam said, wagging a finger. “There’s a difference. It’s science. And biology. And possibly an act of war against anyone who drinks coffee here.”

You laughed, and Bucky rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said. “We’ll let it slide. For now.”

He flipped a sheet of paper over his knee and squinted at it. “Next on the agenda: towels.”

You groaned. “Please tell me someone didn’t bring up towels.”

“Oh, they did,” Sam said, voice dripping with mock horror. “Somebody—”

Bucky cut in, voice low and flat. “I don’t want to talk about towels.”

You smirked. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Sam ignored Bucky and continued. “Somebody is not hanging their towel properly, and the bathroom smells like a wet gym sock convention.”

You shot Bucky a pointed look. “Care to confess?”

Bucky shrugged, looking anywhere but at you. “I shower once a day. What more do you want?”

“Maybe hanging the towel to dry?” Sam offered.

“Maybe minding my business,” Bucky said, voice dry as dust.

You tried not to laugh. “I hang my towel.”

Bucky glanced at you briefly, eyes narrowing slightly. “Sure you do.”

“Hey!” you protested. “I’m a responsible adult. Mostly.”

Sam laughed. “Mostly being the operative word here.”

The room settled into a sort of quiet that felt like a pause before the next wave.

“Alright,” Sam said, standing and stretching. “How about chores? Cleaning schedules? Who’s stealing my spoons?”

You raised your hand again. “Spoons? Really?”

Sam held up his hands. “It’s a crisis.”

Bucky grumbled. “I’m not stealing spoons.”

“Neither am I,” you said.

Sam looked between the two of you, his grin widening. “And yet... they disappear.”

“Maybe they grow legs and run away,” you joked.

“More likely, Bucky has a spoon shrine somewhere,” Sam said.

Bucky scowled. “I don’t have a shrine.”

“Sure,” you said. “You’ve got a whole sword collection but no spoon shrine.”

“Those swords are functional.”

You leaned forward, intrigued despite yourself. “Wait, what swords?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Sam, who just shrugged with a smirk.

“Old hobby,” Bucky said quickly, then changed the subject. “Look, I’m not great at this ‘roommate’ thing. I keep to myself.”

“And yet here you are, talking about swords and spoons,” you teased.

Bucky shrugged again, almost shyly. “Someone has to.”

You smiled softly, surprised by the flicker of humor in his tone. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

Sam clapped his hands again. “Alright! That’s enough roommate drama for tonight. I propose a breakfast food peace treaty. Whoever makes the best pancakes next weekend gets the last word on towels.”

You laughed, feeling the strange warmth of belonging start to seep in despite the awkward edges.

You were washing the mountain of mugs in the sink — none of which were yours, you were sure — when Bucky appeared in the doorway, holding a nearly empty mug.

The kitchen was small and cluttered, the smell of old coffee mixing with something vaguely sweet. The light above the sink flickered, casting shadows over his face.

“You know,” you said, turning with the sponge in your hand, “for a guy who hates drama, you’re kind of dramatic.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the mug like it was the enemy.

“I’m not dramatic,” he said finally, voice low and flat.

“You’re literally hiding in the kitchen.”

He sighed. “Avoiding unnecessary conflict.”

“Same thing,” you said, grinning.

He looked at you then, really looked like he was trying to figure out if you were a problem or a person.

“You started it,” he said, and for once there was a teasing edge in his voice.

“You were weird first,” you shot back.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Touché.”

You rinsed the last mug and dried your hands. The silence between you was easy, not awkward.

Then, softer, he said, “You’re not what I expected.”

You blinked. “Is that good?”

“Jury’s still out.”

You smiled slowly, feeling your chest warm. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He gave a small nod, and for a moment, he seemed less like the grumpy guy from the ad and more like someone who might actually want you here.

He lingered a second longer, then turned and disappeared down the hall.

You took a deep breath and realized maybe... just maybe... this weird, sword-owning, grumpy guy and his loud roommate were going to be exactly what you needed.

You were humming loudly as you scrubbed the kitchen counters, the sound a bit off-key but full of enthusiasm. "Don’t stop believin’...” you sang, twirling the sponge like a microphone, completely unaware of how your voice ricocheted off the bare walls of the apartment.

From his room, Bucky’s muffled groan floated out. A moment later, he appeared in the doorway, hoodie half on, hair a mess, eyes narrowing like you’d just broken some unspoken roommate law.

“Do you have to do that in the apartment?” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

You paused, wiping your hands on a dish towel, grinning. “Excuse me? This is cultural enrichment. It’s called ambiance.”

He shook his head, stepping inside. “If you don’t stop, I’m moving out.”

“Promise?” You raised an eyebrow, twirling dramatically. “I’ll miss you.”

Just then, Sam wandered into the kitchen, coffee in hand, clearly amused by the whole scene. “I kind of like it,” he said with a smirk. “It’s like living in a musical.”

Bucky gave him a pointed look. “Musical? More like a hostage situation.”

You just smiled wider and started singing louder, nearly drowning out the drip of the leaky faucet.

Bucky, ever the silent strategist, grabbed the blender from the counter and flipped it on — its roar instantly overpowering your voice.

“Oh, it’s on,” you declared, grabbing a wooden spoon and launching into a duet with the blender’s hum. Sam laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee. Bucky just shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that might’ve been a smile, again.

Later that afternoon, filled with a newfound burst of energy (and maybe a little too much caffeine), you decided the living room needed some life. You dug out a string of fairy lights from your suitcase, carefully draping them around the window frame.

You pinned up a few photos of some candid shots you and Sam had taken during a bar crawl, and one slightly ridiculous selfie of the three of you that Sam insisted belonged on the wall.

There it hung, a little crooked but vibrant, right above the couch where all of you spent too much time complaining about dishes and stolen spoons.

You stepped back, admiring your handiwork, the soft glow of the lights casting warm shadows on the walls.

“Alright, Bucky, come see your new living room,” you said, nudging him as he lounged on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

He looked up, eyes narrowing as if you’d just declared war. Without a word, he stood and, with one swift motion, pulled the fairy lights down and tossed them onto the coffee table.

“What the hell?” you said, feigning shock. “Those were decorative!”

“They’re distracting,” Bucky said flatly.

Sam appeared in the doorway, smoothie in hand, grinning like he was watching the best reality show in town. “Are we decorating or redecorating here?”

You folded your arms, glaring at Bucky. “He’s redecorating.”

Bucky smirked. “I’m restoring balance.”

You rolled your eyes but secretly found his stubbornness kind of endearing.

Sam chuckled, taking a seat nearby. “I think this apartment’s just trying to find its vibe.”

Just then, Bucky caught sight of the trio photo hanging crookedly. He leaned in and gave it a half-hearted straighten. “I guess that one can stay.”

You smiled softly. “See? Small victories.”

A few weeks later, one evening, you were wandering down the hallway when you caught a glimpse of Bucky shutting his bedroom door halfway. Curiosity got the better of you, and before you could stop yourself, you shoved the door open a little too far and stepped inside.

Bucky spun around, eyes flashing with mock outrage. “Whoa, whoa! Personal space alert!’’

You grinned, holding up your hands in surrender. “Okay okay. But seriously  what’s with all the swords? You’re such a nerd. We’ve been living together three months and I still have no clue what you do.”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe like a brooding hero. “That’s classified. Top secret stuff. If I told you, I’d have to recruit you.”

You laughed. “Recruit me? Pfft. Please. I’d be the best recruit you’ve ever had.”

Bucky smirked. “You? You’d trip over your own feet in the first five minutes.”

“Challenge accepted,” you said, stepping closer. “But first, how about a tour? I promise to behave… mostly.”

He shook his head with a smile. “Nice try. This room is off-limits. Next time, just knock. Or bring snacks.”

Just then, Sam appeared in the hallway, grinning like he was watching a sitcom. “You’re lucky he lets you live here at all.”

You winked at Bucky. “Oh, I’m more than lucky. I’m his favorite headache.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but the smile he gave you was genuine. “Yeah, yeah. Favorite headache.”

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the movie playing on the TV. You were nestled into the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your lap. Bucky sat beside you, not saying much, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence.

You reached into the bowl absentmindedly and noticed that the popcorn was already salted just the way you liked it — a little extra, but not too much. You glanced sideways, catching Bucky smirking quietly at you.

Your heart did a small, ridiculous thing. But then — you hesitated. Maybe he just liked it that way, too. Or maybe Sam mentioned it once. It didn’t have to mean anything.

Still, it was the little things that made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected. Like how he always seemed to notice when you ran out of your favorite cereal — and the next morning, there it would be on the kitchen counter, unopened and waiting for you.

But maybe he did that for Sam too.

Or how, on mornings when you felt sluggish, Bucky would casually set a cup of coffee next to your laptop without a word, the steam rising just right, the bitterness perfectly balanced with cream and sugar.

But maybe he was just thoughtful like that. Maybe it wasn’t about you — not really. Maybe you were reading too much into it. He was kind. Quiet. Attentive. It didn’t have to be special.

You didn’t know when the shift happened — when the easy rhythm of living together started feeling like something softer. Something that hovered just on the edge of affection. Something you didn’t dare name out loud.

One evening, as the credits rolled on the movie, you caught Bucky watching you. Not the screen. Not the popcorn. You. The way your eyes were half-lidded in contentment, the small smile on your lips as you tucked a stray hair behind your ear.

Your heart fluttered and then immediately scolded itself. He’s just being polite. Calm down. Roommates stare sometimes. It’s not a crime.

You kept your eyes on the TV, pretending you hadn’t noticed.

He shifted slightly closer. You didn’t move away. But you also didn’t lean in.

The quiet between you said everything and nothing at all. It made your stomach twist with hope — and with doubt.

Later, when you reached for your usual cereal and found the box already open, a small note tucked inside caught your eye. In Bucky’s messy handwriting, it read: “Save some for me.’’

You smiled — involuntarily — and then frowned at yourself. He probably just likes the same cereal. Don’t be dramatic. It’s just… cereal.

But still, the note sat in your palm longer than it should’ve. And that tiny, impossible hope lingered at the edge of your chest, no matter how much you tried to reason it away.

You woke to a rough cough rattling through the quiet apartment. Groaning, you rubbed your eyes and glanced at the clock. Perfect timing—your day off, Sam at work, and Bucky clearly coming down with the flu.

From the hallway, the sound of Bucky’s raspy voice muttering something unintelligible reached your ears. Peeking around the corner, you spotted him slumped on the couch, wrapped in his favorite gray hoodie that did little to hide his pale, sweaty face.

He looked terrible.

You sighed and crossed the room, crouching down beside him.

“You look like you got hit by a truck,” you said softly.

He gave you a tired glare, but it was more weak than intimidating. “I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “If this is your version of fine, I’d hate to see ‘not fine.’”

His lips twitched, almost a smile, but then he coughed harshly, clutching his chest.

“Come on, Bucky,” you said, taking his hand gently. “Let me get you to bed.”

He grumbled, but let you help him up. His movements were sluggish, and you had to steady him as he shuffled to his room.

His door creaked open, and you got a quick look inside—surprisingly neat, with a few books stacked on the nightstand, a worn leather jacket hanging on the back of the door, and an assortment of little things on a shelf: an old pocket watch, a small collection of vintage records leaning against the wall. Oh, and his little nerdy swords.

You helped him settle under the blankets, fluffing the pillows just right.

“I’m going to make some soup,” you told him, heading back to the kitchen.

When you came back, Bucky was sitting up on the bed, looking more miserable than before. He gave a weak, “You really don’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, I do,” you said, setting the bowl on the nightstand. “Plus, I want to see you get better.”

He eyed the soup suspiciously but let you feed him a spoonful. The warmth of the broth seemed to do him good, and you could see the faintest hint of gratitude in his tired eyes.

After a while, you noticed he’d started to doze off, his breathing even and calm. You eased yourself down to sit at the foot of the bed, careful not to wake him.

Minutes passed, and your eyelids grew heavy. Before you knew it, sleep pulled you under too.

When you stirred, you realized Bucky had shifted beside you, a heavy blanket draped over both of you. His arm was resting near your shoulder, and though he was still breathing steadily, you caught the subtle rise and fall of his chest against the sheets.

You smiled softly, your heart warming at the silent care he showed without saying a word.

As you moved to shift, Bucky stirred and muttered, “Don’t move.”

You froze, then whispered, “I’m not.”

He gave a gruff chuckle. “I hate being babied.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “I know. But you’re kind of terrible at being sick.”

He tried to glare again but his smile was clear.

“Besides,” you added quietly, “I like taking care of you.”

He didn’t answer, just squeezed your hand lightly.

The days after Bucky’s flu passed in a slow but steady rhythm. You kept him well supplied with soup, tea, and endless bad jokes—mostly at his expense. He stubbornly refused to rest when you insisted, attempting to do small chores only to retreat, defeated, back to the couch.

Sam dropped by during one of his breaks, grinning like he was about to stir the pot. You were perched on the armrest of the couch, wiping down a mug while Bucky pretended not to notice the amusement in Sam’s eyes.

“So, how’s the patient?” Sam teased, elbowing Bucky.

“Still a pain in the ass,” Bucky grumbled, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips.

Sam’s gaze flicked toward Natasha, one of your friends who had stopped by to check on you both. He casually sauntered over, flashing that trademark mischievous smile. “Hey, Natasha. You know, if you ever need a break from all this nerd talk, I’m available for a distraction.”

Natasha rolled her eyes but laughed, shooting you a quick “Sorry, not sorry” look. You shook your head, chuckling, while Bucky’s eyes narrowed mock-seriously at Sam.

By the end of the week, he was mostly back on his feet, but you both agreed that whatever battle the flu had brought, it somehow pulled you closer.

Then came game night.

You’d invited a few friends over—the first time since moving in, and you were determined to make it perfect. The apartment smelled faintly of popcorn and cinnamon, fairy lights twinkled awkwardly on the walls, and the board games were stacked haphazardly on the coffee table.

Friends trickled in, laughter filling the rooms. You noticed Sam immediately gravitate toward Natasha, who was clearly enjoying the attention, while Bucky sat quietly on the couch, watching the chaos with a subtle smile.

You’d planned for a cozy night of board games, but as the games began, things quickly devolved into playful chaos. Rules were forgotten or ignored, dice went flying, and everyone shouted over each other in good-natured arguments.

At one point, your friend Yelena dramatically accused Sam of cheating, which sent him into a fit of laughter and defensive banter. Bucky, sitting on the sidelines, shook his head with a small laugh but didn’t say a word.

When a game of strategy started, Bucky surprised everyone by quietly sliding into the circle. His calm focus was almost intimidating compared to the rowdy crowd. One by one, he methodically outmaneuvered everyone, his victories silent but absolute.

He won.

Just like that.

When someone asked if he wanted to play another round, Bucky shook his head. “Nope. Done.”

You caught his eye across the table, gratitude blooming quietly inside you.

Later, as the night wound down and guests began to leave, Bucky leaned over and whispered, “You did good. It’s your place now.”

You smiled, feeling a swell of warmth and belonging. The night might not have been perfect, but with Bucky and Sam there—each in their own way—it felt like home.

You were taking forever to get ready—so long, in fact, that Bucky had resorted to standing in the hallway, stopwatch in hand, dramatically clicking the button every time he heard you sigh or shuffle around behind the bathroom door.

“Hour two,” he called. “Are you applying for the Met Gala or just emotionally battling your eyeliner?”

“Shut up,” you yelled through the door, laughter in your voice. “Some of us have standards.”

Bucky chuckled under his breath and walked past, pausing when he noticed the door wasn’t fully shut. He caught a glimpse of you—green clay mask on your face, towel wrapped haphazardly around your hair, one socked foot tapping impatiently as you checked your reflection.

He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “Wow. Everything shower happened, huh? What’s the occasion?”

You glanced over at him without flinching. “Natasha set me up with someone. She swears he’s not a serial killer.”

“Oh. Right,” Bucky said, straightening up a bit. “Blind date?”

“Yeah. Apparently his name is Brad, he’s an architect or something. Which sounds fake, honestly.”

Bucky made a sound like a grunt and turned to leave. “Well… good luck.”

You could’ve sworn he said it a little too fast.

An hour later, you emerged from your room. The transformation was startling—hair perfectly soft around your shoulders, subtle makeup glowing in the warm lights, and a dress that Bucky hadn’t seen before, one that made his throat dry and his brain go quiet.

He was in the kitchen with Sam when you walked in, grabbing your coat from the hook.

Sam whistled. “Damn, okay. Natasha didn’t play around.”

You smirked. “Right? I don’t even know if I like this Brad guy, but I look like I do.”

Bucky stayed quiet, eyes flicking up briefly from the coffee mug in his hand, before focusing hard on the inside of it. Sam didn’t miss it.

As you turned toward the door, Sam grinned. “Hey, actually… Natasha and I have been texting again. Maybe we should double date someday—you, me, Brad, and her.”

You paused mid-step, amused. “You and Nat, huh? Bold.”

Sam wiggled his eyebrows. “We had a moment at game night. I’m just saying. Could be fun.”

You laughed, blew them a kiss, and closed the door behind you.

As soon as it clicked shut, Bucky finally moved. Still quiet, still pretending like he didn’t care, but now leaning both hands on the counter, jaw tense.

Sam leaned next to him, sipping from his mug.

After a beat, Sam said casually, “Relax, man. She’ll be back in a few hours. It’s just Brad.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Sam nudged him with his elbow. “You gonna be this fun all night?”

Still no answer.

Sam chuckled softly, mostly to himself. “Right. I’ll text Nat. Double date, here we come.”

From the way Bucky’s eye twitched, Sam knew he heard every word. And maybe that was the point.

The apartment felt weirdly quiet without you. Not silent—Sam was still in the living room half-watching a basketball game and texting Natasha—but quiet in the way that made Bucky acutely aware of the clock ticking.

Every few minutes, he glanced at the front door, then at his phone. Then back again. He wasn’t waiting, obviously. He was just… aware. That was all.

Sam caught him glancing the fifth time in ten minutes and rolled his eyes, not even bothering to hide his smirk. “You know she’s on a date, not being held hostage by Brad the Architect, right?”

Bucky grunted. “Didn’t ask.”

“No, but you’ve checked the time seventeen times like it owes you money.”

“I’m just wondering if she remembered her keys.”

“Mhm.”

He stood, restless, walking into the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Closed it. Opened it again. Finally pulled out a bottle of water and stared at it like it might tell him if the date was going well.

He didn’t know why it bugged him so much. It wasn’t like he had a right to be annoyed. You lived here. You dated who you wanted. And yet the image of some guy named Brad—probably with perfect teeth and a tan from hiking—pulling out your chair at some wine bar made Bucky want to punch drywall.

He ended up watching the rest of the game with Sam, but didn’t retain a second of it. His mind kept drifting to the way you looked before you left, and that spark in your voice when you said, “I don’t even know if I like this Brad guy, but I look like I do.”

God, he hated Brad.

The door clicked open just after 10. Not late, not early. Just suspiciously… precise.

Sam looked up from his spot on the couch, bowl of popcorn halfway to his mouth. “Oop. Here she is.”

Bucky didn’t look up from where he was sprawled in the recliner, socked feet propped up on the coffee table, a half-finished book in his lap. But you noticed the way he subtly straightened his spine, how his eyes darted toward your reflection in the TV screen.

“Hey, guys,” you said breezily, kicking your shoes off and tossing your coat onto the hook. You looked cute. Put-together but not too fancy. Lip gloss slightly faded. Earrings still on.

Sam smirked. “Date go well?”

You hesitated, just a split second. “It was… fine.”

‘Fine’?” Sam echoed. “Is that code for ‘I faked an emergency text halfway through’ or ‘He brought up Elon Musk at dinner’?”

You snorted, plopping onto the other side of the couch. “No! I mean, it wasn’t bad. He’s actually kinda sweet.”

That got Bucky’s attention.

Bucky’s fingers stilled over the book.

“Oh yeah?” Sam prompted. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, so,” you began, crossing your arms. “Green flags: He listens. Like, actually listens. Asked questions. Didn’t just talk about himself.”

Sam gave a slow nod. “Nice.”

“Second,” you held up two fingers, “He walked me home. Didn’t push, didn’t linger. Very respectful.”

From his chair, Bucky made a sound that might’ve been a skeptical breath. You ignored him.

“Third,” you said, voice tipping toward stubborn, “He remembered that i don’t like parsley and ordered for my taste. That’s something.”

Bucky’s voice, flat and quiet: “Memorizing someone’s dinner order isn’t exactly revolutionary.”

You glanced at him but didn’t push it.

“Noted,” Sam said diplomatically. “Now the red flags?”

You huffed. “He says ‘facts’ out loud after every sentence.”

Sam winced. “Oh no.”

“And he referred to himself in the third person once,” you added with a cringe. “Like—‘Brad doesn’t mess around when it comes to tacos.’ Who says that?!”

Even Bucky let out a quiet snort at that.

Still, you crossed your arms tighter. “But he’s not terrible. I think I’ll give it another try.”

At that, Bucky finally sat up a little straighter. “You’re going out with him again?”

You shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “I mean, maybe. One more date won’t kill me, right? Anything wrong with that?”

Bucky stared at the TV again. “Nothing. Just sounds like you’re… settling.”

You crossed your arms, tone edging defensive. “I’m not settling. I’m trying. Brad’s… stable. Normal. Nice.”

“He’s also a walking meme,” Bucky muttered.

Sam, as always, tried to keep things neutral. “Well, if nothing else, we’re getting top-tier entertainment.”

You threw popcorn at him. “It’s not that bad!”

“Yet,” Sam muttered under his breath.

You leaned back, sighing. “I just want to see. Try. Maybe he’s not what I expected, but people surprise you, right?”

There was a beat of silence. And then, so quiet you almost missed it, Bucky said, “Yeah. They do.”

When you glanced at him, his eyes were on the muted TV, expression unreadable.

You smiled faintly, but something pulled at your chest. Something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Anyway,” you said, clearing your throat, “I’m gonna go change. Face mask and pajamas call.”

You padded down the hall and disappeared into your room.

As soon as your door shut, Sam looked at Bucky.

“Brad doesn’t mess around when it comes to tacos?” he echoed.

Bucky stared at the TV.

“She’s giving him another chance,” he muttered.

“Yup.”

Another pause. Then Sam added, far too casually, “Guess you’ll have to make your move before he starts referring to himself as ‘your boyfriend Brad.’”

Bucky didn’t answer, didn’t say a word, but the way his jaw flexed, how his fingers curled around the spine of the book a little too tightly?

Yeah. Sam had seen enough.

It was your idea. After three dates, you wanted to see how Brad acted around your friends — the people who had unknowingly become your chosen family. Sam had teased you about it. Natasha had smirked. And Bucky… well, he’d just said, “Sure. Whatever,” without looking up from the sink full of dishes.

You should’ve known something was coming.

The bar was cozy but lively — local and loud in a familiar way. Yelena was behind the counter in a cropped black tee that said Fight Me, juggling orders with snark and speed.

You arrived with Brad, hand loosely hooked around his arm, and greeted everyone gathered around the booth near the back. Brad gave a wide, toothy smile and shook Sam’s hand a little too hard, made a clumsy “Heyyy, Nat-attack!” comment, and nearly sat on Bucky’s jacket.

“Ah, my bad, bro,” Brad said with a chuckle as Bucky calmly retrieved his jacket before Brad could wrinkle it into oblivion. “Didn’t see that there.”

“No problem,” Bucky muttered, eyes cool.

Yelena leaned over the bar and handed you your usual drink without needing to ask. “You look nice, bunny,” she said in her thick accent, then glanced at Brad. “That your date or your Uber driver?”

“Yelena,” you hissed under your breath, grinning as you took the drink.

Brad, oblivious, slid into the booth beside you. “This place has a vibe. Very ‘real wood and bohemian too.’ I dig it.”

You sipped your drink. “Glad you like it.”

Conversation sputtered for a while. Brad tried to lead a group story about his gym buddy almost getting cast in a deodorant commercial, but Sam politely changed the topic. Natasha started teasing Yelena, who shot back insults from the bar. You laughed, leaning into the easy rhythm but you noticed Brad checking his phone twice.

Then came trivia night.

“Oh, no,” you said, eyes lighting up as Yelena announced it from behind the bar. “We are so doing this.”

Brad groaned. “Trivia? Man, that’s for nerds.”

Bucky, who had been sipping his whiskey quietly, set the glass down. “Good thing we have one,” he said, nodding at you.

You looked over at him  startled. But his eyes were on you, soft and amused.

A flush crept up your neck.

Brad blinked. “Wait, are we actually playing?”

“We always play,” Sam said. “And she’s scary good at it. Come on.”

Brad hesitated, clearly reluctant to participate. But you were already handing him a pen.

As the questions started, you fell into your rhythm whispering guesses with Nat, rolling your eyes at Sam’s increasingly wrong answers, and watching Bucky silently scribble correct answers in neat block letters.

When the Star Wars question came up, Brad made a joke about never watching “those nerd movies,” while Bucky simply answered it right and didn’t say anything.

When the music round hit, Bucky got the obscure 80s synthpop track in one note, earning a slow turn from you.

“You know that?”

He shrugged. “It was playing the day I was trying to work. You were singing it into your spoon while burning a grilled cheese.”

Your mouth fell open, then you laughed. “That was almost 4 months ago.”

Bucky’s eyes crinkled slightly. “You were off-key. Badly.”

Sam leaned over. “You kept that in the vault?”

Brad blinked. “I… wasn’t even sure who that band was.”

You smiled politely but your body had already angled subtly toward Bucky. The warmth behind your ribs had nothing to do with the alcohol.

When the final scores were tallied, you won. Of course. Brad clapped awkwardly while Bucky handed you the little paper slip with your prize - a free drink on the house. Written underneath it in tiny ink was, Off-key but undefeated.

You blinked at the note. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, softly.

Later, when the group dispersed and you lingered near the bar with your glass, Brad said something about “maybe heading out, beating traffic,” and you nodded vaguely.

“Hey,” Brad said, leaning in. “You’re kinda quiet tonight.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Thought you’d be more bubbly. Like, how you were on our first date.”

You offered a tight-lipped smile. “Guess I’m just more myself here.”

Brad didn’t know what that meant. He just smiled and kissed your cheek before saying he’d text you.

You watched him leave. Then turned back to the bar.

“You don’t like him,” Yelena said, drying a glass beside you.

You sighed. “I want to.”

She gave a knowing look, then nodded toward the booth where Bucky was pretending not to look at you.

“He never pretends.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Pretends what?”

Yelena smirked. “Exactly.”

And then she walked off to the next order, leaving you with a drink in your hand and the quiet, inescapable sense that the person who knew your favorite songs, your moods, your cereal brand, and your off-key spoon solos… was sitting just across the room.

And he’d never had to try.

It was well past midnight when a dry throat nudged you awake. You slipped out of bed, heading quietly toward the kitchen for some water.

As you passed the living room door, faint voices stopped you in your tracks. Bucky and Sam were there, talking low—too soft for strangers but just loud enough to catch your attention.

You froze against the wall, listening.

Sam’s voice was teasing yet insistent. “Have you told her yet? You can’t keep avoiding it forever.”

Bucky’s reply was tired, almost defeated. “What’s the point? She’s moved on. Has her own life now.”

You clenched your fists. You didn’t need a name to know who they meant. Over the months, Sam had joked about Bucky’s “mysterious ex,” teasing him whenever the subject came up.

You’d heard snippets—the late-night calls, the occasional sighs, the way Sam smirked and nudged Bucky when the topic appeared. You’d never asked, but the rumors were clear enough.

Moved on. Her own life. It stung to hear it now, from Bucky’s own voice.

Sam chuckled quietly. “You can’t just keep avoiding it. It’s not going to fix itself.”

Bucky sighed deeply. “It’s over. I’m stuck here. She’s somewhere else now.”

A pause.

Sam’s tone lowered, a bit gentler.

“But you still care, don’t you?”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

Your heart squeezed painfully. You pressed yourself silently against the wall, trying not to make a sound, but the ache in your chest was loud enough.

You quietly slipped back to your room and closed the door, the shadows swallowing you whole.

"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"

The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.

"Need a hand?"

You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.

"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."

He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.

"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"

"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."

Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.

"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"

"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."

He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.

"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."

"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."

"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.

"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.

Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.

It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.

He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.

"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."

"No problem."

He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"

He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.

"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."

It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."

He's so fucked.

The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.

When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?

So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.

But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.

You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.

"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."

"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.

"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."

You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.

Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.

He should stay away.

He doesn't.

"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"

"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."

"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."

"I smile."

"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"

Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."

"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"

The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.

"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"

"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"

"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."

Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.

"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."

"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."

Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.

But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.

"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.

Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."

The faucet thing turns into a whole production.

You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—

"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."

The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.

"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.

"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."

He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.

"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"

"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.

Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.

"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.

"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."

He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.

"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."

"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.

Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."

It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.

"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.

"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."

"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"

"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."

"So don't go."

"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."

He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask me to go with you."

"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."

"I really don't."

"There's an open bar."

"Still no."

"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."

That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...

"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."

The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.

He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.

The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.

"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."

"Did it work?"

"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."

He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."

"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"

"I said no dancing."

"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."

"That's not a law."

"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."

The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.

You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.

"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."

His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."

Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.

"Bucky—"

"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."

You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."

But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.

He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.

"I'm sorry if I—" you start.

"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"

"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."

"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."

You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.

You pull back after that.

It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.

"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.

"I don't mope."

"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"

Bucky's silence is damning.

"What'd you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."

Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."

"...okay?"

"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."

"Why?"

"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"

"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"

"Then she's naïve."

"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."

"It's worked so far."

"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."

Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?

He's already standing before he realizes it.

"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."

Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.

"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."

He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.

"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.

"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"

"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.

You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."

The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.

"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.

"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."

Each observation feels like being flayed open.

"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."

"You can't know that."

"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"

He kisses you.

It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.

The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.

You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—

Reality crashes back like ice water.

He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.

Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.

"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."

"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"

He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.

"I should go," he manages.

"Or," you say, "you could stay."

The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.

You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.

He leaves.

The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.

He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.

Now he wants to break his own.

You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.

It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.

"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"

He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."

Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."

Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.

It's fine. It's working. You're safe.

He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.

Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.

"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."

"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.

"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."

Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.

The mission goes sideways in minute three.

"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"

The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.

"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.

It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.

"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."

Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.

They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.

His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—

Your door is open.

Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—

The deadbolt is broken.

The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.

Bucky goes utterly still.

His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—

Blood.

Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.

"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—

Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.

Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.

He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.

His phone rings. Unknown number.

"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Where is she?"

"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"

Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—

"What do you want?"

"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."

The line goes dead.

Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.

Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.

He's going to paint the city red for it.

"Buck, slow down—"

"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.

Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"

"Watch me."

"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"

"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."

Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"

That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.

"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."

"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"

"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."

"Buck—"

"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."

"So what, you're going in alone?"

Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.

"They touched her," he says simply.

"I know, man. I know. But—"

"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."

"Buck, come on. At least let me—"

"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"

"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that."

Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—

Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.

"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.

Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.

The trail goes cold in six hours.

Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.

"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"

Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."

"We'll find her."

We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.

He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.

Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.

"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."

"Get out."

"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"

"I said—"

"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."

The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."

"I know that."

"Then stop giving them what they want."

Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.

"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.

"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.

"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."

"I am focused."

"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."

He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.

"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"

Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.

His blood turns to ice, then flame.

"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."

She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.

"Just me," he says. "Let her go."

"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."

The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.

You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.

"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.

You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."

The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.

"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."

You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."

Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.

"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."

"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.

This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.

"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."

Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"

The video cuts.

Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.

"That bad?" Yelena asks.

He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.

Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.

"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."

"I know."

"You can't just walk in there like idiot."

"I know."

"So what's plan?"

He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."

"Barnes—"

"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."

The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.

"Don't you fucking dare."

Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.

"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."

"Rooftop," from Yelena.

"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."

"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.

The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.

"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."

"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."

"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"

Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.

"Where is she?"

"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."

"We?"

The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."

"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."

The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."

Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.

Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.

"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."

"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."

"Sweetheart—"

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."

"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"

The knife moves toward you.

The world explodes.

Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.

Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.

Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.

"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"

He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.

When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.

"Come any closer and—"

Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.

"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."

But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.

"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."

"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.

He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.

"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.

Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.

After that? After that, everything changes.

But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:

Never again.

Never fucking again.

The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.

"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."

"I'm fine."

Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.

"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."

He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?

"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."

Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.

"When will she wake up?"

"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."

"Sam already made that joke."

"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."

She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.

Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.

"You're spiraling again."

Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.

"You're awake."

"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"

"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"

"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."

"It's fine."

You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.

"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"

"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."

Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"

"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."

"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."

"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."

"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"

"That's not—"

"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."

"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"

"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."

You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.

"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."

"Stop."

"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."

The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.

"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.

"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."

"How can you say that?"

"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."

"I should have protected you better."

"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."

"I should have never let them take you in the first place."

"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."

"This isn't funny."

"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."

"You are—"

"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."

He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."

"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."

"I know."

"Like, incandescently furious."

"I know."

"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."

His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"

"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"

He kisses you.

There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.

His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.

The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.

Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.

"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"

"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."

You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."

"I'm already in therapy."

"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."

"...fine."

"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."

"Okay."

"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."

"Deal."

"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."

He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.

"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."

"I know."

"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."

"I can take it."

"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."

"Noted."

You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."

He freezes. You squeeze his hand.

"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."

His throat feels tight. "I can do that."

"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."

"It's not that bad."

"Bucky."

"Fine."

But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.

The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.

"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.

"Yeah."

"And stubborn."

"Definitely."

"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."

He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.

The least he can do is try to prove you right.

When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.

And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.

"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.

"Hey yourself."

You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.

It's terrifying.

It's everything.

It's enough.

You barely managed to smile before his teeth grazed your jaw, his scruff dragging just enough to make you shiver. His body blanketed yours, warm and solid, pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

“You saw me this morning,” you murmured, fingers curling into his hair.

“Not like this.”

The shirt came off.

Then his.

You didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Because being under Bucky Barnes like this—held like something he didn’t want to let go of—was the only time you felt whole. His touch, his mouth, his breath in your ear as he whispered how good you felt, how fucking perfect you were when you were under him like this.

It was all consuming.

He kissed his way down your chest, every inch of skin worshiped like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down, slow, like he loved the way you sounded when you gasped just from anticipation.

You watched him from above, chest heaving, skin flushed—and in that moment, something tight twisted in your stomach that had nothing to do with arousal.

It was the ache.

The quiet question in the back of your head that always came right before you let him *n.

What are we?

You didn’t ask.

You just let your legs fall open, let his body settle between them, and swallowed the question whole.

He looked down at you once more, eyes so soft they burned.

“You want me?” he asked, voice hushed, reverent.

You nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered, leaning down, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He groaned, low and wrecked, and then he was inside you.

One thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Your back arched, your mouth parting in a gasp as he bottomed out, hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself in you.

He didn’t move at first.

Just breathed.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You always feel like home.”

You blinked.

Your heart stopped.

But then he started moving—hips rolling slow, dragging pleasure from your core in waves. Every stroke was measured, precise, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding you, claiming you without a single word about what it meant.

You let your nails scrape down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist, chasing every thrust like it could answer the questions you didn’t dare ask.

He kissed you again.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just soft.

Like a man who thought you already belonged to him.

His pace stayed slow at first—torturously so. Each thrust sank deep, dragging friction that had your nails pressing harder into his skin, a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.

He was watching you now.

Eyes dark, focused, mouth parted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when he was buried inside you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, and the way he said it—it was too soft. Too real. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

You arched up to meet him, hips rising into each roll of his body, chasing that dizzying edge as the room dissolved around you. The only thing real was the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of his skin against yours, the way he groaned every time your walls clenched around him.

You could feel your release winding tight, breath ragged, body shaking.

And then—

His hand cupped your cheek.

His lips found yours again, tender and aching as he whispered into your mouth, “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It hit you like a wave.

You shattered underneath him, crying out as your body clamped down, orgasm tearing through you with a sharp, wet sound of skin against skin and your name on his tongue like it was sacred.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts faltering, rougher now, deeper, desperate.

“I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—fuck—” he groaned.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him tighter, wanted him closer.

“Inside,” you whispered, dazed.

His eyes locked on yours—wide, vulnerable, wrecked.

Then he was coming—hot and hard and raw, his whole body shaking as he buried his face in your neck and let himself fall apart in you.

His voice cracked.

“I love you,” he gasped, barely more than breath.

And you heard it.

Your body was still trembling. Your mind was still fogged.

But your heart?

It snapped to attention.

Because he said it like it was obvious.

Like he’d said it before. Like you knew.

His breathing had slowed.

His body lay heavy over yours, arms curled protectively around your waist, lips pressed to your collarbone in a lazy, half-conscious kiss. You could feel the weight of his affection in every touch—adoring, familiar, like this was just another Thursday night in the life of Bucky Barnes, the man who clearly thought you were his.

Because he said it.

He said I love you.

And not like it slipped.

Not like it was some heat-of-the-moment moan tangled in a climax.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he’d said it before.

Like he thought you already knew.

Your hand twitched on his back.

Your heartbeat, which had only just settled, started racing again—but not with pleasure. With full-blown panic.

Because—

What the actual fuck?

You stared up at the ceiling, body still bare, skin still warm from him, and yet—

Your brain screamed: WHAT ARE WE?

He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, mumbling something incoherent as he pressed a kiss to your chest.

Meanwhile, your soul was clawing its way out of your skin.

Because if he thought this was that—you being his, this being real—then you’d missed a crucial piece of the plot somewhere back in act one.

He never asked.

There was never a “will you be my girlfriend?” conversation. No official status talk. No expectations. Just great sex, unholy chemistry, soft sleepovers, texts that made your stomach flip, and a drawer at his place you never questioned.

You suddenly wanted to sit up and scream.

But instead, you lay there frozen, blinking at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.

His hand rubbed slow circles on your hip.

You resisted the urge to launch yourself across the room.

What the fuck is going on.

Are we dating?

Is this real?

He sighed against your skin, content and sleepy.

You swallowed hard.

One Week Later

Your phone buzzed beside you on the kitchen counter.

It lit up with his name, the one you still hadn’t changed in your contacts—just “James 🇺🇸” with a dumb little flag emoji he’d added himself the first week you started… whatever this was.

James 🇺🇸:

On my way back—what do you want for takeout?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.

The question was simple. Casual. Routine.

And that’s what made your stomach twist.

Because it was routine.

The texts. The keys to your place. The way he dropped his jacket over your chair like he lived here. The way he smiled when he saw you, like everything else melted away.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

Finally, you sent:

You:

thai? the dumpling place. y'know the one.

Your phone buzzed two seconds later.

James 🇺🇸:

Already reading my mind, huh?

I’ll be there in 30.

Got you extra peanut sauce because I know you hoard it like a gremlin.

You huffed a small laugh, despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

Then you stared at that thread a little too long.

The little hearts you’d sent last week.

The blurry selfie he sent you from his office at midnight, captioned "Thinking about you and losing a vote at the same time 🫡”

The I love you that still echoed in your ears like a gunshot.

You set the phone down.

Walked into the bathroom.

And stared at yourself in the mirror.

You’d never called him your boyfriend.

He’d never asked.

But he acted like he was yours.

And the scary part?

You wanted him to be.

You just didn’t know if he knew that mattered.

The door creaked open with a familiar scrape—he still hadn’t fixed the hinge.

You turned from the couch, face carefully neutral.

He stepped inside in that unbuttoned suit jacket, tie half-loosened, hair tousled from a long day of pretending not to want to strangle half of Congress.

And he was smiling.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, like it was the most normal thing in the world, setting the takeout bags down on your kitchen counter without even looking.

Baby.

You froze.

Okay, he calls you that all the time.

Maybe he calls everyone that.

Does he call Sam that?

“Place was packed,” he continued, toeing off his shoes. “Some guy tried to skip the line and the little lady behind the counter threatened to beat him with a ladle. Reminded me of you.”

You stared.

He wandered to the fridge, pulled out your favorite seltzer—your specific lemon one—and cracked it open before sliding it your way.

You caught it on instinct, fingers brushing the condensation.

He hadn’t even asked.

Just knew.

Then, casually, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair, and loosened his tie more, tossing it with a sigh. His white dress shirt stretched a little at the biceps. He was still talking—something about a subcommittee vote gone to hell—but you were barely hearing it.

Because now?

You were tracking everything.

The way he set down two sets of chopsticks like it was automatic. The way he separated the sauces—your peanut ones on your side, his spicier one near him. The way he snagged the remote and flopped down beside you like he lived here.

Like this was his couch.

Was it his couch?

Was he paying your utilities?

“I don’t know why I let them keep putting me in these budget meetings,” he muttered, cracking open a box of dumplings. “Every time I try to talk, someone from Indiana gives me a migraine.”

You nodded slowly.

Then: “Do you… have a toothbrush here?”

He blinked at you mid-chew.

“Yeah?” He swallowed. “Under the sink. Next to yours. Why?”

Your eye twitched.

“Do you… always leave a change of clothes here?”

He nodded again, popping another dumpling in his mouth. “Babe, half my henleys are in your closet. You know that.”

You did.

You just didn’t process it.

You turned toward him fully, food forgotten.

His arm was already around your shoulders, pulling you in.

You didn’t resist. You leaned in.

And then you stared blankly at the TV as he rested his chin on your head, warm and soft and so stupidly comfortable.

He sighed.

“I missed you today,” he murmured. “It was shit at the office.”

Your heart did a weird thing in your chest—flipped, twisted, frowned.

You blinked slowly.

“…Do you keep anything at anyone else’s place?” you asked, very casually. Too casually.

He snorted. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

He reached for a spring roll. “No? Why would I?”

“Just wondering,” you repeated, mechanically.

He made a soft mhmm noise and handed you a dumpling without looking, already distracted by the TV again, thumb grazing lazy circles against your arm like his body just knew where you were supposed to be.

Meanwhile, your brain was screaming.

Are we dating?

ARE WE DATING?!

And he just sat there, all warm and sleepy and Thai-food-happy beside you, like the man absolutely not at the center of an existential relationship spiral.

You chewed your dumpling, eyes narrow.

You were going to lose your mind.

A Few Days Later

The sky over Washington was a thick stretch of slate.

Fine rain fell in that soft, insistent way that made everything damp without ever fully raining. The streets were quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, and your lungs ached just enough to make you feel alive as your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement.

Beside you, Rachel kept pace effortlessly.

Of course she did.

She looked like she’d been born doing yoga on a yacht.

“I still don’t get how you convinced me to jog in this weather,” she said, breath easy, ponytail bouncing behind her. “You’re getting fit for a reason or just embracing the sad girl cardio?”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “Trying to keep up with a guy who’s genetically engineered and built like a statue.”

She smirked. “Oh, right. The Bucky Barnes. Still a thing?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your feet hit a puddle, splashing your ankles.

Rachel didn’t wait.

“I mean… it’s cute. Really. Him bringing you coffee, showing up to all your little gallery events, texting you like a golden retriever with a crush.”

You squinted through the mist. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

She gave a mock innocent look. “No ‘but.’ I just think if he hasn’t made it official by now, he’s probably just riding the comfort wave. You know?”

Your stomach dropped—quiet, slow—like something sliding off a ledge in the dark.

“He’s… not like that,” you muttered.

Rachel made a noncommittal sound, the kind that sounded like “maybe” but meant “absolutely.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “But a guy like that? Everyone wants him. Powerful, polished, and hot—but still gives off that ‘I could destroy you emotionally if I wanted’ vibe. It’s catnip.”

You bit your tongue.

She went on, like she didn’t just lob a grenade at your chest.

“I’m just saying. If I were dating him, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Otherwise…” She shrugged, smiling sweetly. “Kind of feels like letting a limited edition slip through your fingers.”

You slowed slightly, blinking rain from your lashes.

Rachel picked up her pace, unaware—or pretending to be.

Or maybe that was the point.

The worst part?

You didn’t even know what to say.

Because in your head, you were screaming: I don’t know if I’m dating him either.

You didn’t answer her.

You just picked up speed.

One second, you were jogging beside her—lungs aching, mind heavy—and the next, your legs were moving, not with purpose but with sheer emotional combustion.

“Wait—what the hell?” Rachel’s voice snapped from behind you, sharp with confusion. “Where are you going?”

You shouted over your shoulder, breath shallow, “Forgot—I left the oven on!”

It was a terrible excuse.

You hadn’t even used the oven that morning.

And Rachel, in all her smug, sculpted glory, definitely knew it.

But you didn’t care.

You turned down a side street without looking back, rain misting against your skin, hair sticking to your neck as you ran harder, faster, legs burning. You were vaguely aware of your own ridiculousness. You were sprinting through Capitol Hill in soaked leggings and adrenaline—not because of a fire, but because your chest was burning.

Because the words still a thing were still ringing in your ears.

Because her little smile made you want to scream.

And because deep down, you didn’t know how to answer her.

You didn’t know.

Your lungs ached, your sneakers skidded slightly on wet pavement as you turned a corner, and still—you kept going.

Toward the tall glass building you knew by heart now. The security desk that always smiled when you came in. The floor where the man who may or may not be your boyfriend spent hours arguing policy and quietly doodling in his tiny notebook between meetings.

You didn’t know what you were going to say when you got there.

You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

But you knew this:

You couldn’t keep playing house in your head while the floor beneath it kept shifting.

You needed an answer.

Even if it hurt.

Even if Rachel ended up being right.

You just prayed she got splashed by a Metro bus on the way home.

The doors of the administrative wing slammed open with a bang.

You stumbled in, soaked from drizzle, cheeks flushed, ribs on fire, and about three seconds from a full cardiac event. Your leggings were clinging to your thighs, your hoodie had definitely seen better days, and your lungs were currently staging a mutiny.

Several staffers at their desks froze mid-keystroke.

Someone dropped a pen.

Bucky looked up from where he was speaking with a few of his aides, a file in one hand, coffee in the other—and blinked at you like you’d just teleported in from an alternate timeline.

“Hey—what—?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Silence.

Every single head in the room turned.

Bucky’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.

You pointed at him, panting. “Because—I think it’s time. I want to be your girlfriend. Officially. Like—not just sleepovers and emotional eye contact over takeout—I mean actual, real-life, ‘we’re together’ kind of thing.”

You sucked in another breath and barreled on before you lost your nerve.

“I know you’re busy, and, like, technically running half of Congress with your jawline, but I just—I need clarity, okay? Because I was jogging with Rachel, who’s a menace to society, and she said some stuff and I started spiraling and I just—I ran here. I ran. Here. For this.”

There was a beat of complete silence.

Bucky’s eyes were wide.

His aides?

They were riveted.

One woman actually had her hand over her mouth like this was her favorite telenovela.

You blinked at the room.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You slowly lowered your arm.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “So clearly, that was… too much.”

You looked around at the awkward stares, then back at Bucky, your voice flattening with pure, defeated embarrassment.

“So maybe I was delusional. Maybe this isn’t what I thought. And that’s fine.”

You nodded to yourself, a slow descent into insanity.

“If I’m just some situationship moron who caught feelings and made a public scene at a congressional office,” you continued dryly, “I’m going to kill myself and take everyone in this room with me.”

You made eye contact with one aide near the door.

He flinched.

Then you sighed heavily and scanned the room, noting every wide-eyed aide pretending desperately to become one with their laptops.

Then you snapped.

“Show’s over, folks. Go home. Or back to your unpaid Excel spreadsheets or whatever.”

No one moved.

One intern coughed.

You groaned, dragging both hands over your face in slow, mortified defeat, mumbling through your fingers, “This is literally my villain origin story.”

You barely heard his footsteps as Bucky approached, but you felt him—warmth, presence, tall and steady as he stopped just a few feet in front of you.

“Hey,” he said gently, “can you look at me?”

You shook your head without moving your hands. “I’ll die.”

“No you won’t.”

“I might.”

He chuckled quietly, and something about it made your heart twist. Like this wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe it wasn’t even close.

You slowly peeked between your fingers.

He smiled softly, eyes full of that same calm patience he used when trying to explain to you how Medicare reform worked.

He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s 2 o’clock,” he said, glancing around the room. “They all get off at five.”

You stared up at him.

“Oh,” you said blankly. “Cool.”

A pause.

Then, softly—almost hesitantly—he added, “I thought we were already dating.”

Your arms dropped from your face as your expression completely short-circuited.

“…What.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Yeah. For, like… a while now?”

You just stared at him.

Unmoving.

Mouth parted.

One eyebrow quirked in silent disbelief.

“…What.”

He blinked again.

Now he looked confused.

“You… didn’t think we were?”

“…No?”

He gave you the most innocent, baffled look known to man.

“I brought you to Sam's birthday party. You met his nephews. You wear my boxers. What part of this didn’t scream boyfriend to you?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

“I—You never asked me!” you accused, voice pitching.

“I didn’t think I had to!” he exclaimed.

You stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “How was I supposed to know then?”

Bucky blinked. “I—what do you mean? Everything I do is—”

“You’re from the 40s, James!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “You guys used to, like, wear suits and give flowers and do grand declarations and ask girls to go steady in a diner over milkshakes! I was waiting for that!”

His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“I watched Grease with you last week!” you cried. “You don’t get to act brand new!”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “Okay, no more old movies for you.”

You crossed your arms, still damp and out of breath, glaring at him like he’d personally invented confusion.

Then he stepped back.

Took a slow, deep breath.

Straightened his posture.

And said, “Okay. Fine.”

He cleared his throat, eyes locked with yours, serious as a heart attack. Then he said your name—your full name.

“Will you do me the incredible honor of officially being my girlfriend?”

The room went so quiet you could hear someone’s chair creak.

You stared at him.

Then slowly, a dumb smile spread across your face.

“Wow,” you said, blinking. “This is… so sudden.”

Bucky paused, squinting

You pressed a hand to your chest. “I mean… we’ve only been sleeping together, sharing hoodies, texting nonstop, and eating Thai food three times a week for a few months. You barely know me.”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t.”

“I mean, I barely know me, James. Are you sure about this? How could I possibly say—?”

He said your name—a low, gravelly warning that made your smile bloom full force.

You grinned.

“Yes,” you said. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

And before he could react—before he could breathe—you launched yourself into his arms, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his with every ounce of pent-up emotion and leftover adrenaline.

His arms instinctively caught you—one around your waist, the other beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around him like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He kissed you back, hard and fast, like he’d been waiting for this moment—like maybe he needed it as badly as you did.

Somewhere behind you, someone definitely muttered, “What the fuck.”

Another staffer fumbled their phone like they were torn between reporting this to H.R. and posting this on the internet.

Bucky didn’t care.

He just kissed you deeper, right there in the middle of his office, as if the whole damn building hadn’t just watched him get emotionally hijacked by the woman he thought was already his.

Eventually, you pulled back, breath a little ragged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, arms still looped lazily around his neck.

Bucky was wrecked—eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling under you like he’d just run a marathon and won.

You leaned in once more, planted a sweet, casual kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “See you at home.”

You slid off his lap and smoothed your hoodie like you hadn’t just climbed him like a tree in front of half his professional staff.

Bucky blinked. “Wait—what? I was just about to go on break—”

You turned at the door, already tugging your hood up. “Yeah, no, I gotta find Rachel.”

He frowned, still catching up. “Why?”

“To tell her to her face that you’re mine now,” you said flatly. “And so hopefully, she dies of jealousy in front of my eyes.”

You opened the door and strode out like a woman on a mission.

Bucky watched you go, completely speechless, still half-hard in his slacks, shirt wrinkled from where you’d yanked on him like you were trying to break his will to serve.

His aides were frozen, stunned, borderline traumatized.

And then, slowly, that grin started to grow on his face.

A little crooked. A little stunned.

But proud.

Because that?

That was officially his girl.

And God help anyone who tried to say otherwise.

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it aimlessly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod in reluctant agreement, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, chest pounding and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft stubble between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost worshipful. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t cautious enough. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, apprehensive and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod, never been more sure of anything in your life. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw mindless, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.

🍀@idk-karla

⁀જ➣The Neighbor

🍀@artficlly

⁀જ➣me & the devil

🍀@marvelstoriesepic

⁀જ➣Change your mind

🍀@sunday-bug

⁀જ➣Longing in Lane

🍀@byhuenii

⁀જ➣You had me at hello

🍀@juniebjonesin

⁀જ➣fading away

🍀@vunblr

⁀જ➣It's Only October 4th (vol 1)

🍀@heldbybarnes

⁀જ➣holding your hand

🍀@mandoalorian

⁀જ➣lessons in love

🍀@firelilyfox

⁀જ➣Happy To Help

🍀@flockoff-featherface

⁀જ➣Dungeons, Dragons and Desire

🍀@navybrat817

⁀જ➣Hold You Tight

🍀@blowingbarnes

⁀જ➣Only Ever You

🍀@imtaashu

⁀જ➣Your name, my dog tags

🍀@barnes-babydoll

⁀જ➣Pinned Against Each Other

🍀@buckysouvenir

⁀જ➣just a dress

🍀@aquaticmercy

⁀જ➣When Everything's Made To Be Broken

🍀@elixirfromthestars

⁀જ➣No Rest For The Wicked

🍀@pellucid-constellations

⁀જ➣Hold My Girl

🍀@cherryswe3ts

⁀જ➣hot

🍀@iamthatonefangirl

⁀જ➣dear god

🍀@wildflowersandvibranium

⁀જ➣Honey & Steel

🍀@mcrdvcks

⁀જ➣sweet nothin'

🍀@knowledgeableknitter

⁀જ➣Heavy Lifting

🍀@dear-dark-angel

⁀જ➣my midnight angel

🍀@phoenix-in-writing

⁀જ➣Hail Mary

🍀@gremlin-girly

⁀જ➣Wandering Eyes

🍀@54nboo

⁀જ➣down time

🍀@anonymityisfunwriter

⁀જ➣Never Been Kissed

🍀@sunsetmade

⁀જ➣Under the Streetlight

🍀@malum-forev

⁀જ➣Unexpected

🍀@n3ptoonz

⁀જ➣Timeless

🍀@sluterainterluder

⁀જ➣The complete Knock

🍀@barnesandashes

⁀જ➣get jealous

🍀@lovelybarnes

⁀જ➣Flirting and Football

🍀@castielscaplan

⁀જ➣Fire and the Little Bird

🍀@buckybarnes82

⁀જ➣A very nostalgic Valentine’s Day

🍀@societyfolklore

⁀જ➣Dangerous Notes

🍀@cassiemaebarnes

⁀જ➣Drunk Confessions

🍀@ceriseheaven

⁀જ➣50/50

🍀@whoispedro

⁀જ➣every little thing she does

🍀@crybabycabin

⁀જ➣pressure points

🍀@lucy-literates

⁀જ➣Only If You Do

🍀@superbassbuck

⁀જ➣Teach Me, Congressman

🍀@ilovolderman

⁀જ➣Borrowed Fairy Tales

🍀@chrisevansleftpeck

⁀જ➣Cherry Lips

🍀@rootedinrevisions

⁀જ➣A Firework Kind of Feeling

🍀@rosesaints

⁀જ➣reckless fever, lover girl!

🍀@happy74827

⁀જ➣Bruised Shadows

library | part II>

dividers by @/honeyluvsw

Joaquín lingered nearby, smiling warmly at Bucky. “Hey, man. Been a while.”

“Joaquín,” Bucky greeted easily, shaking his hand. “Glad you came.”

Yelena and Ava stood near the kitchen, observing quietly. Alexei hovered curiously behind them, eyes bright with excitement. “Captain America!” Alexei boomed suddenly, making Sam turn in surprise. “It is honor to finally meet!”

Sam raised an amused eyebrow, shaking Alexei’s hand firmly. “Alexei, right?”

Alexei beamed proudly. “Correct! Red Guardian—at your service.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Relax, Alexei.”

Sam chuckled lightly, extending a hand toward Yelena. “Sam Wilson.”

She shook his hand briefly, expression guarded but polite. “Yelena Belova.”

Bucky turned slightly, catching sight of you lingering quietly by the counter. “Oh—Sam, Joaquín. This is Y/N. She lives here too.”

You stepped forward, offering a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you both.”

Sam shook your hand warmly. “Pleasure’s mine, Y/N.”

Joaquín smiled brightly, nodding. “Hey—nice to meet another normal person around here.”

You laughed softly. “Normal might be stretching it, but thanks.”

He chuckled, clearly at ease. “Trust me, compared to these guys, we're practically civilians.”

You smiled warmly. “Fair enough.”

John entered quietly, standing somewhat apart from the group, clearly hesitant. Sam’s gaze found him quickly, expression sobering slightly. “John.”

John gave a brief, cautious nod. “Sam.”

The tension was palpable. You glanced at Bucky, who was watching closely, clearly prepared to intervene if needed. Ava moved subtly nearer to John, arms crossed protectively. After a moment, Sam softened, offering John a small nod. “Good to see you doing better.”

John’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Bucky exhaled quietly, visibly relieved. He glanced at Sam again. “Let me give you two a quick tour.”

Joaquín turned to you, gesturing casually around. “So, what's it like living here?”

You smiled easily. “Honestly? It’s chaos, but it grows on you.”

He laughed. “I can imagine. At least you got some good tech around here, right?”

You grinned. “Definitely. The engineering lab they set up is incredible. State-of-the-art everything.”

Joaquín’s eyes lit up. “Seriously? I'd love to see that.”

You nodded enthusiastically. “I can show you.”

“Great,” Joaquín said eagerly. “Lead the way.”

As you walked toward the hallway, Bucky’s eyes lingered briefly on your retreating figures. Sam noticed his friend’s slightly tightened expression, raising an amused eyebrow. “Buck?”

Bucky glanced quickly away, feigning indifference. “What?”

Sam smirked knowingly. “Nothing. Just observing.”

Bucky sighed, gesturing down the hall. “Let’s just start the damn tour.”

Sam chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he followed. “Whatever you say.”

---

You led Joaquín into the lab, flipping the lights on as you stepped inside. “Wow,” Joaquín breathed, clearly impressed. “This is nice.”

“It’s pretty amazing,” you agreed, moving to the nearest workstation. “Not that anyone else here uses it much, but it’s great for me.”

He examined a few tools thoughtfully, smiling. “So, you’re an engineer? That’s gotta come in handy around here.”

“More than you'd think,” you said with a laugh. “Last week I resurrected a toaster, and now I’m officially Alexei’s hero.”

He grinned broadly. “I can believe that. You know, before I got wrapped up in all this, I was working on aircraft maintenance. Engineering’s kinda my thing too.”

Your expression brightened. “No kidding? Civilian or military?”

“Military,” he replied, leaning comfortably against the counter. “Air Force. Spent a lot of time with jets and tech. Now it’s mostly wings and drones.”

“That’s impressive,” you admitted, genuinely intrigued. “I’ve never worked on anything airborne. Mostly household electronics and some experimental stuff here and there.”

Joaquín tilted his head curiously. “Experimental? Sounds intriguing.”

You laughed quietly. “Less glamorous than it sounds. Usually just prototypes that don’t get funded.”

He shrugged lightly. “Still impressive. Honestly, it’s just nice to meet someone who gets it. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about aviation.”

“Oh, trust me, I get that,” you said dryly. “One mention of circuit diagrams and half the team finds an excuse to run.”

Joaquín chuckled. “Exactly.”

The lab door opened quietly behind you, and you turned slightly to see Bucky standing there, expression neutral. “Hey,” he said evenly, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Showing off the lab?”

You nodded brightly. “Yeah, Joaquín’s an engineer too. Aircraft tech.”

Joaquín smiled warmly. “Yeah. But your setup here puts my workshop to shame.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Glad you like it.” A brief silence stretched slightly, Bucky’s gaze lingering thoughtfully between you both.

“Well,” Joaquín said easily, breaking the tension, “I should probably see where Sam wandered off to. Thanks for the tour, Y/N.”

“Anytime,” you said genuinely, smiling at him. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Joaquín said warmly, nodding politely at Bucky as he left.

Bucky lingered quietly near the door, eyes softening once you were alone. “You two get along well.”

You nodded, oblivious to his cautious tone. “Yeah, he's nice. It’s refreshing to talk to someone who understands tech.”

Bucky nodded slowly, stepping closer. “Right.”

You finally caught the subtle shift in his expression, raising your eyebrows curiously. “Something wrong?”

He hesitated, then sighed softly, shaking his head. “No. It’s nothing.”

“James,” you said gently, smiling softly, “you’re a terrible liar.”

His lips twitched faintly, reluctantly amused. “It’s just—I’m glad you’re comfortable here.”

“Of course I am,” you reassured quietly, gently touching his arm. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

He relaxed slightly under your touch, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah. Just didn’t expect to feel so... territorial.”

You laughed softly, eyes warm. “Territorial?”

He rolled his eyes, smiling sheepishly. “Forget it.”

“No way,” you teased lightly, nudging him gently. “You’re jealous.”

He scoffed quietly, though his eyes softened with quiet affection. “Maybe a little cautious.”

“Relax, James,” you murmured softly. “I promise I won’t abandon you for someone else who likes circuit diagrams.”

He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Thanks. Real reassuring.”

You laughed softly, leaning lightly against him. “Come on. Let’s go find the others before Alexei tries recruiting Sam into his toast cult.”

Bucky chuckled quietly, tension finally easing fully. “We should hurry, then. Sam’s terrible at saying no.”

You smiled warmly, gently guiding him out of the lab. “Lucky you’ve got me around, then.”

He glanced sideways at you, expression softening again. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

---

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, sketching some circuit diagrams on your tablet when the lights suddenly flickered, dimmed, and then went dark. A second later, the backup power kicked in with soft emergency lighting. "What the hell?" Bucky muttered from the kitchen, already setting down his glass.

You sighed, setting your tablet aside. "Probably a power surge again."

Before you could move, a muffled pounding echoed down the hall, followed by Alexei’s voice booming loudly through the walls. "We are trapped! Someone save us!"

You exchanged a quick glance with Bucky, both instantly recognizing the voice. Bucky groaned quietly. "The elevator."

You grabbed your phone, hurrying down the hall with Bucky close behind. Ava and Yelena were already standing outside the stalled elevator doors, both looking equally unimpressed. "You two okay in there?" Ava asked calmly, arms crossed.

John’s annoyed voice came through clearly. "We’re fine, just stuck. Alexei is—"

"I am perfectly calm!" Alexei interrupted frantically. "No panic. Red Guardian does not panic."

Yelena rolled her eyes, clearly amused. "Sure sounds like panic."

"You are hearing wrong," Alexei said stubbornly. "I am calm. But maybe hurry. Very calm, though."

John sighed deeply, clearly losing patience. "Just get us out, please."

Ava exchanged an amused glance with Yelena, smirking faintly. "Tempting to leave them in there, honestly. Might finally get some peace and quiet."

"Do not even joke!" Alexei shouted, banging the elevator doors again. "Yelena, let us out right now!"

Yelena raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. "And if I don’t?"

Alexei paused, voice stern and overly dramatic. "Then you are grounded."

She sighed deeply, pressing her forehead into her hand. "I'm not a child, dad."

You laughed softly, glancing at Bucky. "I better fix this before Alexei actually has a meltdown."

"Please do," Bucky said dryly, shaking his head. "I don't wanna be the one explaining to Valentina why our elevator is destroyed from the inside."

You smiled softly, already moving toward the stairs. "I'll reset the panel manually. Give me five minutes."

"I'll go with you," Bucky offered instantly, falling into step beside you.

You didn’t protest, quietly appreciating the company as you both descended the stairwell to the maintenance panel in the basement. Once there, you quickly knelt in front of the box, pulling your small screwdriver from your back pocket and opening the casing.

Bucky watched quietly from just behind you, arms crossed comfortably. "You sure you got this?"

You smirked faintly, eyes still on the wiring. "Not my first rodeo, Barnes."

He chuckled softly, amusement coloring his voice. "Never doubted you, doll."

Your hands froze briefly at the unexpected nickname, warmth flooding your cheeks. You silently thanked the dim lighting for hiding your reaction as you quickly refocused, finishing the reset. A soft hum filled the room as the power returned fully, bright lights flickering on overhead. You stood slowly, brushing your hands off casually. "All fixed."

Bucky nodded, clearly impressed. "Nice work."

The two of you headed back up the stairs just in time to see Alexei practically tumble out of the now-functioning elevator, dramatically gasping for air. "Freedom!" Alexei declared loudly, embracing a very annoyed John, who quickly shrugged him off.

"Personal space, man," John muttered irritably, shaking his head and quickly escaping down the hall.

Alexei beamed at you, placing a grateful hand on your shoulder. "Y/N, you are savior. I owe you life debt."

You laughed gently, shaking your head. "No need for life debts. Just try not to break the elevator again."

"No promises," Ava said dryly, smirking faintly as she walked off, Yelena trailing after her with an amused expression.

Alexei sighed dramatically, clearly offended. "One small elevator issue, and suddenly everyone is critic."

Bucky smiled faintly, glancing sideways at you as the others dispersed. "Thanks again, doll."

You flushed slightly once more, ducking your head a little, but managed a soft smile. "Anytime." If Bucky noticed your reaction, he didn’t show it, simply lingering quietly beside you as the hallway slowly emptied, leaving you both comfortably alone.

---

You hadn’t meant to overhear Ava and Yelena’s conversation, but while going to the kitchen at midnight for water, you heard them talking by the windows.

“I don’t know,” Ava sighed softly. “I guess I just haven’t celebrated since…you know.”

“Since your dad died?” Yelena offered quietly.

“Yeah,” Ava said quietly. “After everything happened with my powers, SHIELD never exactly prioritized cake and candles.”

You paused in the doorway, your chest tightening slightly. Silently, you stepped back down the hall, deciding your thirst could wait.

---

“So why exactly did you have me dig up old SHIELD records?” Jessica asked dryly over the phone.

“Because I knew you could,” you replied cheerfully, mixing the cake batter. “And because you secretly love being helpful.”

“I secretly love getting paid,” Jessica retorted. “But you’re lucky I like you.”

You smiled softly, holding the phone to your shoulder. “Thanks, Jess. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jessica sighed. “You better save me a slice.”

“Promise,” you laughed. “Bye, Jess.”

As you hung up and set the phone aside, Bob quietly entered the kitchen. He looked distracted, eyes a bit distant. “Hey, Bob,” you said warmly. “Want to help?”

Bob blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “Oh—sure. What are we making?”

“Chocolate blood-orange cake for Ava’s birthday,” you replied, pushing a bowl toward him. “Can you brown the butter?”

“Uh,” Bob hesitated slightly, staring at the bowl. “I’ve never done that before.”

“It’s easy,” you reassured gently, smiling. “Just melt it slow and stir it till it gets golden. Think you can handle that?”

Bob nodded slowly, picking up the bowl and heading to the stove. “Yeah, I think so.”

The two of you worked quietly side by side for a few moments before you glanced at him carefully. “Everything okay, Bob?”

He hesitated before speaking softly. “You know, I’ve actually never celebrated a birthday before, either.”

Your hands stilled briefly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Never really had the chance, I guess.”

Your heart squeezed gently at his quiet confession. You casually continued mixing batter, speaking lightly. “Well, what kind of cake would you want, if you ever did celebrate?”

Bob’s face brightened slightly, thoughtful. “I’ve always wanted to try carrot cake. It sounds weird, putting vegetables in dessert.”

You laughed gently, warmth filling your chest. “Carrot cake’s amazing. Maybe we can make one sometime.”

Bob glanced up shyly, smiling softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

You nodded gently, smiling back at him. “Deal.”

---

A couple of hours later, the cake was finished and sitting on the counter. You were carefully arranging a few candles when Yelena wandered into the kitchen. “What’s this?” she asked curiously, eyeing the cake.

“It’s for Ava,” you explained softly, voice quiet. “Her birthday is today.”

Yelena blinked, clearly startled. “How did you know that?”

“I overheard,” you admitted sheepishly. “And I… might’ve got a friend to confirm.”

Yelena stared for a moment, expression softening slowly. “She’s gonna love this.”

“I hope so,” you murmured quietly.

Just then, Bucky stepped in, pausing briefly to glance between you both. “Something going on?”

“It’s Ava’s birthday,” Yelena supplied helpfully. “Y/N made a cake.”

Bucky’s expression softened noticeably, eyes lingering warmly on you. “That was thoughtful.”

You smiled softly, warmth spreading through you at his quiet praise. “She deserves it.”

John appeared in the doorway, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Did I hear someone mention cake?”

Yelena smirked lightly. “You always hear cake.”

Alexei lumbered loudly into the room behind John. “Cake? What is occasion?”

“It’s Ava’s birthday,” you explained again, smiling at Alexei’s immediate enthusiasm.

“Birthday!” Alexei declared dramatically. “Where is Ava? We must sing!”

“No,” Ava said immediately, standing in the doorway with a startled look. “Absolutely no singing.”

Alexei deflated slightly, looking crestfallen. “But it’s tradition.”

“No singing,” Ava repeated firmly, though a faint smile tugged at her lips as she saw the cake. “Did you make this?”

You smiled gently, nodding. “Chocolate blood-orange. Hope you like it.”

Ava stared for a quiet moment, clearly touched. “I—I haven’t had a birthday cake since… well, ever, really.”

“Then it’s overdue,” Bucky murmured softly, giving her a warm nod.

Bob stepped forward shyly, offering Ava a plate and fork. “Happy birthday, Ava.”

She smiled softly, accepting the plate gently. “Thanks, Bob.”

“Alright,” John interrupted gruffly. “Enough feelings, let’s eat cake.”

Yelena smirked dryly, cutting slices quickly. “Patience was never your strength, Walker.”

You handed Bucky a piece, your fingers brushing his briefly. His gaze softened noticeably as he smiled gently down at you. “You’re amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured softly.

Your cheeks warmed, but you smiled brightly back. “Thanks, James.”

Alexei suddenly raised his slice high. “To Ava, may her powers never explode building!” Everyone paused, staring blankly. “What?” Alexei frowned defensively. “Is sincere wish.”

Ava laughed quietly, shaking her head. “I’ll take it.”

You smiled warmly, quietly stepping closer to Bucky, who casually leaned into your side. Your eyes met briefly, sharing a quiet, gentle understanding. As laughter and conversation filled the kitchen, Ava caught your eye from across the room, her smile softly grateful. You simply nodded gently in return.

---

You sat quietly on the sidelines, legs crossed comfortably beneath you as you carefully adjusted the wiring inside the small drone you'd been tinkering with all morning. Your fingers moved methodically, gently tightening screws and reconnecting circuits, oblivious to the occasional shouts and scuffles from the team's sparring session across the gym.

Yelena swiftly dodged a strike from Ava, spinning gracefully out of reach. "You're getting sloppy, Ghost."

Ava smirked beneath her breath, phasing out briefly to appear suddenly behind Yelena. "Says you."

John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, observing closely. "They're holding back."

Alexei chuckled heartily, stretching loudly beside him. "Is good practice. Builds character."

"You say that about everything," John muttered dryly.

Bob hovered uncertainly nearby, clearly hesitant to jump into the sparring circle. Bucky, quietly observing the team from the opposite side of the gym, caught his eye and nodded reassuringly. "You’ve got this, Bob. Just take it slow."

Bob nodded gratefully, stepping in to face Ava, who quickly softened her stance slightly, giving him a friendly, encouraging nod. You glanced up briefly, smiling at the subtle support within the group. It was comforting—watching them grow closer, slowly learning to trust and rely on one another.

Turning your attention back to the drone, you didn't notice at first when Ava swept Bob off balance, sending him stumbling toward the sidelines—directly toward you. "Watch it!" John shouted sharply.

You looked up just in time to see Bob's startled face as he tried desperately to regain his footing. Quickly, you scooted backward, narrowly avoiding collision. He crashed onto the mat in front of you, looking thoroughly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Y/N," Bob stammered quickly, scrambling upright. "You okay?"

You gave him a reassuring smile. "No worries—didn't even touch me."

Bucky was already beside you, concern clear in his eyes. "You okay, doll?"

Your breath caught briefly at the nickname, cheeks warming slightly despite your best effort to remain calm. You nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Bucky studied your face closely, clearly making sure you meant it, before offering Bob a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Let's maybe keep the collisions to a minimum?"

Bob chuckled weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, definitely."

As the team resumed training, Bucky lingered a moment longer beside you, casually glancing down at the drone still in your hands. "How's it coming along?"

You relaxed visibly, appreciating the return to safer ground. "Almost fixed. Just some minor tweaks left."

He nodded approvingly. "Nice work."

You smiled softly, glancing up to meet his gentle eyes. "Thanks, James."

Bucky held your gaze for a quiet moment, lips curving slightly. "Always, doll." As he stepped back toward the sparring mats, your heartbeat slowly returned to normal. You quietly resumed your repairs, fingers steadier now despite the lingering warmth in your chest.

---

The street fair was bustling, music drifting lazily through the air mixed with the hum of excited voices. Alexei led the charge, loudly exclaiming his amazement at every food stand and carnival game they passed. “You see this?” Alexei shouted gleefully, pointing to a funnel cake stall. “They fry cake here!”

“Yes, Alexei,” Yelena replied dryly, glancing at you with mild exasperation. “It’s a fair. They fry everything.”

You laughed softly, bumping her shoulder gently. “He’s just having fun.”

John grimaced, “I’m not eating that shit.”

Alexei gasped, in something similar to betrayal. "Walker! Fried cake is delicacy!"

"It's just batter and oil," John muttered. "No thanks."

Bob eyed the funnel cake curiously. "I wanna try some."

Alexei immediately brightened again, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. "Bob understands culture."

Ava glanced at Yelena. "How many sugar crashes do you think we'll have to deal with later?"

Yelena sighed dramatically. "Too many."

You laughed quietly, bumping lightly into Bucky’s shoulder as you walked. "Enjoying yourself, James?"

He smiled faintly, hands tucked into his pockets. "Honestly? Yeah. Reminds me a bit of Coney Island in the 40s."

"That where you and Steve went?" you asked gently, eyes softening as you glanced at him.