Lu’ (Bucky’s Version)

I woke up that morning with butterflies already fluttering in my stomach, the kind that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the delicious secret I was carrying. Austin was still asleep beside me, his long lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, one arm slung possessively across my waist like he couldn’t bear to let me go even in his dreams. The early Los Angeles light filtered through the gauzy curtains of our bedroom, painting everything in soft golds and pinks. I lay there for a minute, just watching him—his chest rising and falling steadily, that faint scar on his collarbone from some old stunt gone wrong on set. God, I loved him. Loved the way he made even ordinary mornings feel like something out of a movie. But today wasn’t ordinary. Today I was going to do something just for me… and, if I was being honest, a little bit for him too.

I slipped out of bed carefully, pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead so I wouldn’t wake him. He stirred, mumbling something sleepy and Southern-sweet that sounded like “Mornin’, darlin’,” but his eyes stayed closed. I smiled to myself, padding into the bathroom in my oversized t-shirt and panties. In the mirror, I lifted the hem of the shirt and stared at my bare stomach, tracing a finger around my navel. It had always felt a little plain to me—cute, sure, but nothing special. I wanted something that felt like a secret between my skin and the world. Something that would make Austin’s eyes light up when he finally saw it. A belly button piercing. Simple, delicate, maybe with a tiny diamond stud that would catch the light just right.

By ten o’clock I was out the door, telling him over my shoulder that I had “some errands” and would be back by dinner. He was at the kitchen island in nothing but gray sweatpants, hair tousled, sipping coffee from the mug I’d bought him last Christmas—the one that said “Elvis Has Left the Building” in faded script. He caught my wrist before I could escape, pulling me in for a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like coffee and maple syrup.

“You sure you don’t want company, baby?” he asked, voice still gravelly from sleep. His thumb brushed my hip bone under my loose sundress. “I could drive you around. Make it a date.”

I laughed and shook my head, heart racing with the thrill of the lie-by-omission. “Nah, you’ve got that Zoom call with your manager at noon, remember? Besides, I want to surprise you with dinner later. Just… trust me?”

His blue eyes searched mine for a second, that gentle, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the one that always made my knees feel a little weak. “I always trust you. Go on, then. Text me if you need anything.” He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hand sliding down to squeeze my ass playfully. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” I whispered against his lips, then slipped out before I could chicken out.

The piercing studio was a cute little place in Silver Lake, all exposed brick and soft indie music playing from hidden speakers. The piercer, a woman named Lena with teal hair and the gentlest hands I’d ever seen, walked me through everything twice. “Breathe, honey,” she said as I lay back on the table, my dress hiked up and a cool antiseptic wipe circling my navel. The clamp was cold. The needle was quick—a sharp pinch that made me hiss through my teeth—but then it was over. She slid the little curved barbell in, the one with a tiny clear gem that sparkled like starlight against my skin. “There. Perfect. Keep it clean, no touching for a few hours, and it’ll heal like a dream.”

I stared down at it in the mirror after, my cheeks flushed. It looked… hot. Feminine. A little rebellious. I could already imagine Austin’s fingers tracing it, his mouth following. I paid, thanked Lena, and floated out the door with a sterile saline spray in my purse and a secret burning under my sundress.

The rest of the day dragged in the best way. I ran actual errands—picked up fresh basil and heirloom tomatoes from the farmers’ market, grabbed a bottle of that Italian red he loved, and stopped at the bakery for the chocolate croissants he pretended not to be obsessed with. Every step made the little piercing tug pleasantly, a secret reminder that something had changed. By the time I got home around six, the house smelled like garlic and lemon from the chicken I’d thrown in the oven. I’d changed into something easy but intentional: a soft white tank top that cropped just high enough to tease the edge of my stomach, paired with my favorite high-waisted lounge shorts. Nothing obvious. Yet.

Austin walked in from the back patio around seven, where he’d been on a call with his agent about the new script. He looked tired in that handsome, end-of-day way—hair a little messy, white button-down rolled up to his elbows, jeans slung low. The second he saw me at the stove, his whole face lit up.

“Damn, darlin’, something smells incredible.” He crossed the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around me from behind and burying his face in my neck. His hands splayed across my ribs, warm and familiar. “Missed you all day. How were the errands?”

I leaned back into him, stirring the pasta sauce with one hand while the other reached up to thread through his hair. “Boring. Productive. How was your call?”

He hummed against my skin, pressing a kiss just below my ear. “Long. But worth it. They loved the notes I sent.” His palms slid lower, almost brushing the waistband of my shorts, and I felt that familiar spark low in my belly. Not yet. I wanted the moment to build.

We ate outside on the patio under the string lights I’d hung last summer. The air was warm, scented with jasmine from the vines climbing the fence. Austin kept refilling my wine glass, telling me stories about the ridiculous notes the director had given him—“He actually said my walk wasn’t ‘Elvis enough.’ Baby, I lived in that man’s skin for two years.” I laughed until my sides hurt, watching the way the light caught in his eyes, the way he reached over every few minutes to tuck my hair behind my ear or squeeze my knee. God, he was so good at making me feel like the only person in the world.

After dinner we cleared the plates together, bumping hips at the sink like we always did. I was rinsing a glass when he came up behind me again, arms sliding around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “Got something on your mind?”

My heart picked up. This was it. I turned in his arms, looping mine around his neck and looking up at him. Those eyes—blue as the Pacific at dusk—softened instantly.

“Actually… yeah. I do.” I took a small step back, just enough to create space, and slowly lifted the hem of my tank top. Not all the way. Just enough to reveal the new piercing, the tiny gem glinting under the kitchen lights. The skin around it was still a little pink, but it looked perfect.

Austin’s breath caught. His gaze dropped to my stomach and stayed there. For a second he didn’t say anything, just stared, lips parted. Then his hands came up—slow, careful, like he was afraid to break something fragile. His fingertips hovered an inch away.

“Baby…” His voice was rough, almost reverent. “You… you did this today?”

I nodded, biting my lip, suddenly shy. “Yeah. Didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise. Do you… like it?”

He sank to his knees right there on the kitchen tile, eyes never leaving the piercing. His palms settled gently on my hips, thumbs brushing the skin just below my ribs. “Like it?” A soft laugh escaped him, warm and disbelieving. “Darlin’, I love it. Look at you.” He leaned in, pressing the softest kiss right beside my navel, careful not to touch the fresh jewelry. His lips were warm, and the scrape of his stubble sent goosebumps racing across my skin. “It’s so pretty on you. Makes you look… God, I don’t even know. Dangerous. Sexy as hell.”

I threaded my fingers through his hair, heart swelling. “It didn’t hurt that bad. Lena was really nice. I just… I wanted something that felt like mine. Like ours, maybe.”

He looked up at me from his knees, eyes shining with something that looked a lot like awe. “Ours,” he repeated softly. One hand slid up under my tank top, palm flat against my lower back, pulling me closer. “You’re so damn beautiful, you know that? Every single day you find new ways to wreck me.” His other hand traced the curve of my waist, thumb grazing the underside of the piercing without touching it. “Does it hurt now? Be honest.”

“A little tender,” I admitted, smiling down at him. “But in a good way. Like it’s reminding me it’s there.”

He nodded, serious as if I’d just told him state secrets. “We’ll keep it super clean. I’ll help you with the saline tonight. No tight clothes for a while, okay? And if it starts to feel off, we’re calling that piercer first thing.” Then the sweetness melted into heat. He pressed another kiss to my stomach, this one slower, open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out just enough to taste my skin. “But Jesus, baby… it’s so hot. You have no idea what this is doing to me.”

I laughed breathlessly as he stood up in one fluid motion, lifting me onto the counter like I weighed nothing. My legs parted automatically so he could step between them, hands framing my face as he kissed me—deep, hungry, full of that quiet intensity he saved just for me. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

“You walked around all day with this little secret under your dress?” His voice dropped an octave. “Thinking about me seeing it? That’s mean, darlin’. Real mean.” He grinned, that crooked, boyish smile that made my stomach flip even after a year together.

I tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling him back in. “Worth it?”

“Every second.” His hands were everywhere then—sliding under my tank top, palms warm against my ribs, thumbs brushing the sides of the piercing with feather-light care. He groaned softly into my mouth when his fingers found the metal. “Feels even better than it looks. Cool little thing… and warm you.” He kissed me again, slower this time, like he was savoring every second. One hand stayed on my stomach, protective and possessive, while the other tangled in my hair.

We stayed like that for what felt like hours—kissing on the counter, his body pressed between my thighs, the occasional soft laugh when he’d pull back just to look at the piercing again. “I can’t stop staring,” he admitted, voice husky. “It’s like you got this little sparkle just for me to find.” He dipped his head and kissed a slow trail down my neck, across my collarbone, stopping at the hem of my tank top. With a questioning glance up at me, he waited until I nodded before tugging it up and off. The cool air hit my skin, and his eyes darkened.

“Perfect,” he whispered, almost to himself. Then he was kissing around the piercing again—gentle, reverent little presses of his lips, his breath warm against my belly. “My girl. My beautiful, surprising girl.” His hands gripped my hips, pulling me to the edge of the counter so he could press closer. I could feel how much he meant it, how turned on he was, but it wasn’t rushed. It was all slow, worshipful touches.

Eventually he carried me to the living room, laying me down on the big sectional couch like I was something precious. The string lights from the patio glowed through the open doors, casting soft patterns across his face as he knelt between my legs again. He peeled my shorts off slowly, eyes flicking back to the piercing every few seconds like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“Tell me if anything feels off,” he said seriously, even as his fingers traced lazy circles on my inner thighs. “I mean it. This is new, and I don’t want you hurting for me.”

“I’m fine,” I promised, reaching down to cup his cheek. “Better than fine. I love how you’re looking at me right now.”

He smiled, soft and crooked, and leaned down to kiss the piercing one more time—longer now, his tongue tracing the skin just beneath it. “Good. Because I’m not done looking. Or touching. Or kissing.” His hands slid up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts as he moved higher, capturing my mouth again. The kiss turned deeper, hotter, his body settling over mine with that perfect weight I loved. One hand stayed low, palm flat over my stomach, fingers splayed protectively around the new jewelry like he was claiming it—claiming me.

We spent the rest of the night like that: tangled up on the couch, then migrating to the bedroom when the kisses grew too heated to stay vertical. He was careful—always checking in with soft murmurs of “Still okay?” and “Tell me if it pulls”—but the way he couldn’t keep his hands or mouth off my stomach told me everything. He kept pausing mid-kiss just to look at it, whispering things like, “God, you’re gonna kill me with this, baby,” and “It’s so pretty… you’re so pretty.” His voice would go all low and Southern when he got like this, the accent thicker, the words sweeter.

At one point, hours later, we were lying face-to-face in bed, sheets tangled around our legs, his fingers still tracing idle patterns around the piercing. The diamond caught the moonlight from the window and threw tiny rainbows across his chest.

“You know this is permanent, right?” I teased softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

He caught my hand and kissed my palm. “Yeah. And I’m here for all of it. Every sparkle. Every surprise you throw at me.” His eyes met mine, serious and full of that quiet love that always undid me. “I love you. All of you. And this?” He glanced down, smiling. “This is just one more thing that makes you the most incredible woman I’ve ever known.”

I pulled him closer, burying my face in his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart against mine. The piercing throbbed faintly, a sweet reminder of the day. But the real warmth—the real surprise—was the way Austin held me like I was the only thing in his universe. Like my little secret had only made him fall harder.

The bass from the main stage traveled through the ground before it reached your ears. You felt it in your shoes, in your calves, in your chest. Someone backstage shouted countdowns. Someone else laughed nervously. You rolled your shoulders, stretching, grounding yourself.

From where you stood, half-hidden behind a curtain of cables and black drapes, you could see him.

Joe Keery stood under the open Chicago sky like he belonged there—sunlight catching in his hair, guitar strap slung low, eyes closed as he leaned into the mic. The crowd was massive, loud, alive. Thousands of people singing back his words.

You folded your arms loosely, watching.

“God,” your keyboardist muttered beside you. “He’s magnetic.”

You nodded without looking away.

“Yeah. He really is.”

You’d met famous people before. Worked with them. Shared sets, trailers, premieres. But watching someone perform—really perform—was different. This wasn’t an actor stepping into a role. This was Joe stripped bare, voice rough at the edges, music spilling out of him like confession.

When he finished, the applause came in waves. You exhaled slowly, heart beating faster than it should have.

“Five minutes,” someone called.

You turned away, heart thudding now for an entirely different reason.

Walking onto the stage at Lollapalooza always felt like stepping into a dream that could turn sharp if you weren’t careful. The lights were hot against your skin, the fabric of your outfit hugging your waist, your hips, your thighs.

You were mid-size. You always had been. Not Hollywood-thin, not plus-size, just… real. You’d learned to love your body in stages. Learned to stand inside it instead of apologizing for it.

You adjusted the mic.

“Hey,” you said, smiling at the crowd. “I’m really happy to be here.”

The cheer that came back was loud enough to make your throat tighten.

You sang. You felt. Your voice cracked in places you didn’t smooth over. During the bridge of your third song, you opened your eyes—and there he was, off to the side of the stage, watching.

Not casually. Not distracted.

Focused. Intent. Like you were the only thing happening.

Your stomach flipped.

After the final note faded and the crowd erupted, you bowed slightly, breathless, heart racing, sweat clinging to your neck.

Backstage smelled like warm metal and dust and adrenaline.

You barely had time to grab a towel before—

“Hey.”

You turned.

Joe stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slightly hunched like he wasn’t entirely sure where to put himself.

“Hi,” you said.

God, he was closer than you expected. Softer around the eyes. His smile wasn’t polished—it was real, a little crooked.

“I hope this isn’t weird,” he said quickly, “but I just wanted to say—you were incredible.”

You laughed lightly, nerves buzzing.

“Thank you. That means a lot, especially coming from you.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I was watching from the side. That third song? The bridge? I swear, I forgot where I was.”

“Yeah?” you asked, teasing gently.

“Yeah,” he said, serious now. “You have something. Presence. And your voice—”

He stopped himself, then met your eyes.

“And you’re really beautiful.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks—not embarrassment, not exactly. Something warmer.

“That’s… really kind of you,” you said.

He swallowed.

“I’d love to get to know you better. If you want. No pressure.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I’d like that.”

When you exchanged phones, your fingers brushed. It was brief, accidental—but it lingered.

That night, still buzzing, you lay on your hotel bed staring at the ceiling when your phone lit up.

Joe: Hey, it’s Joe. I hope this isn’t too soon.

You smiled.

You: Not too soon. Hi.

Joe: Good. I keep replaying your set in my head.

You: I do that too after shows. It’s torture.

Joe: At least yours was flawless.

You snorted softly.

The conversations deepened fast. Voice notes sent at midnight. Song demos traded like secrets. You talked about acting—about how strange it felt to have people project versions of you based on characters you’d played. About Stranger Things, and how sometimes he missed being anonymous.

One night, you sent him screenshots.

You: This has been… overwhelming.

It was Twitter. Fans talking about your performance. About your body.

“Seeing a mid-size girl own that stage healed something in me.”

“She looks like me. And she’s powerful.”

“Representation matters more than people realize.”

There was a pause.

Then—

Joe: I’m really proud of you. And honestly? That confidence you have—it’s incredibly attractive.

You pressed the phone to your chest.

A Week Later the rain glazed the sidewalks of New York City, neon lights reflecting in puddles as you ducked into a small, dim restaurant tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.

Joe was already there, standing awkwardly near the door like he didn’t know where to put his hands.

He smiled when he saw you.

“Wow.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Good wow or intimidating wow?”

“Very good wow,” he said. “You look amazing.”

Dinner unfolded slowly. Wine. Laughter. Honest pauses.

“I used to think I had to shrink myself,” you admitted quietly. “Physically. Emotionally. Like there was only room for one kind of woman.”

Joe leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I hate that you ever felt that way.”

You smiled softly.

“But now? I don’t want to disappear anymore.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I really want to see you.”

The walk home was unhurried. Outside your building, he stopped.

“I don’t want tonight to end,” he said, voice low.

You met his gaze.

“Then don’t let it.”

When he kissed you, it was careful. Intentional. Like he was asking and answering at the same time.

And later—when your lives intertwined between rehearsals and rooftops and quiet mornings—you’d think back to that first moment backstage.

Two artists. Two voices.

Hawkins was quiet in the way that made your skin crawl.

Not peaceful. Not calm.

Waiting.

You stood just outside the tree line near the Creel house, the air cold despite the late spring sun. Your fingers tightened around the flashlight, knuckles aching, while your heart beat so loudly you were sure everyone could hear it.

This place had a way of pulling memories out of you—bad ones. Fear lived here now. Fear and loss.

“Y/N.”

You turned at the sound of Steve Harrington’s voice.

He was a few steps behind you, baseball bat resting against his shoulder, face smudged with dirt and dried blood. He looked exhausted—everyone did—but his eyes were fixed on you with that familiar concern that always made your chest tighten.

“You’ve been staring at the house for like… five minutes,” he said gently. “You okay?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Steve gave a half-smile. “That’s never a good sign around here.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, then looked back at the house. “Do you ever get the feeling Hawkins is just… watching us?”

“All the time,” he said. “If it grows eyes, I’m officially moving.”

That made you smile for real, and Steve noticed. He always noticed.

What he didn’t know—what you never let yourself believe he could know—was how much it cost you to stand this close to him and pretend your heart wasn’t trying to escape your ribcage.

You’d known Steve for years now. Long enough to see him change. Long enough to know the softness beneath the bravado, the loyalty beneath the jokes.

Long enough to fall in love with him.

And long enough to never say a word about it.

Nancy was inside the house with maps and notebooks spread everywhere, her voice sharp and focused as she strategized. Nancy Wheeler had always been like that—brilliant, driven, brave.

She was also your best friend.

And she had loved Steve first.

That knowledge sat heavy in your chest every time you laughed with him, every time his hand brushed yours, every time he instinctively stepped in front of you when danger crept too close.

Later that night, back at the Wheeler house, the group crowded around the dining table, papers layered over papers, tapes stacked high.

You scribbled notes, trying to focus, while Dustin Henderson paced nearby.

“I’m just saying,” Dustin rambled, gesturing wildly, “Vecna uses trauma, fear, emotional weakness—so hypothetically, we need a distraction that’s loud, personal, and preferably annoying.”

“You just described yourself,” you said absently.

“Exactly. I’m an asset.”

Steve laughed, and the sound curled warmly through you.

You glanced up—and caught him looking at you.

Not casually. Not accidentally.

Something unreadable flickered across his face before he quickly looked away.

Your stomach flipped.

You excused yourself to the kitchen, needing air, space—distance from the thoughts that were getting too loud.

You were pouring yourself a glass of water when Steve appeared in the doorway.

“Running away?” he asked softly.

You shrugged. “Just needed a second.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“So have you.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess we’re both bad at talking.”

You wanted to say only about the things that matter.

Instead, you said nothing.

The silence stretched—heavy, fragile.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” Steve said eventually.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I know,” you said. “I just don’t want to make things harder.”

His jaw tightened, like he wanted to respond but didn’t know how.

From the hallway, Robin Buckley watched the two of you, arms crossed, expression knowing.

Later, she cornered Steve.

“You’re in love with her,” she said bluntly.

Steve groaned. “Robin—”

“And she’s in love with you,” Robin continued. “I have eyes. And a brain.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.”

“No,” she said softly. “It’s fear. And if you don’t say something, you’re going to regret it.”

The fight with Vecna was brutal.

Fear clawed its way into your head, memories and doubts bleeding together until you couldn’t tell where you ended and the darkness began.

You screamed Steve’s name when you lost sight of him.

And when it was finally over—when the air stilled, when the ground stopped shaking—you collapsed to your knees, shaking.

Steve was there instantly.

“Y/N,” he said urgently, dropping beside you. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did, tears streaming freely now. “I thought you were going to die.”

His breath caught.

“I kept thinking,” you whispered, voice breaking, “that if something happened and I never told you—”

He pulled you into his arms without hesitation, holding you like you were something precious.

“I know,” he murmured. “I was terrified too.”

You clutched his jacket. “I didn’t want to hurt Nancy. Or Dustin. Or ruin everything.”

Steve pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You wouldn’t ruin anything,” he said firmly. “You’re the best thing in my life.”

Your heart cracked open.

“I love you,” you said, finally. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

Steve smiled—soft, emotional, real.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I love you too. And I don’t want to waste time anymore.”

When he kissed you, it was slow, reverent, like he was afraid to rush something sacred.

Across the room, Nancy watched—and smiled.

Later, she hugged you tightly. “You deserve happiness,” she said. “Both of you.”

Years later, Hawkins Middle School buzzed with normalcy.

You stood at the front of your English classroom, chalk dust on your fingers, explaining symbolism to a room full of half-interested students.

The door opened.

Coach Harrington leaned in, baseball cap in hand.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “Your boyfriend forgot his lunch again.”

Your students giggled.

You sighed dramatically. “He’s helpless.”

After school, you walked out together, fingers laced.

“Still can’t believe we survived all that,” Steve said.

You smiled up at him. “Still can’t believe we almost didn’t choose each other.”

He stopped, kissed your forehead.

“No more wasted time,” he said.

And in a town that had once been full of monsters, you built something quiet.

Something real.

Madison Square Garden glimmered like a candy-coated dream — pink spotlights sweeping over thousands of glittering faces, the air buzzing with perfume, sequins, and the shrill joy of fans waiting for Sabrina Carpenter.

Y/N had told herself she’d blend in. That maybe, in a crowd of twenty thousand people, no one would notice her. But it was hard to stay invisible when the internet had spent weeks picking apart every pixel of her life — the same jacket as Sebastian, the same car, the same weekend in Budapest while he filmed.

Now here she was, sitting front row in a white satin corset top, low-rise jeans, and a cropped leather jacket that looked suspiciously familiar. Sebastian’s jacket.

“Are you sure this isn’t a bad idea?” her best friend Mila had asked earlier in the car, scrolling through TikTok edits. “You know she arrests someone every night. You’re setting yourself up.”

Y/N had laughed it off then. “What are the odds she picks me?”

Now, as Sabrina strutted across the stage mid-set in a bedazzled police cap, mic twirling between her fingers, Y/N realized her odds had just run out.

“Alright,” Sabrina purred, scanning the crowd, “who looks suspicious tonight?”

The audience screamed names, waving their hands, everyone eager to be chosen. Sabrina smirked.

Her gaze landed right on Y/N.

“Ohhh…” she said into the mic, mock-scandalized. “I know that face.”

The screams doubled in volume.

Mila covered her mouth beside Y/N, whispering, “Oh my god. Oh my god, she’s looking at you.”

“No, no, no—” Y/N muttered, shaking her head, sinking in her seat.

“You!” Sabrina pointed, the spotlight following her finger like fate itself. “Front row. Little white top. Yeah, you, miss ‘trying to act normal.’ Get up here.”

The crowd erupted.

Y/N could feel her pulse in her throat as two security guards helped her over the barricade and onto the stage. The lights were warm and blinding; the floor hummed under her boots as the crowd chanted her name.

Sabrina, hand on her hip, leaned close, her mic catching every word. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to show up at my show.”

Y/N laughed nervously. “Hi, Sabrina.”

“Hi, troublemaker,” Sabrina teased, circling her playfully. “So tell me, sweetheart — what’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Ohhh, that’s right!” Sabrina exaggerated, turning to the crowd. “Everybody say hi to Y/N!”

A wave of “HI, Y/N!” rolled across the arena.

“You look familiar, babe. I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before… maybe on the internet?” Sabrina said, eyes glinting.

Y/N smirked, biting back a laugh. “I get that a lot.”

“Oh, I bet you do.” Sabrina dramatically gasped, pretending to whisper to the audience. “Guys, doesn’t she look like someone’s girlfriend?”

The crowd screamed so loud the stage lights flickered.

Y/N threw up her hands. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“Oh, I’m absolutely doing this,” Sabrina said. “I’m the law tonight. And, honey, you’re under arrest for… keeping a secret relationship from the entire internet!”

The fans went wild, phones flashing like fireworks.

Sabrina pulled out her infamous pink plastic handcuffs, holding them up like a prize. “Hands, please.”

Y/N laughed, holding them out as the cuffs clicked shut around her wrists. “I feel like I should’ve seen this coming.”

“You should’ve,” Sabrina said with a wink. “Now, tell me, Y/N — are the rumors true?”

Y/N hesitated just long enough for the audience to hush. The tension hung thick in the air, every fan holding their breath.

Then she smiled, tilting her head toward Sabrina’s mic.

“Let’s just say…” — she paused, eyes sparkling — “I’m guilty as charged.”

The crowd exploded.

Sabrina threw her hands in the air like a referee. “CASE CLOSED!” she shouted over the noise. “Ladies and gentlemen, Y/N just confirmed what we all suspected!”

Fans screamed, jumped, cried. Phones went up, tweets were typed mid-shout. Y/N just stood there, laughing into her cuffed hands as Sabrina gave her a quick side hug.

“You’re officially free to go, Miss Stan,” Sabrina whispered in her ear with a grin. “Thanks for making my night.”

The concert had ended hours ago, but Madison Square Garden still pulsed with leftover energy — pink confetti stuck to the floor, security calling out goodnights, and a low hum of fans lingering outside for one last chance at a glimpse.

Y/N slipped backstage, her heart still fluttering. The dressing rooms buzzed with post-show chaos — crew laughing, makeup artists packing up, someone blasting Nonsense (Remix) down the hall.

“Hey!” Sabrina’s voice called from behind her. Y/N turned, laughing as the pop star jogged up, heels clicking. “You were iconic, babe. Seriously. The ‘guilty as charged’ line? You killed it.”

“I can’t believe you did that to me,” Y/N said, pretending to glare.

“Oh please,” Sabrina said, flipping her hair. “You were trending before you even walked off the stage. You’re welcome.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face. “I’m never living this down.”

Sabrina smirked. “Nope. But hey—he’s cute. I’d confess, too.”

When Y/N finally stepped out into the quieter corridor near the back exit, her phone buzzed again.

Sebastian: I’m outside.

Her heart jumped. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and made her way down the hall, past security and half-packed instrument cases, until she stepped out into the cool New York night.

And there he was — leaning against a black car, hood up, hands in his pockets. Sebastian Stan, smirking under the glow of a streetlight like something out of a movie.

“You came,” Y/N said, walking toward him, her voice soft but teasing.

He grinned. “Well, I had to see the criminal who confessed on stage.”

Y/N laughed, crossing her arms. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He shrugged, pretending to think. “A little. You made the whole world jealous, you know that?”

“Of what?”

“Of being the guy you admitted to dating.”

Y/N tilted her head, trying to hide her smile. “You weren’t supposed to see that clip yet.”

“I saw it five times,” he said, pushing off the car. “You looked… happy. Nervous, but happy. I liked it.”

“You mean the part where I got ‘arrested’ by Sabrina Carpenter?”

“That part was gold.” He chuckled, stepping closer until his voice dropped just for her. “But my favorite part was when you said you were guilty.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“Because it’s the first time you’ve ever said it out loud.”

She met his eyes then — the kind of gaze that made everything else fade: the noise, the fans, the flashing cameras still somewhere in the distance. Just him, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

He reached up, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “You okay with everyone knowing?” he asked quietly.

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. I’m tired of pretending we’re a secret.”

Sebastian smiled, a soft, knowing kind of smile. “Good. Because I’m not great at keeping secrets.”

“Really? You fooled everyone for months.”

“Not you,” he said. “Never you.”

Her breath caught. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, and kissed her — a quick, warm press that tasted like freedom and adrenaline and months of hiding finally coming undone.

When they pulled apart, Y/N was laughing against his chest.

“So,” he murmured, brushing her hair back, “how does it feel to be the most talked-about girl on the internet tonight?”

“Tiring,” she joked. “But at least the world knows I’m dating you.”

Sebastian grinned. “Lucky world.”

She rolled her eyes. “Cheesy.”

“Maybe,” he said, looping his arm around her waist. “But come on — I’m walking my criminal girlfriend to the car. Let me have this.”

They started toward the car, Y/N still in his jacket, her phone buzzing endlessly in her pocket. She didn’t check it. For once, the world could wait.

Sebastian opened the door for her, glancing over his shoulder with that familiar half-smirk.

“Next time,” he said, “maybe skip the public confession?”

Y/N laughed, sliding into the seat. “No promises, officer.”

He shut the door, grinning. “Guess I’ll have to keep you under arrest.”

It was a late morning. The autumn lights lighted through the curtains, painting the living room in soft gold. Y/N was sitting on the couch with Sebastian, both still in pajamas. He was flipping through the news on his phone when her screen lighted up: “Chris & Alba 💛 Video Call.”

Y/N – grinning Look who’s calling.

Sebastian – peeking over The Evanses? That was fast.

Y/N– already reaching for her phone I told them to call as soon as the baby was here.

Y/N answered. The screen filled with Chris’s face — slightly unshaven, eyes tired but shining. Alba’s beside him, radiant and peaceful, holding a small, swaddled baby in her arms. There was soft music in the background, and a faint rustle as Chris adjusted the camera.

Chris – beaming Hey! There they are! The god-tier couple.

Y/N – laughing God-tier? What are you even—oh my God. gasps Chris. Alba. Look at her.

Sebastian – leaning closer She’s tiny.

Alba – softly, glowing She’s perfect, isn’t she?

Y/N couldn’t help but smiled. The baby’s asleep, her little face round and peaceful. Chris’s arm stays behind Alba protectively.

Y/N– She’s absolutely beautiful. Congratulations, both of you.

Chris – Thanks. I still can’t believe it. We’ve had, what, three hours of sleep?

Alba – laughing quietly Maybe two and a half.

Sebastian – grinning That’s parenthood. You two look good on no sleep, though.

Chris – Lies. But I’ll take it.

A beat of laughter. Y/N was still looking at the baby, eyes shining.

Y/N– Have you decided on a name yet?

Alba – exchanging a glance with Chris We did, actually.

Chris – smiling softly Her name’s Alma Grace.

Y/N– teary That’s… beautiful.

Sebastian – Very fitting. She’s got that peaceful look already.

Alba smiled, brushing her thumb over Alma’s cheek. Chris watched her with quiet awe — that mix of disbelief and love new parents have.

Chris – We’ve been wanting to tell you guys something else, too.

Y/N– grinning Uh-oh. That sounds serious.

Chris – It is serious.

Alba – laughing softly Good serious, though.

Chris sat up a little straighter, cleared his throat dramatically.

Chris – We’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and honestly, there was never a question. We both agree there’s no one else we’d want for this.

Y/N– curious Chris…

Chris – We want you to be Alma’s godmother.

Y/N blinked, completely stunned. Sebastian smiled immediately, his hand finding hers.

Y/N – Wait—are you serious?

Alba – beaming Completely serious. You’re family to us. You’ve been there through everything. It just feels right.

Y/N – tears in her eyes, voice cracking Oh my God, I—thank you. I’m… honored. Truly.

Chris smiled softly, looking at Sebastian now.

Chris – And, Seb, you know you can’t escape this either. We want you to be Alma’s godfather.

Sebastian – grinning I was hoping you’d say that. I’d be honored, man. Both of us would.

Chris – laughing Good, because you’re already on diaper duty at the first family barbecue.

Sebastian – pretending to groan I walked right into that, didn’t I?

Y/N– laughing through tears Every single time.

The call filled with laughter and warmth — a sound like family. Y/N could hear Alma made a soft noise, almost like a sigh, and everyone went quiet for a moment, smiling.

Alba – whispering She’s smiling.

Chris – softly She knows she’s surrounded by love already.

Y/N wiped her cheeks, emotional.

Y/N– We can’t wait to meet her in person.

Chris – How about this weekend? Come by. We’ll introduce her properly.

She and Sebastian glanced at each other, both smiling wide.

Sebastian – We’ll bring food. And coffee. Lots of coffee.

Alba – laughing You’re officially our favorite people.

Chris – You already were.

The call ended with blown kisses and a promise to visit soon.

Three days later. Y/N and Sebastian stood outside Chris and Alba’s home, a soft autumn breeze brushing against your coats. Y/N was holding a small bouquet of white tulips and a tiny teddy bear wrapped in ribbon. Sebastian had a paper bag full of pastries and coffee.

“You ready?” Said Sebastian smirking.

“I’ve never met someone this small before. What if she cries when she sees me?” Y/N answered with a nervous smile tugging at her lips.

“Then we’ll cry together. It’s fine.” Sebastian said sweetly.

The door opened. Chris stood there, barefoot, in a hoodie and sweatpants, grinning from ear to ear.

“There they are! Come on in.” Chris said opening his arms widely.

Y/N stepped inside, the scent of baby powder and coffee lingering in the air. Alba was on the couch, cradling Alma. The whole room felt warm and peaceful.

“Oh… she’s even tinier in person.” Y/N said when she saw the tiny new born in Alba’s arms.

“She’s been waiting for you.” Alba exclaimed smiling

“Coffee? You brought coffee, right?” Chris asked to Sebastian in the back

“Enough to last you both until Alma turns eighteen.” Seb answered handing him the bag.

They all laughed. Then Alba stood up and gently offered the baby to Y/N.

“Do you want to hold her?”

“Me? Oh God, I—yes. Of course.” Y/N answered stammering.

Y/N took Alma carefully, holding her close. Her warmth surprised her; she was so small she fitted perfectly against her chest. She stirred a little, eyes fluttering open for a second. Y/N could swear that she looked right at her.

“Hi, Alma. I’m your godmother. I promise you, you’ll always be loved. Always.” Y/N whispered sweetly at the beautiful little girl.

Chris watched quietly, his eyes a little glassy. Alba leaned into his shoulder. Sebastian moved closer, one arm around Y/N, smiling down at the baby.

“Looks like she already knows she’s safe.” Sebastian said softly at his girl.

“She’s in the best hands.” Chris proclaimed from afar Alba in his arms.

A long, gentle silence. The kind that didn’t need words.

“Thank you for trusting us with her.” Y/N suddenly said looking at Chris and Alba.

“We couldn’t imagine anyone else.” Alba answered smiling softly.

“You’re stuck with us for life now.” Chris joked.

Everyone laughed. Y/N handed Alma back, her heart full. The afternoon passed with stories, quiet laughter, and the easy rhythm of chosen family. The baby slept peacefully in her mom’s arms as the four of them shared coffee and warmth.

As Y/N and Sebastian left later, the sun setting behind them, he glances at her with a smile and said “You’re really her godmother now.”

“And you’re her godfather.” She replied grinning at him.

“That little girl doesn’t know it yet, but she’s got the best team in the world.” Sebastian proclaimed taking her hand in his intertwining their fingers.

“Yeah. She really does.” Y/N said.

The humid New Orleans night wrapped Bourbon Street in velvet. Jazz bled out of open windows, men in suspenders smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, and the lights of the King Creole Club buzzed warm and low. Inside, the atmosphere pulsed like a slow heartbeat—gold and red, cigarette smoke hanging like silk threads in the air.

You’d only meant to stop in for a drink.

He wasn’t onstage yet. You’d heard whispers of him—Danny Fisher, the busboy-turned-singer who set fire to every Friday night. Women talked about him like he was part devil, part dream. Some said he was trouble, others swore he had a poet’s soul buried under all that attitude.

You slid into a booth in the back, your dress catching the stage lights just enough to glitter. A server brought you a gin and tonic and smiled knowingly.

“First time?” she asked, nodding toward the empty stage.

You sipped the drink. “Just passing through.”

She smirked. “Nobody just passes through when he sings. Watch out for that one.”

Then the house lights dipped. A single blue spotlight hit the stage, and he walked out like he’d been born to break hearts in three-piece suits.

He was magnetic. Messy dark hair, a jaw you could trace stars along, and that voice—rich like molasses and sin, tugging at something inside you that had no name.

He looked up mid-song and found you. His eyes caught on yours like a fishhook.

You didn’t look away.

After the set, you stayed.

You didn’t even realize he’d come down offstage until you felt someone slide into the booth across from you, the leather seat creaking beneath him.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and lazy, “you don’t look like the usual Friday crowd.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And what does the usual crowd look like?”

He gave you that crooked, half-shy smile—the kind that said he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t apologize for it. “A lot more interested in the voice than the person behind it.”

You tilted your head. “So what makes you think I’m any different?”

He grinned, leaned back, arms stretching along the top of the booth like he owned it—and you. “Because you didn’t clap. You just stared.”

You blinked, caught. “That’s not—”

He cut you off gently, “Don’t worry. I liked it.”

You laughed, disarmed by how unpolished and charming he was. “And what’s your name, mysterious crooner?”

He looked at you like the rest of the room had vanished. “Danny. Danny Fisher. And I want to know yours.”

You told him.

He repeated it softly, like it tasted sweet in his mouth. “That’s a pretty name. Fittin’.”

“For what?” you asked.

“For someone who doesn’t belong in a place like this. Someone too good for smoke and bad men in back rooms.”

You leaned in just a little. “And which one are you, Danny? Smoke or the bad man?”

He looked down, smile dimming just slightly—vulnerability cracking through. “Little of both, I guess.”

He walked you home that night.

You talked the whole way—about music, dreams, the family you left behind up north, the chipped piano he used to play in his father’s shop before the world got hard. There was a quiet sadness in him, and something raw—like he was always trying to outrun something.

When you reached your apartment building, you stopped at the gate.

He looked up at your window, then back at you. “Can I see you again?”

You hesitated. “Do you ask every girl that?”

He stepped closer. “Only the ones who make the world go quiet when they walk in.”

Your heart stuttered. “That’s a good line.”

He chuckled. “It’s not a line if it’s the truth.”

You searched his face. He wasn’t bluffing. Or if he was, he was the best liar you’d ever met.

You gave him your number.

He took it like it was the first real thing he’d held in a long time.

Over the Weeks, you became a fixture at the club. He started saving songs just for you—“As Long As I Have You,” his voice soft and vulnerable, eyes fixed only on you.

Between songs, he’d sneak behind the curtain, pull you into the alley, kiss you like he was afraid the world would end before sunrise.

Sometimes he was bold, hand pressed to the small of your back, eyes daring you to say what you felt. Other times, he was quiet, full of questions you couldn’t answer.

One Night, in His Apartment, you sat on the windowsill in his oversized shirt, legs curled under you, a cigarette burning in the ashtray. He was playing his guitar softly, just messing around.

“Y’know,” he said, not looking at you, “before I met you, I thought all I wanted was to get outta here. Make it big. Leave this damn city behind.”

You turned to him. “And now?”

He looked up, and for a moment, his voice was fragile. “Now I think I’d be fine singin’ to five people in a dive bar… if you were one of ’em.”

You laughed, gently. “That’s stupidly romantic.”

He shrugged. “You make me stupid, sweetheart.”

“What if this is just a phase, Danny? What if we burn out?” You suddenly asked him.

“Then we burn bright before we do. I’d rather crash and feel everything with you than live a quiet life with someone I don’t love.” He replied quiet but intense

“You love me?” You whispered

The New Orleans heat clung to everything—the air, the trailers, the leather jackets, and especially to you as you fumbled with a compact of powder and dropped it right at Austin Butler’s feet.

“Shit. Shit, I’m sorry,” you muttered, crouching down to gather the shattered pieces, smudging some beige dust onto your already-stained jeans.

A low laugh vibrated from above you. “You know this is the third time this week you’ve dropped something on me?”

You looked up from your knees, squinting into the late-afternoon sun. Austin stood in full 1960s biker glory—slicked-back hair, tight jeans, leather jacket slung halfway over his shoulder. There was a lightness to his face now, something teasing in his eyes that hadn’t been there the first few weeks of shooting.

“That can’t be true.”

“I’m counting your brush, your water bottle, and now… your entire compact.” He crouched beside you, carefully gathering the pieces, dusting powder off his boots. “Not that I mind. I kinda like when you crash into me.”

You scoffed, embarrassed, cheeks going hot. “It’s because I’m always rushing. There’s not enough time to get your damn cheekbone right, and it’s too symmetrical, and that messes me up.”

“My cheekbone messes you up?” His lips twitched.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I didn’t. You just did.” He grinned and stood. “C’mon, let’s get you a new compact. I’ll walk you to the trailer before they call me back.”

You blinked, thrown. Austin Butler—Elvis, Denny from The Bikeriders, king of cool—was offering to walk you back like it was nothing.

“Uh—right, yeah. I need new powder anyway.”

As you started toward the row of trailers, he matched your pace. Your hands were smudged with beige and your ponytail was falling out, a pencil stuck behind your ear and a smudge of lipstick on your wrist.

“You always this chaotic?” he asked lightly.

“Define ‘chaotic.’”

“Tripping over cables, misplacing brushes, quoting Sylvia Plath while touching up my eyeliner?”

You looked at him sideways. “You remembered that?”

“Of course. I remember weird things. You said, ‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,’ and I thought, ‘Who the hell is doing my makeup and reciting poetry while she’s poking my eyeball?’”

You let out a laugh. “That’s not even the full quote. It’s ‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I lift my lids and all is born again.’ It’s from Mad Girl’s Love Song. It’s Plath—but not the depressing part.”

Austin stopped at the steps of your trailer and leaned on the railing, facing you. “You do that a lot.”

“What?”

“Say interesting things and assume no one’s listening.”

You looked at him, powder forgotten. “Most people aren’t.”

“I am.” He shrugged. “You say stuff that makes me curious. Half the crew just talks about weekend plans and protein powder. You talk about dead poets and old French films.”

“I also spilled coffee on your boot.”

He looked down at his worn black boot like he was checking for damage. “That only made me more intrigued.”

You were suddenly aware of how close he was, how the late golden light caught on the curve of his jaw, the creases at the corners of his eyes, the faint smudge of fake grease you’d applied to his temple earlier.

“So, what’s the verdict?” he asked.

“Verdict?”

“On me. You’ve spent more time staring at my face than anyone else on this set.”

You laughed, trying to hide the sudden tightness in your throat. “You’re alright. A solid eight out of ten.”

“Only eight?” He raised a brow.

“Docked a point for being smug. Another for quoting me back at myself.”

“You said I was symmetrical. That’s practically Shakespearean praise coming from you.”

You reached for the trailer door. “I’ve got powder to replace and brushes to clean.”

“And I’ve got a fake bar fight scene to shoot. But—hey.” He paused, suddenly less performative. “You wanna grab a coffee after? Or…whatever chaotic makeup artists do to unwind.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You’re asking me out? With lipstick on your collar and fake blood on your hands?”

He smirked. “Very method of me, right?”

You hesitated. “Yeah. Okay. I mean—yes.”

“Good. I’ll find you after wrap.”

Later That Night

The shoot ran long. Dust clung to the humid air, and Austin walked off set with a limp from the stunt choreography, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, bruises painted on. You were already outside his trailer, leaning against a folding chair, sipping an iced tea and re-reading Just Kids by Patti Smith.

He stopped, taking in the sight of you in the yellow light of the trailer sconces, your eyeliner slightly smeared, a forgotten smudge of blush on your chin.

“I like this look on you,” he said, stepping closer. “Post-wreck glamour.”

“I aim for ‘slightly unraveling but artistic.’”

“You nail it.”

You smiled as he fell into step beside you. “Still want that coffee?”

He shook his head. “Change of plans. I know a diner ten minutes from here. It’s got bad pie and great neon.”

“Sounds perfect.”

The Diner

You sat across from him in a booth lit by flickering pink neon. The fake blood was gone, but a shadow of his character remained in his voice, his posture, the intensity behind his eyes as he listened to you talk about why you got into makeup in the first place.

“Everyone thinks it’s about glam,” you said, sipping your milkshake. “But it’s not. It’s about transformation. Becoming someone else. For a few hours, you can look like someone braver or messier or completely out of your own world.”

He stirred his coffee. “So you’re the one pulling the strings.”

You laughed. “I’m just the magician’s assistant. I hand over the mask. You guys decide whether to wear it.”

He leaned in. “You ever wear one?”

You held his gaze. “Sometimes I think I never took mine off.”

He didn’t speak for a second. Then: “You know, every day I sit in your chair, and I wonder what’s behind your eyes.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“It’s not. It’s just rare. People look at me, but you see me. And that scares me more than any scene.”

The silence between you turned warm. Charged.

“Can I ask you something?” you said finally.

“Sure.”

“Is this… a one-time coffee? Or something else?”

He smiled slowly. “Depends. Do you always drop things on the people you like?”

Your cheeks went hot. “Maybe.”

“Then I hope you drop a lot more.”

He reached across the table and gently brushed a streak of blush from your cheek with his thumb.

“Still got some of your magic on you,” he murmured.

You grinned. “Good. Maybe it’ll keep you coming back.”

“I already am.”

A few days later, the sun was beginning its descent, drenching the set in that glowing amber you always wished you could bottle. Everyone was wrapping up for the day, slowly drifting off toward trailers, cars, craft services. The air was still thick with summer, the kind of heat that softened the world’s edges.

You were lingering near the wardrobe truck, organizing a half-tangled mess of brushes and smudged palettes. You told yourself you were being productive, but the truth was, you were waiting. You hadn’t seen him yet. Not since he walked past you on set that morning with a knowing glance and a quiet “Hey, trouble.”

Then came his voice again. Low. Familiar. Right behind you.

“Need a hand with those?”

You turned too quickly and nearly dropped an eyeshadow pan—but caught it just in time.

Austin smirked. “Still keeping your streak alive, I see.”

“You jinx me.”

“I inspire you,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

He stepped closer, not touching you, just hovering in that space he’d claimed over the past few weeks—the in-between of flirting and something deeper, something you couldn’t name yet.

You gave him a side-glance. “You’re not even in costume anymore. Why are you loitering around the makeup truck?”

“Looking for you.”

You blinked.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You ever think about how weird this is? Me… standing around waiting for a girl with lipstick on her knuckles and a brush behind her ear?”

You crossed your arms. “Weird?”

“In a good way.” He stepped closer. “Like I walked into a scene I didn’t know I’d been cast in.”

You swallowed hard. His eyes were so blue in the dying light it made your stomach tighten.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said softly.

You tried to keep it light. “You think about everyone who pokes at your face five times a day?”

“You’re not everyone.” His voice had gone quiet now. “You rush around like your thoughts are five steps ahead of your body. You recite poems without knowing it. You talk to yourself when you concentrate. You hold your breath when you blend.”

Your breath hitched at that.

“And I—” he exhaled, smiling like he couldn’t believe it himself, “I watch you. More than I should.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Why?”

He leaned in, nose nearly brushing yours. “Because you’re the only real thing on this set.”

The silence between you crackled. You could smell the faint leather still clinging to his skin, the warmth of his cologne buried under hours of heat and dust and him.

You said, “They’ll be looking for you.”

“I don’t care.”

You stared at him, caught. And then his hand moved, slow, steady—he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your skin like he was memorizing it.

“You have powder on your jaw,” he said, voice low, teasing.

“You’re the one who made me drop the brush,” you whispered.

His smile faded as he leaned in, eyes flicking to your lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

So he kissed you.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he’d been waiting to exhale for weeks. His hand settled at your jaw, thumb brushing the hollow of your cheek, and your fingers found his collar, holding on like the moment might slip away if you didn’t anchor yourself to him.

The world was suddenly quiet. No buzzing crew radios. No call sheets. Just the sound of your breaths syncing and the soft creak of leather under his shirt as he leaned in closer, deepening the kiss just slightly—enough to make your heart stutter.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you looked up at him. He was watching you like you’d cracked something open in him.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“You kissed me.”

He grinned. “You didn’t stop me.”

You laughed, dazed. “What now?”

He glanced around the empty lot. “We go get dinner. You drop something on me again. I say something stupid to make you roll your eyes. And tomorrow, you’ll be touching up my bruises and pretending your hands aren’t shaking.”

You arched a brow. “You think I’ll be that flustered?”

“I hope you are.”

You punched his arm playfully. “Smug.”

He caught your hand. “Falling.”

The words hung there. Raw. Unexpected.

You didn’t say anything.

After bucky and steve reunited, and Bucky got mental help due all the assassin stuff, he got a girlfriend eventually. Of course, Y/N was happy for him, but something about her seemed off and it wasn't just because she was jealous of her, she just had a negative aura.

One day, bucky and her were having a movie night, at his place. And as she was looking at him she saw something on his cheek.

"Bucky, what's that?" She asked concerned.

He turned his head to her and raised an eyebrow. "what?"

Y/N brushed his hair to the side. "this."

His eyes widened and he quickly pushed her hand away, looking back to the monitor. "it's nothing."

The way he acted, she knew it had something to do with his girlfriend. She probably abuses him.

“Bucky talk to me” her fingers grazing the bruise.

He flinched and instinctively grabbed Y/N’s wrist gently, stopping her from touching the bruise.

"stop. I said it's nothing.", his grip around her wrist wasn't tight, but it definitely wasn't loose, either. He was still looking away from her too.

“James….” She said softly

He finally looked back at her when she uttered his name, staring deeply into your eyes, his grip on her wrist loosened a bit.

"drop it, okay? it's really nothing." It was obvious that he was lying. The deep purple bruise spoke for itself.

“It’s her isn’t it ?” Y/N asked getting angry

He was quiet for a few seconds before finally letting out a frustrated sigh.

"yeah. it's her."

Bucky’s gaze fell down to the ground as he let go of her wrist, looking ashamed of himself. He should've stopped this, he should've left her a long time ago. he knew better, but he loved her, that’s what he thought.

“That bitch….” She cursed

Bucky rolled his eyes. He knew she didn't like her, hell, Y/N hated her for all he knew. Her feelings were so obvious.

"watch your mouth. she's still my girlfriend."

“She hits you !! How can you say that !!!” She said tense

He raised his voice, trying to defend her in some way.

"it's not like that, alright? she's just mad sometimes and-"

He couldn't finish his sentence, knowing that it was a shitty excuse. He was basically allowing this to happen to himself.

“So she hits you !!!!” She said as she got up taking your coat.

Bucky shot up from the couch, watching her get up.

"woah, hey, where are you going?"

The thought of Y/N confronting his girlfriend made his stomach drop. That definitely won't end well.

“Find her” She said angrily

Bucky quickly grabbed her arm, stopping her from exiting the front door.

"no, absolutely not. i'm not letting you go anywhere near her, she'll hurt you."

He was being dead serious.

“Trust me she won’t even have the time to touch me” she said putting her coat on

Bucky looked sceptical, he knew she was strong but this was his girlfriend they were talking about- she had anger issues.

"what are you planning, huh? you're gonna what? beat her up?"

He sounded pretty concerned, the last thing he wanted to happen is Y/N getting hurt.

“If I have to” She said opening the door and leaving.

"i swear to god if you get yourself hurt i'm gonna be so mad-" Bucky caught up to her, a worried and frustrated look on his face.

He watched Y/N exit his place and disappeared. Bucky sighed and leaned back in his couch, running a hand over his face.

"god, i regret letting her go alone…."

He didn't know what was going to happen, he was getting a bit anxious. Bucky sat there silently, waiting for her to come back.

Y/N arrived in front the door apartment of Bucky’s girlfriend, Emily.

Emily was pacing around in her living room while looking outside the window, waiting for Bucky to arrive. She was pissed and it was visible.

She was a pretty woman; brown hair, dark eyes, nice figure and a great choice of fashion.

Emily's head snapped towards the door when she heard a knock, and she quickly went over to open it.

"took you long enou-" her words got stuck in her throat when she saw Y/N standing there instead of Bucky. Her mouth was slightly agape, shocked to see her.

"w-what… what are you doing here?" Emily said.

Y/N didn’t said anything and just punched her in the nose.

Emily staggered back, her hand flying up to her nose where Y/N’s attack hit her, clearly taken aback by her sudden action.

"what the f-" her eyes widened as blood started trickling down her nose, and she looked at Y/N in disbelief.

"you little-" before she could even finish her sentence, she lunged at her, grabbing Y/N’s hair and yanking it back harshly.

Y/N punched Emily with her head and as Emily stumbled back Y/N punched her again with her foot.

Emily groaned and lost her balance after the first hit, stumbling back until her back hit the wall. She doubled over in pain, groaning while holding her stomach.

"you're gonna pay for that!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with anger as she tried to regain her composure.

She took a few steps forward, attempting to get closer to Y/N and possibly hit her back, but her movements were sluggish and disoriented due to the pain.

Y/N easily dodged her attempt, quickly stepping out of her reach. Emily clenched her teeth in frustration, realizing how much she had underestimated her.

"damn it, you're fast..." she muttered.

Emily tried to charge at her again, but Y/N was prepared this time. Y/N swiftly grabbed her wrists, restraining her from throwing any more punches.

But Emily punched you in the mouth and in the nose. Her fists made contact with her face, causing a sharp pain to shoot through her lip and nose.

"ow, goddammit-" Y/N exclaimed, stumbling back a bit but not letting go of Emily’s wrists.

Emily smirked, slightly amused by the pain she had inflicted, “not so tough now, are ya?"

Y/N kicked Emily’s feet with her leg and made her fall.

Emily was caught off balance when Y/N kicked her feet, causing her to stumble forward and fall to the ground with a thud.

"Ugh!" she groaned, landing painfully on her side. Emily was starting to realize that Y/N was more than capable of defending herself.

She tried to push herself up into a sitting position, but Y/N quickly took advantage of her position and straddled her waist, pinning her down.

She took her throat gripping it thigh

“listen to me now…don’t you dare coming close to Bucky again or I will beat your ass up and this time I will not be this gentle”

Emily struggled against her grip, her face turning a bit red and a look of fear in her eyes as Y/N was putting pressure on her neck.

"A-Alright, alright!" she gasped, her voice strained.* "I won't, I won't! Let go, please-!"

“Understood ?” Y/N said making her grip more tight.

Emily nodded quickly, her chest heaving as Y/N’s grip tightened around her throat. She was struggling to breathe properly.

"Y-Yes, I understand! I won't come near him again, I swear!" her eyes widened, and there was a hint of pleading now in her voice.

Y/N’s nose was bleeding and it was probably broken, her lips was bleeding too, and her eyebrow was starting to bruise

“good….” She got up and left the place slamming the door behind her.

Emily sat there on the floor for a moment, trying to catch her breath and process the situation. Her hand flew up to her bruised neck, her fingers tracing the marks Y/N’s grip had left, shocked that she had been overpowered.

Meanwhile, Bucky was pacing nervously outside, his jaw clenched as he saw Y/N coming bag in his building, noticing the signs of her altercation.

He approached her quickly, his eyes roaming over her face, taking in the blood and bruising. concern and worry were written all over his face.

"holy hell- what the hell happened?" Bucky asked, reaching out to gently touch Y/N’s bruised lip.

“She won’t come near you again…” She said continuing walking.

Bucky followed her, his hand moving to gently grip her shoulder.

"i can see that… but what about you?"

He looked at the blood on her face and how she was still stumbling slightly

"how bad are you hurt?, lemme take a look"

Bucky ushered towards the bathroom. He guided her to the countertop and helped Y/N sit down.

"stay here, i'm gonna get the first aid kit."

He quickly left the room, leaving her alone for the moment. It didn’t take him long to return, though, as he soon came back with a small first aid kit in hand. He placed it on the countertop next to her and opened it, taking out some cotton pads and antibacterial solution.

“I can do it myself” she said looking at his movements

Bucky shook his head, his expression stern.

"no, you sit there and let me do this."

He was being serious, and he wasn't going to take no for an answer. He soaked the cotton pad in the solution.

"hold still"

He gently dabbed the cut on her lip, carefully cleaning away the blood.

Y/N looked at him during all the time he took care of her.

Bucky was focused on cleaning her wound, his touch gentle and careful as he tended to Y/N’s injuries. Every now and then he would glance up at her, meeting her gaze for a few seconds before going back to his task.

Once he was satisfied with how he cleaned her lip, he moved on to wipe the blood away from her nose. He couldn't help but notice how she kept watching him.

"it's probably broken." He said as he examined the bruise that was forming on her nose.

Next was the bruise that was starting to form on her eyebrow. He wiped away the blood there and sighed, the sight of Y/N’s injuries causing his heart to ache.

Bucky was still silent, his gaze darting back and forth between her face and the first aid kit, his fingers occasionally brushing against her skin as he continued to tend to her wounds.

“I can deal with that….I confronted things more though then Emily”

He paused at her words, his eyebrows furrowing in disbelief.

"deal with it? you have a broken nose, a bruise on your eyebrow, and bleeding lip - and you think you can just 'deal with it' ?" He said, his voice firm.

Bucky knew she was tough, hell, she just beat the crap out of his abusive girlfriend. But in this situation, he wanted to take care of her, damn it.

“Now I know that you’re safe….” Y/N said sweetly.

Bucky sighed, shaking his head at her stubbornness. He knew there was no changing her mind once she set it on something.

"you're so goddamn stubborn, you know that?"

He couldn't help but feel a mix of annoyance and admiration for her. She was so determined to protect him, even at her own expense. He couldn't help but find it endearing.

He continued cleaning her wounds, albeit a bit more forcefully than before.

“I know…..but even if you were the Winter Soldier you need someone to help you”

That comment made him pause his movements briefly, his eyes locking with hers. The winter soldier. A part of him that he had tried so desperately to leave in the past.

Bucky swallowed hard, his expression turning somber as he continued to tend to her wounds.

"yeah…. i suppose i do." He said quietly, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy.

As he cleaned Y/N’s wounds, he couldn't help but wonder if she truly knew what she had gotten yourself into, being close with someone like him.

She stood up and she was now just an inch away from him.

Bucky’s breath hitched as she stood up, closing the short distance between the two of them. He could feel the warmth of her body radiating off of Y/N, and he found himself unable to look away from her gaze.

He tried to focus on the task at hand, finishing up tending her wounds, but his thoughts kept getting side-tracked by their proximity. He could smell her scent, and he had to fight back the urge to pull Y/N closer.

“I couldn’t stand to see this bruise on you” She whispered her hand grazing the bruise on his cheek.

The touch of her hand on his cheek made him shiver. It was such a simple gesture, but it sent a wave of sensations through his entire body. He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the feeling of her fingertips tracing the bruise that Emily had left on him.

Bucky’s breathing became shaky as he tried to suppress his emotions. Even with the physical pain of the bruise, her touch somehow made it hurt less.

"i'm fine…" he said softly, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability.

“I know you are Bucky” she said sweetly

He let out a short, humorless laugh at that, his eyes opening to meet Y/N’s gaze once again. He knew she could see through his facade, she always did.

"you know me too well."

He slowly placed his hand on top of hers, gently keeping it against his cheek. The rough texture of his skin contrasting with the smoothness of her own.

He took a step forward, closing the already small space between them two, his chest almost touching hers now.

Y/N looked into his eyes.

Bucky stared back at her, his expression a mixture of admiration and pain. A part of him still couldn't believe that someone like Y/N cared for him so deeply. He was just a broken man with a violent past, yet here she was, standing so close to him, looking at him with such kindness in her eyes.

His gaze flickered down to her full lips for a brief second before quickly looking back up.

The press junket had gone on for hours.

Same white chair. Same lukewarm coffee in a paper cup. Same questions dressed up in slightly different outfits. But you were used to it now — the whirlwind of interviews, lights, and curated smiles that came with a film launch. This one, though? This one was different.

Your name was finally on the top billing of a major studio film. The kind that gets the Venice Film Festival call, not just a trending Netflix tab. You were rising, people said. Twenty-eight, and they were calling you Hollywood’s “newest old soul.”

The interviewer — slick hair, ironic turtleneck, and way too much energy for hour six — leaned forward with a grin. “Okay, this one’s for the fans. Everyone wants to know: Do you have a celebrity crush?”

You blinked. Half of you wanted to dodge it. The other half was too tired to lie.

“…You’re gonna make me say it, huh?”

He grinned wider. “Oh, we have to.”

You laughed, cheeks heating. “Fine. Sebastian Stan.”

Cue the knowing oohs from the crew.

“Winter Soldier?” the interviewer asked, mock-swooning. “Or sad, brooding indie Sebastian Stan?”

“Both,” you said without thinking. “But especially ‘guy who says one line and breaks your heart’ Sebastian. The emotional damage kind.”

That soundbite made it to TikTok before you were even off set.

Within 12 hours, Twitter had decided you and Sebastian Stan were soulmates. A fan edit using “Young and Beautiful” by Lana Del Rey had hit 2.4 million views.

Sebastian, 42, was on a quieter streak. Fresh off a moody A24 film and laying low. But when he finally did an Instagram Q&A a few days later, someone slid in:

“Have you seen that clip of Y/N crushing on you?”

He responded with a selfie. Hoodie. Bedhead. Sleepy eyes.

“Me? 😳 No way. She’s the talented one.”

The internet combusted.

Three weeks later.

The GQ party was thrown in a dim-lit rooftop bar in New York, buzzing with actors, models, and enough free tequila to start a revolution.

You didn’t expect to see him. You weren’t prepared to see him.

But there he was.

Black shirt. Navy suit. Slight stubble and those ridiculous cheekbones God must’ve sculpted on a rainy day. He stood near the bar with a friend — laughing, sipping bourbon, completely unaware that you were now internally combusting.

“Go say hi,” your publicist nudged.

“No,” you whispered. “Absolutely not. I look like I practiced in the mirror for this.”

“You did.”

You took a sip of champagne. “Okay but he’s—he’s Sebastian Stan. I’m just…”

“A girl who called him a walking heartbreak in front of a live audience?” your publicist smirked. “Yeah. Go.”

You caught his eyes first.

He was looking at you like he already knew who you were.

And when you finally approached, breath held, pretending to be casual?

“Hey,” you said.

He smiled. Slow. Warm. “So you’re the one ruining my sleep schedule.”

Your brows lifted. “What?”

“All the fan edits,” he chuckled, voice lower in real life. “My friend sent me one with, like, a James Blake song and I—” he shook his head. “Yeah. You’re trouble.”

You laughed, your nerves breaking like a dam. “I didn’t mean to start a cult.”

“Oh, you did,” he said, stepping just a little closer. “But I’m not complaining.”

There was a pause. A charged one. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to decode something.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said quietly.

“Good or bad?”

“Dangerous.”

He smiled — not cocky. Not smug. Just like he knew what that meant.

“And you’re young,” he said, honest. “But not… naive.”

“I’m 28.”

“I know.”

You swallowed. “Is that a problem?”

He took a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. “It’s a little terrifying.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re talented. And kind. And you look at me like I’m not a cliché.”

You tilted your head. “Are you?”

“Trying not to be.”

There was another pause. You shifted, fingers tapping your glass.

“I meant what I said in that interview,” you said. “About you.”

He leaned against the bar, suddenly shy. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You make sad look beautiful.”

“…You just trying to kill me now?”

You laughed, head falling forward. “Sorry.”

“No. Don’t be.” He touched the bar between you, not quite reaching for your hand but close. “I’ve been watching your interviews. You’re the real deal. Makes me… feel like the old guy in the room.”

You studied him, then smiled. “Maybe I like old guys.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Dangerous.”

“I know.”

The music swelled behind you. Somewhere, a flash went off. Cameras. Eyes. Publicist glances.

But in that moment, it was just you and him.

“Would you ever…” you started, then paused.

He waited.

“…want to get coffee sometime?”

His smile turned into something softer. Sweeter. “Are you asking me out?”

You blinked. “I—am I not supposed to?”

He laughed, then leaned in just a little, brushing his shoulder against yours. His voice dropped.

“Only if you don’t mind that I was already going to ask you first.”

You exhaled. “You were?”

“Oh yeah. I saw that clip and went, ‘Shit. I’m screwed.’”

You smiled up at him, light-headed with relief. “Well… Sebastian Stan.”

“Yes, rising Hollywood star?”

“Looks like we’ve got a crush problem.”

He tilted his head, eyes dancing. “Let’s see if we can make it worse.”

Two days later, a blurry photo of the two of you walking out of a Brooklyn café at dusk hit the internet.

You were laughing. He was looking at you like you were a song he hadn’t heard in years.

And the fan edits? They got worse.

But neither of you complained.

The mission was supposed to be simple.

In and out. Hydra’s last known compound. Sweep, extract files, regroup.

Bucky had gone in first. You were supposed to follow.

But then comms went dead.

At first, you told yourself it was just interference. Concrete walls, electromagnetic dampeners—standard Hydra bullshit. You gave it one minute. Then two. But by minute three, your stomach twisted. By minute four, your chest was burning.

Minute five, you started running.

You sprinted down the narrow corridors, boots pounding against steel, every corner you turned screaming with the possibility of finding him — or not finding him.

You finally reached the surveillance hub. Wires were torn, screens flickering. But one monitor was still running, grainy and grayscale.

It showed a room.

A chair.

And Bucky, strapped to it — blood running from his temple, vibranium arm scorched and restrained by an electromagnetic cuff. Five Hydra operatives surrounded him. Laughing. One of them punched him again.

And that’s when something in you snapped.

Your heart didn’t break.

It ignited.

You moved through the outpost like death in silence. Gone was the soldier trained in tactics and discretion. Now you were something else. Something feral. You counted your footsteps, your breaths, your kills.

The closer you got to that room, the less you could breathe.

Until you finally reached the door.

One deep breath. One final second of quiet.

Then—

BANG.

You kicked it in so hard the hinges screamed. And there he was. Your Bucky.

Bleeding. Hurt. Bound.

And those men. The ones who touched him.

You stared them down, muscles tight, vision tunneling.

“You really shouldn’t have done that.”

The words were calm. Too calm. And Bucky—his head lolled slightly toward the door, one swollen eye blinking open. Even half-conscious, he felt it. The change in the air. The way your voice vibrated with something darker than anger.

He’d seen you in battle before. He’d seen you win.

But he had never seen this side of you.

Not like this.

They laughed.

They actually laughed.

The first man—tall, arrogant, with blood on his knuckles—stepped forward. “Or what, sweetheart? You gonna cry?”

Your smile was slow. Deadly.

“No,” you said. “I’m going to make you regret being born.”

And then it began.

The fight was a blur of heat and brutality. One man lunged, and you ducked under, twisting his arm until it cracked like dry wood, then drove your elbow into his throat. Another came from behind — you threw him into the wall with a force Bucky felt in his chest.

Three left.

You slid a blade from your boot and disarmed one mid-swing, then slashed across his leg so he crumpled to his knees. He raised his hand to beg, but you kicked him unconscious without a flicker of hesitation.

Two more.

They backed up. Panicked.

You were faster.

You leapt, wrapping your thighs around one’s neck and flipping him to the ground, elbowing him in the temple until he stopped moving. The last one raised a gun.

Big mistake.

You tackled him with a roar and knocked the weapon from his hand, grabbing his wrist and pinning it behind his back until it shattered. Then you leaned in close and whispered something Bucky couldn’t hear — but the man started sobbing.

You didn’t kill him.

You wanted Bucky to see your face first.

The silence afterward was deafening.

You turned.

Bucky was staring at you.

Bloodied. Bruised. Shaking.

But those blue eyes—God, those eyes—were wide with something almost like reverence. He looked at you like he’d never seen you before.

You rushed to him, hands trembling now, rage melting into something worse — fear.

“Bucky. Hey, baby, I got you. I got you.”

Your fingers fumbled at the restraints, brushing his torn skin, and when he winced, your breath caught. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t know they had you like this—”

He exhaled a broken laugh. “Doll… I think I’m scared of you now.”

You almost cried. “Don’t joke.”

He tilted his head just enough to rest against yours, lips dry, eyes heavy. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re bleeding out, and you’re still flirting?”

“‘S my love language.”

You freed the last cuff with a snap, and he slumped forward into your arms. You caught him, gently lowering him to the floor.

“I’m gonna patch you up, alright? You’re gonna be fine.”

He looked up at you, dazed but grounded. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You scared me first.”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Not like that. I’ve seen you angry before. But this?” His hand brushed your cheek, tender despite the blood. “You burned the room down.”

You looked at the carnage around you — the crumpled bodies, the silence.

“All of this,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Because they hurt you. I can’t—I can’t watch them lay a hand on you, Bucky. I won’t. I’ll tear the world apart.”

His eyes glistened.

“Marry me,” he breathed.

You blinked. “You’re concussed.”

“Don’t care.” He pulled you close, blood smearing your cheek as he leaned in. “I saw everything I needed to. You’d destroy the world for me.”

“I would,” you whispered. “I really would.”

And then he kissed you. Softly, achingly, like a man who’d been starved of something only you could give.

When you pulled back, his voice was barely a whisper.

“You saved me.”

“You saved me first,” you said. “This was just me catching up.”

Later, when the Quinjet arrived and medics swarmed, he kept his fingers twined in yours, even as they cleaned his wounds.

And when John asked what happened, Bucky only chuckled.

“Remind me never to piss her off.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“What’d she do?”

Bucky just looked at you — sitting beside him, blood on your shirt, fire still in your eyes.

“She ended Hydra,” he said with a smirk. “That’s what she did.”

Memphis, Summer 1956.

The tent was sweltering. Thick with sweat and spirit, with hallelujahs and the scent of dust kicked up by restless feet. She sat at the organ near the pulpit, her fingers moving gently over the keys of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

And then he walked in.

Not in blue suede shoes — no, he wore worn jeans, a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, hair slicked high but falling in strands against his forehead. The hush came slowly — a slow, unspoken ripple of recognition.

“Is that… Elvis Presley?” whispered someone behind her.

Her father’s voice boomed over the crowd before anyone could gather breath.

“We welcome all sinners here — even those who shake their hips for the devil.”

A few nervous laughs.

Elvis didn’t flinch.

He found a seat three rows from the front. Right in her line of sight.

She tried to keep her eyes on the keys, but he wasn’t like the other boys. He didn’t leer. He didn’t wink. He just looked — like he was memorizing her.

After the service, as people filed out, she stepped outside into the cool of the early evening. Fireflies lit the grass.

And there he was.

Leaning against a tree, arms folded, boot tapping the dirt.

“You play like you mean it,” he said softly.

She looked around. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why? Afraid your daddy’ll see me talkin’ to you?”

“Yes,” she said honestly.

He smirked. “Well. Then let’s make it quick.”

He handed her a folded note. “There’s a diner on Beale. I’ll be there tomorrow. 3 o’clock. I’ll sit by the window.”

She looked at the paper. Then up at him.

“Why me?”

“You didn’t look at me like I was the devil.”

“That’s ‘cause I know better,” she said. “The devil wouldn’t have those eyes.”

He grinned.

“Tomorrow, then.”

She went. Of course she went.

The diner was mostly empty at 3pm, sun pouring in over red-checkered booths. He looked up from a coffee cup and smiled when he saw her.

“You came,” he said.

“I’m not staying long.”

“That’s alright. I talk fast.”

He told her about Tupelo, about gospel music and shaking off poverty like mud on his boots. About singing to his mama and wanting to make people feel something real.

She listened, heart racing.

He didn’t flirt. Not in the way she expected.

He was gentle. Honest. Funny.

“You know what people say about me?”

“That you’re dangerous.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Not unless you mean dangerous to silence. I don’t like when people pretend they don’t feel things.”

She swallowed. “I was raised not to feel.”

“Then I’m gonna ruin you,” he said.

But later her father found the note.

He read it aloud at breakfast, hand trembling with fury.

“He asked you to sneak out and meet him like some harlot. You’ve disgraced this house.”

She didn’t deny it.

She couldn’t.

“You raised me on music,” she said. “He sings it like a prayer.”

“He sings it like a mockery!”

“You don’t know him.”

“Neither do you!”

But she did.

In the quiet talks. In the notes he slipped through her window. In the night drives down back roads where he played gospel cassettes and didn’t try to kiss her until the fourth date.

“You make me wanna be better,” he told her once.

“Then start with telling the truth,” she whispered. “Even when it’s scary.”

When Elvis was drafted in 1958, she was already heartbroken.

She had stood with him in the kitchen of Graceland when the letter came.

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

“I don’t either. But if I don’t serve, they’ll call me a coward. And I can’t have you lovin’ a coward.”

They kissed for the first time that night. Slow. Long. Frightened.

“Promise you’ll write?”

“Every day,” he said.

And he did.

From Friedberg, he sent her pressed flowers, sketches of the chapel, poems scribbled in the margins of army forms.

She wrote back pages filled with scripture and longing. Her father tried to burn them once. She kept them under the floorboard.

When he stepped off the plane in 1960, he scanned the crowd like he was looking for something he’d lost.

And then there she was — behind the rope line, trembling.

He broke protocol.

Dodged security.

And took her face in his hands right there on the tarmac.

“I thought you’d move on,” he whispered.

“I thought you’d forget me,” she said.

“I did try. But every song I sang came out sounding like you.”

They didn’t sleep that night. They lay awake on the Graceland floor, fingers laced, talking about everything they’d missed.

“I still want you,” he said. “Even more now.”

“My father still hates you.”

“Then we’ll do it without him.”

“Do what?”

“Live.”

Years later, he asked her to marry him backstage at NBC, just minutes before walking out for the ’68 Comeback Special.

The black leather suit was half-zipped, his hands shaking. Not from nerves about the show — but about her.

“I don’t want to leave this stage tonight not knowin’ you’re mine.”

She blinked. “Elvis—”

“No, listen to me, baby. We’ve been dancin’ around this for years. The Colonel wants me to marry someone marketable. A girl who fits the brand. But I want the girl who prays over my coffee and tells me when I’m bein’ an ass.”

“Elvis…”

“You’ve seen me broken. I don’t want a wife who only knows the stage lights. I want the one who held my letters in the floorboard while her father screamed damnation.”

Silence.

Then:

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, yes—”

He kissed her hard. Fingers in her hair, pulling her against the heat of his chest. In the dressing room mirror, they looked like a sin and a miracle.

They were married in secret four days later in Tupelo. Just them. No cameras. No press. No Colonel.

“He’s gonna lose his mind when he finds out,” Elvis muttered.

“Then he never really knew you,” she said.

The Colonel found out anyway.

It was a Tuesday. Elvis was rehearsing in Burbank when a page came to his dressing room. Colonel Parker stood behind the closed door, arms folded like a judge ready to sentence.

“You married her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Without tellin’ me.”

“Wasn’t your decision.”

The Colonel stepped closer, teeth bared behind a cigar.

“That little preacher’s daughter is not good for the image. You don’t need a quiet, holy wife, Elvis. You need a mystery. Something the girls can still fantasize about.”

“They’ve got the music for that,” Elvis said. “I got a real woman. And I’m keepin’ her.”

Later that night, she asked what happened.

“He said I’d lose fans,” Elvis muttered.

“Do you believe him?”

“I believe I’d lose myself if I let him come between us.”

When Elvis settled at the International Hotel in 1969, Las Vegas was blinding.

She stood side-stage night after night at the International Hotel, watching him sweat through sets like a man on fire. Women screamed. Men clapped. Flashbulbs burst like popcorn.

And he lived for it.

But backstage, he was quieter. Softer. Tired.

They would lie in bed at dawn, after the crowds dispersed, his eyeliner still smudged, her fingers combing through his damp curls.

“You okay, baby?” she’d whisper.

“I don’t know who I am out there anymore,” he’d say.

“You’re still the boy from Tupelo.”

“Then why do I feel like a puppet with rhinestones sewn on?”

She kissed his temple. “You’re not a puppet. Not to me.”

But something shifted. Night after night, Parker whispered in his ear. Pushed more shows. More residencies. More control.

She tried to warn him.

“Elvis, he’s bleeding you dry. You haven’t seen your family in weeks. You barely sleep.”

“Don’t start.”

“He’s not your savior. He’s your handler.”

“He made me, damn it!”

“You made you. He sold you.”

He slammed the dressing room mirror with his fist.

The crack ran through his reflection like prophecy.

1970 brought more shows. More pills. More days lost to velvet curtains and half-empty bottles.

She stayed.

Through everything.

Through slammed doors, and slurred apologies. Through silence, and Vegas suites filled with strangers.

One night, after a show where he forgot the lyrics halfway through “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”, he found her in the hotel room packing a small suitcase.

“You leavin’ me?” he asked, voice thick with guilt.

“No,” she said. “Just need air. A day. I want my husband back.”

“I don’t know where he went.”

She knelt beside him, took his face in her hands.

“Then let’s find him together.”

He cried into her lap that night.

Like a child. Like a man being held for the first time.

By 1971, Elvis no longer walked through Graceland like a man — but like a memory. Like someone already fading from the earth.

He slept all day, recorded at night, ate alone.

She stayed.

She stopped wearing red lipstick. Stopped singing in the kitchen. Started keeping lists of pills. Dosages. Hours.

“You’re turning into a nurse,” Jerry once whispered.

“I’d rather be his nurse than a widow.”

The house grew quiet. The laughter that used to echo off the walls was replaced by distant TV noise. Late night infomercials. A rerun of Gunsmoke he couldn’t stop watching.

“It’s just background noise, darlin’,” Elvis said once when she turned it off.

“What are you trying to drown out?”

He didn’t answer.

By now, she was furious with Parker.

She called him “The Leech” behind closed doors. She tried to talk Elvis out of tours, out of signing contracts he never read, out of Vegas, out of pain.

“He doesn’t care if you die out there, Elvis,” she hissed one night in Lake Tahoe, pacing the dressing room. “You could collapse and he’d still pass the hat around.”

“He made me,” Elvis muttered again. Like it was scripture.

“You made you. He took credit.”

He didn’t respond.

But he didn’t meet her eyes either.

1974. Elvis was swollen. Eyes dull. The jumpsuits didn’t sparkle anymore — they clung to him like armor.

She traveled with him city to city. Sometimes carrying his bags. Sometimes carrying him.

He forgot lyrics. He forgot cities. He forgot to eat. Forgot to sleep.

But he never forgot her.

Even on his worst days, his hand would search the crowd, and find her in the wings.

“There’s my girl,” he’d say to the band. And for a second, he’d smile.

One night, in Indianapolis, he collapsed after the encore. Paramedics came. They pumped oxygen. She held his hand.

He whispered hoarsely:

“Promise me… you won’t let ‘em bury me as just the King.”

“You’ll be the man who loved loud, who sang truth, and who made every room warmer,” she choked out.

“I wanted to be better… for you.”

“You were everything.”

He kissed her knuckles, eyes shut.

August 14th, 1977.

They had just come back from the racquetball court. She’d begged him to rest.

“You look tired,” she said softly, brushing back his damp curls.

“I’m alright, mama. Just gonna read in the bathroom for a while.”

She nodded.

He was gone fifteen minutes.

Then thirty.

Then silence.

When she knocked, he didn’t answer.

When she opened the door, the world split open.

She didn’t scream.

She crumpled beside him, sobbing into his chest, repeating:

“Come back. Come back. Come back.”

She stayed with his body until the ambulance came. She held his cold hand even after the paramedics whispered that he was gone.

She whispered into his ear:

“I’m not leavin’. I’ll never leave you.”

The next day, Parker held a press conference.

She stayed home and lit a candle.

When the world played clips of Elvis in rhinestones, she dug out an old Polaroid of him in sweatpants, cooking eggs at 2 a.m., grinning like a fool.

She didn’t give interviews.

Didn’t write a tell-all.

Didn’t sell his letters.

She just went quiet.

A preacher’s daughter. A widow. The girl who defied the pulpit to love a man the world worshipped — and lost him before he could ever be free.

Years after his death, she walks the gardens alone now, every year on the anniversary.

Visitors walk by, not knowing the woman in black sunglasses who still lays white carnations on the grave.

She kneels, touches the name.

Whispers:

“You were never a king to me. Just the man who made Sunday mornings feel like songs.”

She leaves the garden.

And the world keeps spinning.

You’d done so many red carpets that they all started to blur — another flash, another step-and-repeat backdrop, another borrowed couture dress that made you feel like an exhibit in a museum.

But tonight was different. Because tonight, he was there.

Sebastian Stan.

Your publicist had already briefed you: he was attending to support a mutual friend’s film. He wasn’t promoting anything himself, just showing up to watch — low-key, relaxed, and, apparently, freshly single.

You spotted him before the photographers did, standing just off to the side in a classic black suit with a faint shine in the lapels. Hair tousled, hands in pockets, his signature smirk curving his lips as he talked to someone from Variety. He laughed — head thrown back, effortless.

Your publicist nudged your arm.

“Photos next to Sebastian would do wonders for your online engagement. Just saying.”

You raised a brow. “You mean wander over and strategically exist next to him?”

“I mean… if you happen to be in frame, I won’t stop you.”

You rolled your eyes, but as you moved into the next camera area, fate did the work for you. Sebastian turned, and your eyes met — for just a beat — but he held your gaze.

You tilted your head, giving him a warm smile.

He gave you a nod and then — unexpectedly — said something to the photographer.

A minute later, a voice near you said, “Hey — would you mind? One shot with Sebastian and [Y/N] together?”

You glanced at him. “You planned that?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Only a little. Figured I’d rather smile at you than twenty strangers.”

You laughed, stunned at how easy he made it feel. He leaned slightly toward you as the flashes went off.

“Hi,” he said lowly, lips barely moving. “You smell really nice, by the way.”

You turned your face slightly toward him, voice just above a whisper. “That’s not fair. You’re charming and bold?”

“Only when I’m nervous.”

Another flash.

“What are you nervous about, Stan?”

His smile deepened. “That I’ll regret not asking for your number.”

You blinked, your smile rising uncontrollably. “Wow. That was good.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had time to practice.”

You leaned in slightly, as the photographers barked more directions. “You have your phone on you?”

He pulled it out of his pocket and held it up like a guilty kid. “Wouldn’t be caught dead without it.”

You slipped your number in, handed it back. “Text me. Or don’t. But if you don’t, I’ll just assume you’re afraid of me.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, grinning. “But I’m also very stupid. So I’ll text you anyway.”

Later that night, 12:47 AM

Unknown Number:

You were right. I was afraid. But then I remembered I’ve fought Winter Soldiers.

So how bad could texting a gorgeous woman be?

You smirked.

You flatterer. I thought you said you were nervous?

Still am. But this is the fun kind.

And what kind is that?

The kind where you stay up texting a stranger, hoping they’ll become someone important.

You didn’t answer right away. Your heart fluttered a little. He was good. But not performative. It felt honest.

How many other women are you texting right now with that line?

Only you.

And my mom, technically, but she just sent me a meme of a raccoon stealing a donut. So.

You laughed aloud in bed.

Okay. I believe you.

You free this weekend?

Maybe. Why?

Thought I could make you laugh in person too.

The First Date, you wore sunglasses and no makeup, just to test him. See how he’d react to the real version of you — no red carpet, no styling, just coffee and nerves.

He was already waiting outside with a to-go cup in hand, in jeans and a grey hoodie, baseball cap low on his forehead.

You walked up. “Well, look at us. Two celebrities pretending to be normal people.”

He grinned. “Speak for yourself. I’ve always been normal.”

You sat, pulling off your sunglasses. He looked at you a second too long.

“You look… unfairly good.”

“No makeup,” you said, raising your brow. “No filter. Are you scared yet?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “No. Honestly, it’s worse. Now I’m really screwed.”

You laughed.

The conversation flowed — movies, bad press, growing up with immigrant parents, how hard it is to know who your real friends are once you get famous. He told you how he still gets nervous before auditions. You told him how you cry after every wrap day on a set.

“I hate endings,” you admitted. “Even when I know I’ll see people again. It always feels… final.”

He nodded, quietly. “Yeah. I get that. I never say goodbye on the last day. Just a ‘see you later.’”

“That helps?”

“Sometimes.”

You both lingered after your cups were empty. His phone buzzed — a manager reminding him of a fitting. He ignored it.

You touched your straw. “You can go if you need—”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “I want to stay.”

Weeks passed.

Texts turned into calls.

Calls into dinners.

Dinners into weekends.

Weekends into him falling asleep on your couch with his head in your lap while a dumb rom-com played.

He kissed you for the first time on a Tuesday. No big moment. Just standing in your kitchen while you were barefoot, laughing at something stupid he said.

“I’m going to do something, and you can tell me to stop if it’s too soon,” he warned, already leaning in.

You nodded, breathless. “Okay.”

His lips were softer than you expected. Confident, but not demanding. Like he’d been wanting to kiss you for days and was still surprised it was real.

You touched his jaw afterward, thumb brushing his cheek. “You always kiss like that?”

“Only when I really like someone.”

You blinked, still dazed. “Do you?”

His eyes searched yours. “I think I’m starting to.”

One month later, you were both on separate press tours — different continents, different time zones — but you stayed up every night to FaceTime.

One night, you answered in your hotel room with wet hair and pajamas. He was curled up on his couch, hoodie pulled over his face.

“I miss you,” he said, as soon as the screen lit up.

“I miss you too.”

He tilted his phone. “Come back soon?”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

He smiled, but his voice was quieter. “This feels… different. You feel different.”

You looked at him on the screen, messy and real and yours. “You do too.”

He hesitated. “We’re not rushing, right?”

“No,” you said softly. “But it also doesn’t feel slow. It just feels… right.”

He nodded. Then smiled again. “Okay. So, what happens next?”

You grinned. “Next? You finish your promo tour, I finish mine. We meet in New York. You pick me up at the airport in sweats. We eat pizza. And then… you kiss me again like that.”

He raised a brow. “Like that?”

The air backstage at NBC smelled like sweat and ozone, still buzzing from the energy that crackled through the studio moments ago.

You hadn’t planned on coming to California.

It was Mary Lou’s idea — your loud, fast-talking cousin who worked as a typist for the studio. You were only in town for a week, meant to help her pack before she moved back to Memphis. But she pulled you out of the house with a red lipstick grin and a fluttered, “C’mon, they’re filming some Southern boy who just made girls faint on TV.”

You stood in the hallway near the soundstage, watching the chaos after the taping. Men in suits paced with clipboards. Makeup girls rushed with towels. Someone shouted about phones lighting up downstairs. Your palms were sticky. You weren’t used to this kind of heat.

And then—

He walked out.

Tall. Sweating through a navy shirt that stuck to his chest. His mouth slightly parted, breathing hard like he’d just run a mile. The spotlight still clung to his skin. His dark hair curled at the ends like it was trying to escape its pomade.

And when his eyes met yours — clear blue, sharp like lightning and just as dangerous — something in your stomach dropped clean through the floor.

He was so young.

And already burning.

“You ain’t press, are you?”

You blinked.

Elvis stood in front of you now, brow raised, thumb hooked in his belt, voice honeyed and curious.

“Sorry?”

He pointed at the sketchpad in your hands. “Saw you drawin’ backstage. You with the newspaper?”

You clutched it to your chest, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Oh, no. It’s just… habit. I draw when I’m nervous.”

His grin curved slow. “You nervous around me?”

You blinked again. “No. I mean—well—not because of you.”

He laughed, soft and genuine. “That’s a first. Girls usually scream when I walk into a room.”

You gave a small smile. “I guess I’m not like most girls.”

He stepped closer. “You got a name, not-like-most-girls?”

“Y/N.”

He said it once — quietly — then again, slower. Like he was memorizing it in his mouth.

“Pretty,” he said. “Real pretty.”

Later that evening, you found yourself sitting beside him on the edge of a low brick wall behind the studio, under a flickering streetlamp.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, damp with sweat. He’d rolled up his sleeves and kicked off his shoes. He looked human now. Not a god. Not a scandal. Just a boy with restless hands and a voice that wouldn’t leave your head.

“I swear, they think I’m gonna light their TVs on fire,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “One twist of my hip and the country goes nuts.”

You snorted. “Well. You were kind of… suggestive.”

He looked over at you, feigning shock. “Suggestive? I was singin’ about a hound dog!”

“You were grinding on a mic stand.”

He laughed, shoulders shaking. “Hell. You sound like my mama.”

You tilted your head. “She must be smart.”

“Oh, she’s the smartest woman I know. Woulda whipped me if she saw what I just did on national television.”

You paused, watching the way he picked at the fabric of his cuff.

“What made you do it?” you asked quietly.

He looked up. “Do what?”

“Move like that. Take the risk.”

His voice was low. “Felt like I had to. Like I had too much in me to stand still.”

You nodded. “I get that.”

He studied you for a moment, eyes soft. “Yeah. I think you do.”

“Come on. Let’s go somewhere,” he said suddenly, jumping up and offering you his hand.

“Where?”

He smiled wide. “Anywhere we can see stars.”

He borrowed a Chevy from a stagehand, promising to bring it back with a full tank. The two of you drove north into the hills above Hollywood, past the palm trees and glittering city lights. The windows were down. The radio played Little Darlin’ and his fingers tapped the wheel with nervous rhythm.

He glanced sideways at you.

“You ever kiss a boy on a hilltop, Y/N?”

You looked out at the endless sky. “I’m not sure I’ve kissed any boy worth remembering.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “Would you remember me?”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw past the glitter and rebellion.

“I think I’d remember you even if I tried to forget.”

He pulled the car over under a grove of eucalyptus trees. The cicadas sang in the silence. And then, slowly, he reached across the seat, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“May I?”

You didn’t answer with words.

You leaned in.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t a wild kiss. It wasn’t rushed. It was young and hopeful and full of all the things neither of you knew how to say. His lips were soft and a little unsure, and he held your jaw like he was afraid you’d vanish.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want this night to end,” he whispered.

“Then don’t let it.”

You sat on the hood of the Chevy until almost dawn, your legs draped across his lap, his hands resting on your thighs.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” he said quietly. “Everyone’s talkin’. The Colonel wants more shows. RCA wants a full album. My daddy’s just glad we paid the bills.”

“What do you want, Elvis?”

He was silent for a moment.

Then: “Somethin’ that feels real. All this… this noise? It’s like sugar water. Goes down sweet but leaves nothin’ behind.”

You traced the vein in his forearm. “So find something solid. Someone solid.”

He looked down at your hand on his.

“I think I just did.”

But mornings always came.

You had to leave. You’d promised your mama you’d be back in Tennessee by the weekend. You stood beside the train platform with a bag in your hand and too much in your heart.

He cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing your cheeks like he wanted to memorize them.

“I ain’t never met anyone like you, Y/N.”

“Don’t forget me, Elvis.”

He smiled sadly. “I don’t think I could if I tried.”

And then he kissed you — once, long, deep — the kind of kiss you only get once in a lifetime.

He pressed a folded piece of paper into your palm.

“If you ever find your way back out here… come find me.”

—E

Five Years Later

Las Vegas, 1961 — Backstage at the International Hotel

You used to draft letters to him.

After that summer night in 1956 — when he kissed you like he was afraid of the future — you wrote and rewrote words on yellowed paper.

Dear Elvis,

I still hear your voice in the quiet.

Dear Elvis,

They play your songs on the radio now.

Dear Elvis,

I wonder if you remember the girl on the hill.

You never sent them.

He went to the Army in ’58. And the distance between you stretched like a slow heartbreak. You moved to Chicago, worked at a record store. You tried dating. You tried forgetting.

But no one had his voice.

No one looked at you like you were a song he’d never finish.

And five years later, on a humid June night, your friend Emma handed you two tickets to a private show in Vegas.

“He’s back,” she whispered, knowing exactly who he meant.

“You should see him.”

You told yourself it was curiosity.

It was closure.

But the truth was — it was hope.

He walked out in a navy suit, crisp and glittering under the lights.

You forgot how to breathe.

He was older now — more polished, more poised. He moved differently, with the grace of someone used to being watched.

But his smile?

That still hit like a punch to the ribs.

He sang “Can’t Help Falling in Love” and your throat closed. You wanted to leave. You wanted to run.

But then, just before the last verse, his eyes flicked to the crowd. And landed on you.

And he froze.

Only for a second.

But you saw it. The way his mouth parted. The tremble in his fingers. The ghost of your name behind his lips.

He finished the song with a hollowed sort of warmth — like he was suddenly somewhere else. Somewhere green. Somewhere quiet.

Somewhere five years ago.

You tried to leave after the encore.

But a man in a suit intercepted you by the hallway.

“Miss? Mr. Presley would like to see you.”

You blinked. “I think you have the wrong—”

“No, ma’am. He saw you.”

He led you past the velvet ropes, past wide-eyed girls and reporters, down a corridor heavy with cologne and electricity.

When the door opened, he was sitting in a chair, one hand gripping a glass of whiskey, the other rubbing his temple.

He stood the second he saw you.

“Y/N,” he breathed.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t trust your voice.

He took two steps toward you. “Is it… is it really you?”

You nodded, mouth dry. “Hi, Elvis.”

He laughed — not loud, but sharp and breathless, like it hurt.

“Five damn years.”

You swallowed. “You look… different.”

He glanced at himself. “More sequins.”

You smiled, despite the ache. “More… something.”

As you walked in his trailer, the room felt full of ghosts.

You walked in slowly. Looked around.

Guitars. Flowers. A mirror smudged with fingerprints. A dressing table with a Polaroid of his mama.

He noticed your stare.

“Still talk to her,” he said quietly. “When it’s real quiet.”

You nodded. “I talk to you. In letters. I just never mailed them.”

He looked like you’d slapped him.

“You wrote to me?”

“Sometimes,” you said. “When I missed you. Or when I was mad.”

He took a shaky breath. “I tried, Y/N. I wanted to call. But it was always… the timing was wrong. Or I was scared. Of what you’d say. Of hearing you say you didn’t wait.”

“I didn’t,” you said honestly. “Not really. I dated. I tried. But…”

You looked at him.

He was watching you like you were a memory he wasn’t sure was real.

“But no one ever touched me the way you did. Not even close.”

He closed his eyes. “God. You have no idea what that means.”

You sat down on the worn couch. He followed.

There was a long pause. Not uncomfortable — just heavy.

Then:

“Do you remember that night?” you asked. “In the field. You told me not to forget you.”

He nodded slowly. “I lied.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I told you not to forget me. But truth is, I knew I’d never forget you. You were my first good thing. The first thing that felt real.”

You stared at him. “So why didn’t you write?”

He looked at you with grief carved into every line of his face.

“Because I didn’t know how to be half a man in front of you.”

You reached for his hand.

And he let you.

It was warm. Calloused. Familiar.

Like five years had only been five minutes.

You stood up.

He did too.

The room felt too small. The air too thick.

And then — with no words, no prelude — he kissed you.

Slow.

Devastated.

Grateful.

Like someone trying to memorize a feeling before it slips away again.

When he pulled back, his voice broke.

“You still taste like summer.”

You smiled with tears in your eyes. “You still kiss like a promise.”

He held your hand in both of his, pressing his forehead to it.

“Come back with me,” he said softly. “Just for tonight. I don’t know what happens tomorrow, or if this life makes sense anymore. But right now, I need you.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

The icon. The heartthrob. The boy who played you a love song in the dark.

And the man who still, five years later, knew you.

“I’m not the same girl you kissed on that hill,” you whispered.

He leaned in.

“No. You’re more. And I’ve been waitin’ for you to walk through that door since the day I let you go.”

The desert outside Vegas was still warm even after dark. Lights from the Strip flickered in the rearview mirror like a thousand voices trying to pull him back.

But he wasn’t listening.

Elvis drove with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped gently around your fingers, resting on the bench seat between you. His thumb stroked the top of your hand absently, like he couldn’t believe you were real and needed to keep reminding himself.

The windows were down.

The night air smelled like dust and gasoline and something distant you couldn’t name. You didn’t talk much. You didn’t have to.

But you did glance over at him when he tapped the steering wheel to a song humming softly from the radio — not one of his. Someone else’s voice for once.

He caught your look.

“What?” he said with a smirk.

You smiled. “Just… it’s strange. You, out here. No screaming fans. No spotlight.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I like the silence better.”

“Even now?”

He looked out at the road ahead. “Especially now.”

He didn’t take you back to a hotel with crystal chandeliers and floor-length mirrors.

He took you to a dusty little roadside motel an hour outside the city — tucked between two hills, lit only by a flickering neon VACANCY sign.

It was quiet.

Safe.

You stood in the doorway while he fumbled with the key. His hair was slightly mussed. The tip of his tongue pressed to his upper lip while he jiggled the lock.

You chuckled softly. “Still can’t open a door without drama?”

He grinned. “Hey, I ain’t used to real keys anymore.”

The door finally clicked open, and he stepped aside with a sweeping bow. “After you, darlin’.”

You walked in.

The room smelled faintly of desert air and motel soap. There was a double bed with a floral bedspread, a chipped nightstand, and a buzzing wall light.

Elvis closed the door behind you and leaned against it for a moment, just looking at you.

You turned to face him, unsure where to stand, what to say.

He crossed the room in three slow steps and gently reached for your face, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“I’ve thought about this moment,” he said softly. “Too many times to count.”

“And?” you whispered.

His thumb rested just under your cheekbone. “It’s better than every version I imagined.”

You sat on the edge of the bed.

He knelt in front of you, his hands on your knees. The leather of his stage suit creaked slightly when he moved, but his eyes never left yours.

“Why didn’t we make this work the first time?” you asked.

He sighed. “’Cause I was a fool. And the world moved too fast.”

You reached down, your fingers curling around his.

“Are you still running?”

He looked at you for a long time.

Then he stood slowly and began unfastening his jacket.

“Not tonight.”

He shed the glitter and glamour like he was stepping out of a costume — leaving behind Elvis Presley, The King. What was left was just him.

Vulnerable. Bare. Yours.

When he lay down beside you, it wasn’t rushed.

He took his time, like he was learning the shape of you all over again. His hands were warm as they traced the slope of your back, the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw.

He whispered your name like a secret, over and over again, between the kisses.

It wasn’t about sex — not really. It was about presence. About five years of silence collapsing between you with every breath, every touch, every sigh that left his mouth against your skin.

He held your face in both hands after, forehead to forehead, voice barely a breath:

“I didn’t know what I was missing… until I had it again.”

The sun had barely begun to rise when you woke.

The room was bathed in soft amber light. Elvis was still asleep beside you, one arm thrown across your waist, lashes casting long shadows across his cheeks.

You traced the edge of his shoulder with your fingertip. Memorizing him.

He stirred.

“Mm…” He blinked slowly. “You still here?”

You smiled. “Still here.”

He let out a relieved little breath and buried his face against your shoulder.

“Was scared I dreamt it,” he murmured. “Or scared you’d disappear again.”

You pulled his hand to your chest, resting it over your heart.

“I’m here.”

“For how long?” he asked — soft, but serious.

You looked at him.

And then, with a breath you’d been holding for five years, you answered:

“As long as you don’t ask me to disappear.”

He drove you back to Vegas just after breakfast.

Neither of you spoke much.

Your fingers were laced on the seat between you, and every now and then, he’d lift your hand to his lips without a word.

When you reached the city limits, you turned to him.

“What now?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And for once, he didn’t give you a charming line or a dreamy promise.

He gave you something real.

“I want to try. I don’t know how this works — with the tours, the cameras, the damn pressure — but I know I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I let you go again.”

You studied him.

And finally — you nodded.

“Okay.”

A slow smile crept across his face. One that started in his eyes and bloomed like sunrise.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He exhaled. “Then come with me.”

You leaned in. “To Hollywood?”