Your Cishetero Makes Me Upsetero

You used to taunt Steve for this kind of thing during training runs and team building events, and he’d tease you right back. That boyish smile would give way to something a bit more wicked and an unnamed heat would pool low in your stomach at his crack in composure. You had been sure he was only days away from asking you out - some very proper invitation to the pictures with an assurance that he would drop you back by a reasonable hour, most likely. But then you got a promotion and came under his leadership.

He moves through missions like he’s got some do-gooder checklist in his head, and you can feel him watching every corner you cut. He doesn’t have to say a word (though he often does); the disapproval is baked into the air between you. Whatever spark had been building between the two of you got buried somewhere between all his rules and all the ways you’d break them.

A side-mission from Fury here, a refusal to wait for backup there - and suddenly you two are enemies. Or adversaries, at the least

You remind him frequently, in the throes of fiery screaming matches that make the rest of the team avert their eyes, that this is the way SHIELD trained you. He is the one going against the grain, not you. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him because his trusty moral compass never points him wrong, it would seem. 

Things have gotten so bad by now that you think Steve, patient and tolerant as he is, might have even considered requesting that you be transferred if you weren’t so damn good at your job. 

And you are good. That can’t be denied.

But there’s something about working with Steve that makes you great. When you’re not at each other’s throats.

You move around each other on missions as if performing choreography that only you two have rehearsed. You’ve saved his ass more times than he has ever acknowledged or thanked you for, but he has done the same for you. You have a deep understanding of how he works, mind and body. He keeps his moves varied as a rule, but you have learned to read the minute shift in his centre of gravity before he strikes, the smallest drop in his hips that means he’s about to duck, the tightening of his frame before he lunges. Equally, you know when he’s running multiple scenarios behind his eyes, when he’s processing angles before he commits.

It makes you his best possible partner on the field and the biggest pain in his ass in training.

“You’re up,” Steve mutters to you while Sam limps to the corner of the room, grumbling something about how next time Steve needs to stop dragging this shit out before he gets a leg cramp.

You haul yourself up slowly, moving to the centre of the gym with exaggerated languor just to piss him off, rolling your shoulders as you go. His sweat is making his white t-shirt entirely transparent, the thin fabric sticking to his defined pectorals and torso. He shakes his head, spraying sweat over the mat. It should be kind of gross, really, so you’re a bit disgusted by how hot it is. You see his jaw tick with impatience, and you begin to stretch your calves, too.

“You couldn’t have done this while you were waiting?”

“And risk seizing up again while you played with your food?”

“Just because I don’t use full force, it doesn’t mean I’m ‘playing with my food’,” he says, frowning at you in that disappointed-teacher way of his “Every time you all fight a super soldier, it makes you better. I use more force every time.”

You say nothing, only because you’re cautious about baiting him too much ahead of the ass-whooping you’re about to get. You roll your shoulders one more time, looking up at him.

“Let’s go.”

Steve lunges, coming at you hard and fast. A blur of muscle flies past your eye-line, fist cutting into the air where your jaw had been just half a second before. The force of it sends a gust that moves wisps of your hair and the speed of your dodge sends your boots skidding across the mat. You raise an astounded eyebrow at him and he shrugs with a tight smile. 

On days like this, when his restraint is frayed and he is too irritated to be sanctimonious, you are reminded that he can be a little bit fun.

When you slide by his guard again, your eyes catch his for a fraction of a second before he lands a surprise hit to your abdomen that pummels the wind right out of your pipes. You groan but stop yourself from bowling over right into his knee that comes shooting up for you. You see him bear left and you glide away in the opposite direction.

“Testy today,” you say, but you can’t hit the patronising tone you are aiming for. Your voice comes out scratchy from the knock you took. He says nothing but leaps at you again.

You lean back and dodge the hit but go sprawling to the floor. Before he can pin you, you sweep a foot under his. It’s not enough to knock him in itself but he blunders for a bit and with one more kick, you send him to his ass. You get a foot in his side and hear Sam hoot in delight as he clears out of the training room with the remaining agents.

Steve’s on his feet in a flash, but by then, so are you. There’s a glimmer of something on his face, like surprise or maybe excitement. You try not to get too arrogant.

And it’s a good thing you don’t. Because after five minutes of hits and dodges, he has you on the ropes again. You’re giving it as good as you’re getting but you don’t have his stamina or pain tolerance. You can feel your equilibrium slipping, movements getting sloppy. You’re over-balancing, tumbling instead of landing.

There’s something about the current between the two of you today that makes you want to win in a way you never do with Steve. You had never even really seen it as a competition before, safe in the conclusion that he and all his serum-amplified testosterone will have you beat eventually. It was always a matter of if, rather than when.

But Steve is coming at you properly today, not pulling his punches (as much), not giving you the space to recover before he’s on you again like a hound on fresh blood and it’s making a sort of swooping adrenaline sing in your blood. 

You don’t think too much about it, sweeping behind his back and hooking a leg over his. The serum means you don’t have enough strength to bring him down, but the confusion makes him stumble. With two hands on his shoulders, you climb his broad frame, boots digging into flesh, hands ploughing through his hair. He reaches a hand back to peel you off with bruising strength, but you have an iron clasp. His fingers dig into your t-shirt with almost enough force to pull it clean off.

You eventually reach the peak of him with immense difficulty. You are able to lock your thighs around his broad neck and curl your knee around his throat, squeezing hard. It’s not enough. His hands are pulling at your legs, but he’s not tapping out. You can only hold this grip for a matter of seconds, before your muscles loosen, and Steve will have your tired body pinned.

Impulsively, you dive backwards, head swooping down towards the floor. The force of it sends Steve flying back with you and you vaguely feel three taps - a victory - against your thigh before you both hit the floor. 

You crash hard on your back. Your head takes a small bump to the mat and black dots dance behind your eyes for just a second, but your ass and shoulder blades take the brunt of it. It’s far from the worst injury you’ve received in training, but it’s been a while since you’ve received more than a hit. You take a few deep breaths to centre yourself, groaning once air returns to your body. Only then do you realise that Steve’s head is planted firmly on your lower stomach, neck still pressed up between your thighs. You scramble away with what you hope is a collected suavity, all bones and muscles shrieking in opposition to the sudden movement. 

When Steve spins around, you know you’re in for it.

“What the hell was that?” he spits, picking himself up from the floor. His eyes are blazing, hands on his hips while he looks down at you where you are sprawled out on the mat. You close your eyes and let out a long, deliberate sigh - precisely the response you know will drive him crazy.

“That was me winning, Steve,” you say, ignoring your groaning limbs to pull yourself up. He does not offer you a hand up.

“No,” he said, voice strained and thick with irritation. “That was you trying to get yourself killed. Are you insane? You could have a concussion.”

“I know a concussion from a small bump,” you say, brushing him off with a limp hand. You move over to get your water, trying not to stagger. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“This is your problem, you know that? You always think you know best and everyone else is just dramatic or not seeing your vision, or whatever it is. You’re a good agent, but that’s not enough. You’re going to get yourself killed some day and it won’t be some great, heroic gesture like you probably think. It will be something stupid like this.”

His speech might have made a mark on you if it had been the first time you had heard it. As it stands, you just roll your eyes and take a sip from your bottle to look busy. The water mixes with blood from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. It tastes bitter and metallic going down.

“God, you’re-”

You glance warily at Steve, wondering whether he is about to curse at you for the first time since that mission in Moscow. He swallows it. “You don’t listen.”

You shrug with a smile, watching his face go from a blushing red to a deep crimson. His eyes narrow and he spins around, broad back tensing as he storms out of the gym.

“Steve?”

He stops, twisting ever-so-slightly.

“You not gonna congratulate me on my first ever win?”

You think he might have given you the finger if he was anyone but himself.

You do end up grumbling your way over to the med bay eventually, but only because Steve threatens to suspend you from any further missions. You turn out to not have a concussion so you feel perfectly justified in scowling at him days later from across the quinjet the whole way to the shipyard two states away.

The air is warm despite the February frost splotched on the grass below. The hour is getting late; the setting sun turns the lakes and rivers a deep orangey red.

You hadn’t expected Steve to bow down or apologise, but you did expect him to ignore you. Instead, he’s watching you with a detached curiosity, like you’re some rare lab specimen or an interesting insect. 

“I know you’re not seriously mad at me for sending you to the med bay,” he says. “Because that would be insane.”

“They did a whole medical evaluation, Steve,” you snap at him. “I was in there well over an hour. All for fuckin’ nothing because I’m healthy as a horse, apparently.”

“Well you missed your last mandatory check-up. So you’re welcome,” he says, his lips stretching into a handsome little smirk.

You frown. You are usually the one provoking him and you’re not overly fond of how it feels to be on the receiving end. You can feel Steve’s eyes on you, heady and pleased. He’s leaning back with his arms crossed, lofty thighs spread open with an abnormal arrogance. One that would not be on display if the rest of the team were with you.

You can fully appreciate his size from this angle, the fabric of his t-shirt straining against his biceps, his wide shoulders holding strong like an impenetrable wall of muscle and brawn. He looks particularly good when he smiles - even if it’s at your expense. He could have passed for a Gladiator, or some Greek god in another universe - the kind whose likeness would be captured in marble for future generations to marvel at and admire. It wracks you how unfair it is that he can be so irritating but still look like that. 

Have you thought about him bending you over? Sure. Many a time. But you still can’t stand the guy.

“You still seeing that guy in R&D? Uh- Mark, or whatever.”

You give him a side-glance. Steve doesn’t forget anyone’s name. He is the kind of guy to be introduced to a hundred-man team and be asking Lucy for a debrief and thanking Jim for the coffee the very next day. You think he might be on a first-name basis with everyone he’s ever met. So you know that he knows his name his Mike.

“No,” you mumble. “We broke up last month.”

“Why?”

“None of your business, Rogers,” you say. You’re trying to appear unbothered, but you’re a little rattled. Your teeth are grinding. “What about you? Any dates recently?”

“A couple.”

“And how were they?”

“Good.”

You scoff. “You talk this much with them? Your chattiness might scare them off.”

“The ladies I take on dates might not have the same preferences as you, you know,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Your lips twitch at that term - ‘ladies’. How old-school.

“No, I’m sure they love one-word answers and taciturn grumbles.”

“I’ve had no complaints.”

Your mouth opens and closes stupidly. The shells of your ears prickle with heat as Steve just grins wider, shifting his hips to lean further back. He looks so goddamn cocky, so punchable. You wish you could take a picture and show him to all those trainees you had heard refer to him as a ‘golden retriever’. He seems more like a Mastiff to you; huge, stubborn, impossible to deal with.

You purse your lips together, eyes dropping to his army dog tags. The chain droops down his tanned, fabric-clad chest, the tags sitting neatly in the deep groove between his pectoral muscles. 

“Why did you and Mike break up?”

Your cheek twitches up. “So you do know his name.”

“Tell me.”

You turn your gaze away from him to watch the sun set out the window, even if it makes your retinae burn. “My fault, mostly. I don’t really, uh- know how to do it.”

“What? Relationships?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m not used to having to let someone know when I’ll be home or making sure I have time for them between back-to-back missions. I blame my career choice.”

“Maybe you just didn’t care enough.”

Your eyes snap back over to him, eyebrows shooting straight to your hairline. “What?”

“I’m just saying. It’s not your career choice. Lots of people in this line of work have relationships that they prioritise.”

“What, you’re suddenly Dr Phil or something? It’s not like you know the ins and outs so don’t-”

“Dr Phil?” A cute little line forms between his brows.

“He was this-” You pause, heaving a frustrated breath out your nose. “You know what? Never mind.”

“My point is,” Steve continues. “I think you would want to do all those things for someone you cared enough about, even when it’s difficult. It wouldn’t be some tick-the-box.”

All traces of arrogance are gone from Steve’s expression, only genuine interest remaining as he scans your face like he’s trying to solve some puzzle. It makes you uncomfortable - you would prefer for him to laugh at you or lecture you.

“I could be dating Brad Pitt and I still would not care enough to answer a text about what’s for dinner when I’m busy.”

He frowns. “Who is Brad Pitt?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The walk to the shipyard is quiet. Silent, if not for the steady scratch of Steve’s boots grinding against the gravel. The hum of the quinjet dulls the farther you walk.

You may not particularly like Steve, but you appreciate him at times like these. You couldn't be more perfect mission partners for each other if you tried. The way you fall into your posts quickly and seamlessly, giving each other the space and silence to focus on preparing for the mission while also trusting that you will speak up if the situation calls for it. 

Your methods and routines are practically identical. It’s almost a shame that the moment things break open, that quiet alignment shatters.

Steve holds a fist up, signalling you to stop. You do, falling in behind him. You’re not sure what he’s hearing, but you trust him implicitly when he makes the motion for you to duck behind a flatbed truck. You press yourself against the cool metal and Steve plunges in after you, his warm chest and stomach caging you. Hardly a second later, you hear what he had - a door clanging open, boisterous voices spilling out, all speaking over each other in Russian.

Steve meets your eyes, gives you a silent signal and you nod, moving out from behind the truck as silently as a deer and blending into the night. You weave through the shipping containers with practiced alacrity. You don’t need to look to know Steve is right behind you; you can feel him.

You split angles without having to speak. Steve covers the high runways while you sweep the lower lanes between cargo. The night has cooled and the wind is vicious now, needling the hulls of the half-empty freighters and blowing the hook block of the crane overhead until it swings like an unsteady pendulum over the flooded pier. Steve is keeping close. His hot breath feels sharp on your neck against the biting wind. 

You get within five hundred feet of the main electrical substation before you’re spotted. A pair of guards open fire from the building behind you, spraying an uncoordinated bouquet of bullets in your direction. You find cover effortlessly and huff with humour at the sloppy execution. They had just revealed that they are aware of your presence without allowing you to get close enough for a good shot.

“Idiots,” Steve mutters, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. You smile up at him, almost expecting him to say something about how he expected better from them.

You easily dodge their fire as you advance leisurely and safely, winding in and out from behind shipping containers. You decide that you’re not in the mood to go at it with Steve today, so you take his lead even if it’s significantly slower than how you would choose to do this yourself. You don’t worry about the shots that get too close - whatever you can’t dodge, Steve fends off with his shield.

You are out of the gunmen’s range when you make it to the ladder that leads up to the platform you need to get to, but you have no doubt they are headed your way. You go first, taking your gun from its holster, aiming it upwards, and heaving yourself onto the ladder. The iron bars are slick with seawater and heavy fuel oil; you have to grip tight so you don’t slip. 

You’re making careful progress up the ladder with Steve behind you, eyes pointed upwards for any sign of unwanted company. The metal feels slithery beneath your fingers and it takes you an extra few seconds to climb each step. It’s shuddering under each step and you wonder vacantly whether Steve’s weight will make it collapse.

You don’t have much time to prepare for the gunman that approaches above you. Your fingers are still clumsily fidgeting, trying to aim your gun while also grasping the slippy bar of metal. You get your shots off at the same time; yours hits, his does not.

What it does do, though, is make you dodge. Your body bears left, foot skidding on a rung of the ladder and suddenly you’re slipping downward, stomach swooping as your body collides with Steve’s.

He scarcely reacts, catching you with one arm, using little to no exertion. His fingers clamp around your waist, steadying you. For a fraction of a second you both freeze - your breath catching, his jaw tensing, bodies flush together, faces inches apart. Every hard plane of his body is pressed up against you. There is a throbbing warmth low in your stomach.

“You good?” he asks, breathy and deep.

“Move,” you say, voice tight, shaking out of his grasp and climbing up once more. He sighs and mutters something under his breath but you can’t make it out. Your heart is galloping, your pulse thundering in your ears.

You barrel over the platform, and go running towards the tower just as another guard reaches the door, attempting to get to the breaker panel before you have the chance to disable it. He locks the door behind him but Steve kicks it in with a crash. You slide low, sweeping the guard’s legs. Steve disarms him before he can even hit the floor. 

There’s no need for discussion as you both fall into your respective roles. The room is oppressively grey and layered with multiple wires, but you find your way to the breaker panel. You work on planting the shutdown device on the primary switchgear while Steve holds off reinforcements, laying enough suppressive fire to keep three guards pinned behind a forklift.

You’re more aware of his presence than usual while you work. He sits like some nagging instinct in your head, telling you to look. You know if you do, all you will see is his back, a heavy fortification of muscle and hard lines and sweat. You don’t need that kind of distraction. Your nerves are already fried from the uncomfortable consciousness of how his body felt pressed tight against yours.

You step back, watching the disruptor activate and the power shut down around you with a whining drone. The grey space becomes black and for just a split-second, yourself and Steve stand alone in the dark, no sounds pervading the room except your laboured breaths. The street lamps outside have extinguished - the bullets outside pause while the gunmen assess their situation.

Steve moves, shattering the stillness. He grips your wrist and pads quietly out the door, taking full advantage of the blackness to make a discreet getaway. You grab your wrist violently out of his grip but you follow him silently. You can’t see anything very well, but you think he might roll his eyes.

The shipyard is drowned in darkness, the only light the thin silver sheen of rain on metal. You move with Steve between the towering containers, keeping low. Every small sound seems deafening now - the clink of a loose cable swaying in the wind, even your own breaths.

A pair of guards drift close, their flashlights slicing through the blackout. You flatten against the cold steel wall, willing yourself still as the beams skim past, bright enough to catch the rivets beside your cheek. When the voices fade, Steve breaks across an open stretch at a quick, silent sprint. You follow. 

You’re not sure why you do it. It’s usually Steve’s job to scan the high ground. His serum-enhanced eyesight can catch movement long before you can. But Steve is preoccupied with sweeping for guards on ground level, so you do it instead out of pure intuition. And you see it: a sharp, unmoving glint on the crane platform above.

Your pulse spikes.

There’s a shooter. 

You had caught sight of him too late to find cover. You are out in the open. You can’t see the shooter well, but you know who their target will be and it’s not you. Steve is too far ahead to be able to warn him in any sufficient way.

In a moment of complete and utter instinct, and maybe more than a little stupidity, you raise your gun and shoot. You miss. 

The shooter turns their attention to you now. You fire another, miss again. 

The hit slams into your shoulder so hard, it immediately steals your breath. You stagger forward, fingers going numb. The gun drops from your clasp.

You try to breathe, but the pain is sharp and choking. Your vision wavers from blood loss and the sheer, overwhelming burn tearing through you. Steve’s gun cracks somewhere to your left but the sound bends around the pain, distant and warped. You can’t lift your arm. You can’t even unclench your jaw.

You wait to feel the blood clot around your wound but it’s slow and reluctant. You hold on for one more second, and then blackness swallows you.

The only thing that you’re aware of when you open your eyes is the pain. Not the cold, harsh light of the hospital. Not your family and team members that sit around you, looking morosely at the floor and bouncing their legs. Not even that Steve is absent.

For some length of time that feels very long, you exist in that state; slinking in and out of consciousness. But the pain never disappears, not even the bouts of darkness. In those moments of oblivion, the pain goes behind a cloud, but it always returns with a violence. You get to know this in a vague sort of way, feeling dumbly grateful when the pain is at bay but never being so naive as to think yourself free of it.

Although you will later find out it is only two days, it feels like a small eternity before you can clear the film that feels like scum from your throat and croak anything out. You must not be of fully sound mind yet or maybe the painkillers are making you loopy, because the first thing you say to the room, crammed with familiar faces, is; “Steve?”

You’re assured by someone - Maria? Natasha? - that he got you out. That he’s ok.

And then that grey cloud descends once again. The pain and the haze return.

It’s not that you care that Steve doesn’t come to visit. 

It turns out that your wound is just a through-and-through shot to the top of your shoulder. One centimetre in any direction and the bullet might have lodged itself firmly into your neck or paralysed your arm for good. The area is packed densely with muscles and nerves so you are wreaked with pain, but as it stands, it did no permanent damage.

So, really, there is no need for him to visit. And you definitely don’t care. You just think it’s bad leadership is all. You would have showed up for him if the roles were reversed, no matter how much of a pest he is. Would have sent a card. Even a text, at the very fucking least. 

You leave the hospital after the dullest week of your life. You hadn’t, until that point, realised how tangled your life purpose is with your career. You feel rabid after just a day or two of consciousness, restricted to your bed with no files to review, no cases to crack open. Just you, a few beat-up novels you had been meaning to get around to reading, and whoever decides to drop by to see how you were doing.

Maria lets you know that you are required to take another two weeks of leave before returning to work. Standard policy. Your requests to be forwarded files related to your ongoing cases are rejected. You can’t even enter the building to go to the gym.

In the absence of anything better to do, you watch films back-to-back. Try some recipes you had earmarked. Visit the new museum that had opened in the next block over. Wait to hear from family, friends and colleagues. But not Steve. You’re definitely not waiting to hear from Steve. 

You’re not usually great for following orders but you follow the doctor’s instructions closer than you have abided by anything in your entire life. By the time you return to HQ, the pain in your shoulder has flattened to a dull ache and you have formed a resolution to try to find some sort of hobby outside of work. You had no idea your real life is that grim.

Maria meets you with a distant smile at reception.

“Welcome back,” she says pleasantly, turning to walk with you through the building. Quiet conversation, the rustling of paper and the heavy clicks of agents suiting up covers the space you walk through. “We’ll do a mini induction and then I’ll let you get to it.”

Maria’s office is pristine. The door clicks shut behind you, muting all murmured voices outside. Everything looks recently straightened, recently dusted, recently organised. Sticky notes, task lists and cables are perfectly spaced out into their correct positions. The files stacked on the shelves are bound and appear to be in alphabetical order. You picture your home office space with a dim sort of shame as you sit down in front of her.

“How is your shoulder?” she asks without much interest.

“Much better, thank you. Should be able to get back out there now.”

She opens a cabinet in her desk and pulls a bloated yellow file. “That won’t be possible. We have made the decision to transfer you to another team. You’ll need a few weeks to catch up on the ongoing cases.”

“Another- what?”

Your brain is whirring, trying to catch up with what Maria just said. She doesn’t reply, just watches you buffer.

“You’re really taking me off the team on my first day back? Am I being punished for getting shot?”

“Not punished, no,” she assures you patiently. “You’re not being demoted, your day-to-day won’t even change very much but you’ll be working under Romanoff now. It was just decided that you would be a better fit somewhere else.”

“Decided by who?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

“By the leadership team,” she replies diplomatically.

Your gaze narrows on her but she is unperturbed. The sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock are suddenly deafening. You’re engaging in a sort of silent stand-off with her and you’re certainly not winning. 

“Where is he?” you ask at last.

“On assignment.”

“When will he be back?”

She smiles at you tightly and you realise she can no longer tell you. You’re not on his team anymore.

A wild instinct runs through you; you feel you might be a few seconds away from stomping your feet like a child, shouting at her that it’s not fair! and he started it! 

Instead, you huff out a harsh breath and snatch the file up from the desk. 

The hour is late and night is spilling through the windows. Yourself and Nat are the only ones left in the room; maybe the only ones left in the building. She lounges against the opposite row of lockers, boot propped up, grinning like you hadn’t just run a mission that by all rights should’ve ended in a four-page incident report and at least one formal reprimand.

“We are a match made in heaven,” she says with a dreamy sigh.

You snort. “Tell that to the clean-up team.”

“Let them file a complaint,” Nat says, waving a dismissive hand. “Clean exit, no casualties, minimal property damage. Made decent time too.”

“Mm.”

It had gone well. Better than well. Nat works like you do - zippy, instinctive, a little unhinged when the situation calls for it. There had been no questioning glances when you made a split-second decision, no screaming matches in lieu of a debrief. Your third mission back was a big fat success. You should be overjoyed.

But as you wipe the shower-water from your skin and peel your top on, all you can summon is a hot, directionless anger. Or, maybe not entirely directionless.

Because for the most part, you can direct it towards Steve. Your shoulder has mostly recovered with only a mild stiffness left to show for it but you’re still suffering from a wounded pride. The fact that he didn't bother to check up on you and requested a transfer after you quite literally risked your life for him is bad enough. But he’s been a ghost to you in the three weeks since you returned to work. 

That first week, he had been on assignment in Hungary. You had gone on a hunt for him as soon as word got around that he was back, but he was nowhere to be found. All his usual conference rooms were vacant and he had clearly started training elsewhere. You have not been able to track him down in the weeks since and you have no doubt in your mind that his sole intention is to avoid you.

Because he feels guilty for what had happened? Or maybe because he doesn’t want to have to thank you? You’re not sure. But you’re pissed.

And not just at him either. At yourself too. 

Because, alongside that anger, there’s an uncomfortable hollowness tugging at you. You bring it with you everywhere you go. It weighs you down like a chain. He won’t vacate your brain no matter what you do and you can’t quite deny that maybe you might miss him. Just a little.

The anger is not the worst of it; it’s that other thing - the tiny, shameful spark fluttering under your ribs when Natasha lets you rove free instead of testing you, challenging you, making you better. It’s the way your life feels just a bit emptier without someone to tease and provoke.

And it’s humiliating, because - seriously? How original. You really had to go and join the queue of people pining after the tall, hot, golden-boy with perfect manners and stupidly earnest eyes and muscles so perfect that only scientists could have sculpted them. Brilliant. Groundbreaking. As if you don’t already hate him enough without adding that to the mix.

“I was gonna drag you for a drink but the energy you’re giving off right now is rancid,” Nat says, walking towards you with her towel in hand. She snaps it at you but you jump out of the way before she can make contact. “You’re so pissy all the time since you got transferred.”

“I’m not pissy,” you snap, obscurely aware that you’re proving her point.

“Why do you even care? You and Rogers fight like dogs. You never wanted to be part of his team in the first place.”

You’re purposely avoiding her gaze, but you know the exact look that Nat is giving you based on her tone alone and you hate it with a burning passion.

“I don’t care. It’s just not fair, but it’s whatever.”

She sighs, picking up her duffle bag and flinging it over her shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand vaguely in your direction. “Get eight hours tonight and try to come back less cranky.”

She walks out, hips swinging, and you wait another moment or two before following suit. 

HQ feels different at this time of night. The overhead lights seem a shade too bright without bodies moving through them and your footsteps sound sharper against the floor. The whir of a printer on standby and the buzz of a monitor stand out more. Clean, white light is shining on empty desks. 

There is a weight on you as your make your way through the carpeted corridors, passing empty offices and meeting rooms. Nat is right - you are pissy. You’re so goddamn angry and mortifyingly upset, crucifying yourself with mental images and memories you would do anything to be rid of. You had always been mildly curious about those feelings that you observed in movies, the ones all your friends used to rave about when they met someone they fell head over heels for. You have dated, have even been in a few serious relationships. But you always knew there was a big gap between what you had witnessed and what you had experienced.

You wish someone had told you how stupidly painful and embarrassing it could be. You would have tried harder to steer clear of it.

You almost think that you’re imagining the picture of Steve in the meeting room to your right, framed by the semi-frosted window in the door. For just a split-second, you think it might be another one of those humiliating daydreams. But no - he’s burning the midnight oil; his neck is craned over a file, a small lamp pouring light over his handsome features.

You’re not one to question your instincts. You hurl the door open with an aggression that has Steve’s head snapping up in shock, pen falling from his hand, mouth parting. You listen to the door tumble closed before you realise dimly that you have no idea what to say to him. You’re floundering a little, but you keep your expression steady.

He breaks the silence first.

“You’re here late.”

“Just wrapped an assignment with Nat,” you say, hand on hip. “Turns out we make a pretty solid team. It’s refreshing.”

His jaw ticks, but he gives nothing else away. He looks back to his papers, as if dismissing you. “Glad to hear it.”

That’s it? That’s really all he’s giving you?

You can feel fiery heat crawling up your neck and you try to stop the furious shake in your hands. Composure is becoming more difficult to maintain and you know that you’re about a second away from bursting but his gall is astounding. He really has nothing else to say? After everything?

“You got me kicked off the team.”

“You didn’t get kicked off anything,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat. His eyes are travelling your form warily, like he isn’t quite sure where you’re going with this. “You got transferred.”

“Yeah, transferred out of the team.”

“I thought you would be happy,” he says wryly. “You were always complaining about having to work with me. I think you even said you’d rather work with Natasha a few times.”

“I am happy!” It comes out as a bark. You’re embarrassed by your petulance even though you can’t cork it. You know that you’re acting like a child. Steve’s lips are creaking upwards, his eyes lit up in amusement.

You clear your throat. “I am happy,” you repeat, in a low, controlled voice this time around. “It just feels a bit ungrateful is all.”

The way Steve’s poise breaks, superior grin twisting itself into a snarl, is hugely satisfying. You are self-aware enough to know that you’re being hugely immature, but it just feels so good to drag him down to your level. 

“You think I should be grateful that you almost got yourself killed on a mission?” he snaps, standing up from the meeting room table and walking towards you. You meet him half-way, until you are inches from each other. Your neck stiffens with how it bends up to meet his enraged eyes. Your body is humming with this familiar rhythm, as if fighting with Steve is the only thing that makes you feel alive.

“Well, I got shot saving you, so yes - I would say that’s a pretty good reason to be grateful,” you snap back, eyes narrow.

“Don’t be dense.” His voice is tight and poisonous in a way you have rarely ever heard before. “That was a really fuckin’ stupid decision and you know it. You took a bullet for the super-soldier with accelerated regenerative healing and a vibranium shield. Does that sound like a good decision to you?”

He sounds more furious than you have ever heard him in your life - and you have made him mad more times than you can count. He had cursed at you. He hasn’t done that since Moscow.

“I knew what I was doing,” you spit back with equal fury. “That shooter had all the time in the world to get into position; they would have been aiming for your head and they would have hit their mark, too because you weren’t paying enough attention to raise your shield. I knew that pulling them over in my direction meant that they would shoot me but they would have less time to aim. Just because you think I’m stupid doesn’t mean I am, you jerk.”

He is struck dumb momentarily, brows furrowing and lips pursing in thought. You are close enough to see the twitch of his mouth, to feel his disgruntled puffs of breath against your skin. Contentment slithers up your spine. Seconds tick by in silence; Steve pensive and stoic, you smug and satisfied. You have won this round and decide to go out with a bang.

“But I guess I should be thanking you because I have a new team lead now who trusts my judgement and doesn’t pick a fight every five minutes. So thank you. And go to hell.”

You turn on your heel, already halfway into your stride, and his hand shoots out so fast it must be instinct - large, calloused fingers closing around your arm before you’re even finished the pivot.

There is a second where he just glares hard. His blue eyes eat up every inch of your face. 

And then your body meets his chest and his lips are instantly on yours in a heady explosion of fire - it’s a violent, fervid thing and you surprise yourself with how quickly you return his passion. You had imagined this moment in the last few weeks - in all your dirtiest daydreams, you made him sweat it out a bit, even beg. But maybe you can make him beg later - you had missed him too much to turn him away now.

Your lips move like it’s another one of your fights, faces pressed against each other in a messy battle of lips, tongues and teeth. His hands travel to your hips and pull you flush against him while you fist his crisp blue shirt, folding wrinkles into the perfectly ironed fabric. 

Your feet leave the ground as he lifts you with irritating strength, pushing you onto the meeting room table and settling himself between your legs. His sheer power - the way he can lift you like you’re absolutely nothing - makes heat pool in your tummy, something stirring low. You’re pushing your lips against his fiercely, channeling all the pent up anger from the past number of weeks.

He isn’t gentle. He’s rabid as a stray dog. His fingers grasp harshly onto your hips with bruising strength. Despite the fact that you’re already pressed up against him, he tugs you tighter to his body, like close is not close enough. You can feel the large swell of his cock against your thigh, hard as a rock, and you have to stop yourself from adjusting your position and grinding down on him. You’re eager enough to do it, but he can't know that.

Your hands travel around his chest and shoulders, fingers delving into every curve of muscle there. He feels so big and broad against your touch and it turns you on so much that it almost pisses you off.

“You’re such a dick,” you gasp, the sound muffled against his lips.

“I know,” he says back between kissing, his mouth not moving from yours.

“Didn’t even visit me in the hospital.”

“I know.”

“I hate you,” you say, aiming for a sharp tone. It comes out breathy. He’s still kissing at your mouth, lips moving wildly - out of sync and jumbled.

“Shut up,” he grunts, hand going to your lower back and pushing your pelvis forward so you grind against him. An embarrassing whine rips itself from your throat as pleasure sparks through you, lighting up your body. You grind down again, addicted to the feeling, and Steve groans against your lips, hips jerking up.

It prompts something filthy; the two of you still fully clothed, bucking and grinding against each other like feral animals. There is a delicious throbbing in your core, your entire body crying out for more of him. His left hand is still on your hip, encouraging your body to continue grounding down against his hard cock through layers of cotton, but his right hand moves up to grab your jaw with a possessive force. You are giving it back to him too, hands clutching and grasping at him with a brutality.

He pulls away to lift your top over your head, eyes levelled at you with a burning intensity. His pretty blues are darker now, less earnest.

“Steve, we’re in the office,” you object, fingers reaching out to grab it back. He tosses it to the floor before you can.

“Don’t care,” he says, reattaching his lips to yours, fingers crawling to the waistband of your trousers. “Gonna fuck you right here.”

Your stomach clenches. It’s a strange role reversal. You’re not accustomed to being the one who stops and thinks about things before acting - that’s always Steve’s remit. You should be concerned that his perfectly constructed control has been tossed out the window, but it only makes you more excited. You know that there is something dangerous deep underneath each layer of restraint that Steve exercises. You have always known you’re better at digging it out than anyone else in this world. When you do, it’s a beautiful thing.

How can you do anything but give in?

Steve’s fingers play with the button of your jeans, popping it open with an effortless tug before he slides them down your legs along with your shoes. You’re left in just your underwear, splayed open before a fully-clothed Steve Rogers like you’re some sort of offering. He watches you with dark eyes, something between worship and hunger enveloping his features.

His eyes zero in on your bra-clad breasts. “Take it off,” he says, voice strained, and you reach up with urgency to unclip it, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the table.

“Suddenly so good at taking orders.” His hand reaches up to palm your breast, the other playing with the waistband of your panties. Your body arches to his touch involuntarily. “Should have done this months ago. Might have made you behave.”

He can probably tell you’re about to say something snarky, because his lips meet yours ferociously yet again and what would have been a rude retort turns into a moan when his thumb presses down on you over your panties.

Steve pulls away, eyes catching yours with surprise before dropping down to your core, covered in a thin layer of now-transparent fabric. “You’re soaked through,” he breathes, awe colouring his tone. “See how wet you are for me?”

Hot humiliation floods your face. “Fuck you.”

He gives you a slow smirk, eyes glinting. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, leaving them glossy and shiny, and you realise he enjoys this as much as you do. His head dips down, lips just brushing over your neck, breath caressing your skin, before he’s lathering kisses there. He hooks his fingers over your underwear and yanks it down aggressively. You watch it cascade down your legs pathetically, chest heaving with the pressure of his lips under your ear and his fingers sliding down your stomach torturously slow. 

His fingers just graze over your wet heat and your blood is singing in your veins. You feel overpowered by him in the most mouth-watering way; his large frame trapping you, caging you in. He presses two fingers in, harsh and sudden, and you gasp.

“You get so turned on fighting with me, don’t you sweetheart? I knew it. Knew you were getting all wet every time I raised my voice at you. You pretend you don’t like me but you love when I boss you around.”

You want to slap him, but he’s right. And you consider that if you do, he will stop. His fingers are so big and calloused inside you and it simply feels too good to ever stop. You’re breaking into a sweat while he pumps in and out of you, your slick spilling onto his perfectly tailored work slacks while your walls clench around him.

When his other hand reaches down to grind down on your clit with vigorous strokes, a burst of white-hot pleasure works its way through you, licking up your spine. You pull hard at his hair, looking for anything to anchor yourself and hear him hiss a moan against your neck. The sound makes you clench around him and his fingers pump into you with renewed roughness in response.

You’re absolutely ruined. He has turned you into a complete wreck. You can no longer deny how badly you want him nor how much you need this; you don’t even try anymore. Your hips are wiggling down, trying to take him deeper. You have lost all semblance of shame, too taken up by the pleasure that his fingers are delivering you.

“Look how desperate you are,” he says, eyes caught where he is filling you. You don’t want to look down, shame working its cruel way through you at his taunting, but he grasps your jaw, tilting your head downwards. His fingers are warm and wet with your slick.

His two fingers are enough to stretch you out - they almost look too big for your hole. You shudder at the sight of them sliding in and out, knowing his cock will stretch you out all the more. Steve’s staring at your pussy like a man who is starving.

His fingers pull out from your heat quite suddenly. You’re hazy and confused until he lowers to his knees on the ground in front of where you are perched on the table. Your eyes connect in a moment of explosive intensity. His pupils are blown wide and when yours begin to flutter shut, he pinches your thigh gently in warning. You are forced to stare while he lowers his face between your thighs, eyes gleaming.

“Gotta taste you,” he says, almost to himself, and then that stupid fucking mouth that pisses you off so much every single day meets your cunt.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is unintentional and would be entirely mortifying if you were thinking straight. Your head falls back, eyes shutting. He pinches your thigh again, harder this time. 

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You eyes spring back open, twitching as you fight the instinct to squeeze them shut. He holds your gaze captive while licking a messy stripe up your folds. You can feel sweat collecting at the top of your forehead at the sensation. He is ravenous and unrelenting, sucking on your clit before soothing it with soft kisses. Exploring your folds with his lips. Dipping his tongue inside and gently nipping, testing your limits. 

He’s eating you out in a way you never have been before; it’s not some repetitive flick of the tongue against the clit, picked up from porn and designed to make you cum as fast as possible so he can get the hell up and get his own rocks off. Steve is learning you, watching your expression closely to see what makes your breath catch. You feel him grin against your pussy as a moan slips out reluctantly when he drags his teeth over the hood of your clit, offsetting the pleasure with the tiniest bit of pain. He groans when you lose control and your eyes roll back in your skull.

He pulls back just a few inches and you watch him spit a thick glob of saliva straight onto your cunt. He’s still holding intense eyee-contact with you when he runs his fingers through your slit, mixing your wetness with his own. It’s sliding down through your ass and onto the table, reminding you exactly where you are. The fact that you are doing this in a meeting room in your place of work makes it seem even dirtier. 

He shoves two fingers back into you without warning and your hips buck. He continues to mouth at your clit in the most beautiful patterns and you truly feel like he is doing this purely for himself, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.

He sucks hard, sliding your clit into his mouth and you’re not in control of the words or sounds that spill out of you. You’re telling him how amazing you feel and how fucking good he’s eating you, but you realise you might have fucked up because you can just feel his arrogance. It’s pissing you off. You need to remedy it quick.

“Maybe I should keep you down here like this all the time, Steve. What do you think? Can’t bitch at me when your mouth is busy. And you’re just so good at it too.”

You can feel the smug smile melt into something more sinister. His eyes grow darker, but he never moves them from yours. He continues to lap at you, but his mouth is more aggressive now - a stormy sort of warning. You ignore it. 

“Bet you’d let me put you on your knees after every mission if I wanted.” Your voice is coming out a bit too breathy for the sort of control you’re aiming for, but you continue regardless. “Keep you there for hours if I need to.”

Steve is standing up faster than you can register, a rough scowl painting his face. “Fucking brat,” he grunts, voice low. Your pride does not allow you to complain about how close you were to coming on his tongue.

He’s unbuttoning his shirt with rapidity and you get the message, part terrified and part exhilarated by what’s to come. You go to work on his belt in the meantime, clumsy fingers frantically unbuckling so you can yank his trousers down his legs. 

Steve shrugs out of the sleeves of his shirt, you almost groan. It is just so utterly unfair. It’s not like you’ve never seen him in this state before - missions sometimes require you both change clothes in less-than-ideal settings. But seeing him in this context, a thin sheen of sweat coating his pecks, an enormous bulge in his underwear that you know you have inspired; it’s unearthly. It’s only for you. You want him in wicked, sinful ways. And you’re determined to have him.

You try to hide the shake in your hands as you reach towards his underwear. Time slows down as you pull down it down to reveal his cock - what had been a frenzied blur of limbs and clothes patters off into cautious movements, heavy breaths.

You actually groan when you see it; standing tall and fucking huge, slightly curved, subtle veins running lines up to the tip. A pearl of liquid has collected at the tip, smudged on the swollen head. It’s so pretty, you can feel your eyes becoming a bit hazy. The light in the room seems to ripple and bend around it.

Your fingers reach out tentatively, dragging down his length. He hisses, hips jerking up to your touch when you wrap your fingers around him. You can barely wrap your hand around it and you’re startled by how small your hand looks in comparison.

“You think you can take it?” Steve asks you.

“I can,” you confirm with certainty.

“Let’s see about that, sweetheart. I think I might break you,” he returns and you wonder vaguely whether Steve is just baiting you, taking advantage of all your stubbornness to make sure you push yourself past your limit.

His body brackets yours again, leaning over your body to give you a filthy kiss. His mouth is absolutely dripping with the evidence of your arousal and his own spit. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with something that is pleasant and categorically Steve Rogers. His lips move hot and dirty against yours, tongue pressing in on yours while his cock nudges your entrance. You gasp against his lips.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You ready for me?”

You nod furiously and he reaches down to fist his cock. You feel his thick length begin to nudge at your entrance, the head slipping in slowly. Your cunt pulses with anticipation as you feel the sweet ache of him breaching you. You let out a low whine, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, as he pushes in further, the thickness of him stretching your walls.

It’s a tight fit. He gets just less than half-way, before your pride breaks and your hips jump away from his at the burn. His jaw twitches, blue eyes fluttering closed for just a second.

Steve reaches down to stroke at your clit and the rush of pleasure makes you loosen up just enough for him to notch in a few inches further. “C’mon, sweetheart. Thought you said you could take me.”

“I can,” you say, the words pattering off into a whine. “Just big, is all.”

“Sure is,” he says, pushing in further and smiling wickedly at you. “And I’m gonna make you take it all, baby. Gonna make you feel it here.” His fingers press down hard on your tummy.

His cock is stressing its size inside you, hitting places previously untouched. You can’t quit believe that he still has more to give you but he does. You’ve never felt anything like this before, never had anything this big inside you and it hurts in the most delicious way.

“Fuck,” Steve spits, breathless. “Yeah, okay, I think you can take me all the way. Just a little bit more, sweetheart. Let me in.” 

If he hadn’t eaten you out until you were an inch from nirvana, you’re not sure this would be possible. But as it stands, he bottoms out and you feel like you’re floating. Your hips are twitching, unsure whether to escape or grind down harder.

“Squeezing me so tight, baby. Think you were made for my cock,” he hisses, his face tightening with a primal need. “You okay?”

You’re not sure that your vocal cords are still working so you just nod and listen to his deep breaths. Your back arches when he presses sloppy kisses to your neck while you adjust to him. It feels as if he is moulding you around him.

Your fingertips drag down his back and he shivers, jerking his hips forward involuntarily. “Sorry- ah, fuck-” he groans, face clenched tight.

He withdraws a couple of inches, cock dragging through your walls, before slamming himself back in. He looks down at you like a kicked puppy when he hears your strangled gasp. “Feels too good. Gotta- agh. Can’t help it, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

You like this side of him, you think idly. You had seen Steve in many different moods, but never like this. Apologetic and pleading. He is a boulder above you; 6 foot something of pure brawn, but begging you so nicely to take his cock. “I know it’s big but you’re such a pretty little thing for me. Have to move.”

You still can’t talk so you nod at him in encouragement and watch relief pour over his face. He kisses you again with intention, bucking his hips into yours with beautiful friction. You are stuffed so full, it feels like he’s everywhere at once. This whole thing is becoming far sweeter than you were expecting.

Steve finds a leisurely, pulsing rhythm as he rocks himself into you, lathering kisses over your lips in a way that is entirely too romantic for the setting. He rubs tantalising circles on your clit, helping your walls to relax into him - helping you let him in until you find your voice, babbling about how much you want him and how good he’s making you feel.

You’re becoming aware that he owns you now; that maybe he always had. He thrusts into you with a beautiful sort of reverence and you know that you are ruined. Sleeping with anyone else would feel like a brutal punishment after you felt him like this. 

A noise from outside - the faint tread of boots on the ground - makes you both stop cold. Steve freezes completely, his dick coming to a stand-still inside of you. They are faint but getting closer by the second. Your eyes meet Steve’s wide ones. He starts looking around the room. at your intertwined bodies. You can see him assessing the situation, working out solutions, but a smug part of you notes that he still doesn’t pull out of you. He dick doesn’t soften; you actually feel it twitch inside you.

Your pussy jumps at the realisation that he’s excited by it. Maybe he doesn't even know it yet, but he is. You know it by the way his hips give involuntary, shallow thrusts. By the way his pupils grow impossibly darker.

So you do what any sane woman would do with Captain America’s cock buried deep inside her. You grind down. 

Steve eyes snap back to yours with astonishment. He looks wild; entirely out of control and somewhat furious. He brings a hand to your hair, tugs it with a warning that you don’t pay any heed to.

You grind down again, this time removing your right hand from his broad shoulders and bringing it slowly down to your clit. You rub and squeeze there, using his cock to get yourself off. The way his eyes are burning as he watches you only makes it so much hotter. You feel yourself approaching your peak. 

The steps get louder until you see a flash of cherry red pass the window and you know it’s Natasha. She’s on her way back to the locker room, perhaps to check if you’re still there. You don’t stop moving on his cock even as she passes by you and the locker room door swings open and shut.

“Are you insane?” Steve spits in a low whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You just smile back at him because you can see his eyes growing hazy. You not sure he even realises that he himself has begun to thrust into you again. A flush is working its way up his neck and you wonder whether it’s anger or arousal. Maybe both.

You’re halfway through a moan when the door to the locker room swings back open and Natasha begins walking out again with a huff. Steve’s hand goes up to cover your mouth, so large it almost envelopes your entire face. He’s giving you look like he’s disapproving of this development but he doesn’t stop fucking you.

Natasha’s footsteps stop for a split-second. You feel a disinterested sort of confusion, too wrapped up in the way Steve’s cock feels as it drags through your walls. 

Something spasms between your legs and you realise you’re about to cum. Your blood freezes. You feel Steve tense, breath snagging in his throat. You’re sweating now - praying that all those gasps you can’t mute are not audible from outside.

You hear Nat let out a long, irritated sigh from outside, but you’re too far gone to even care about the consequences anymore. You squeeze around Steve’s length once and then your eyes are rolling back into your head while she resumes moving down the hall. As she approaches the glass window of the door, you try to crouch, as if that would prevent her from seeing your and Steve’s very naked bodies as he fucks you through your orgasm. You can see the faint shadow of her figure sliding across the frosted glass. For one horrifying second, you’re sure Nat will glance in.

But she doesn’t. She keeps walking, footsteps fading with distance until the hallway is left silent again and your pussy is squeezing with aftershocks.

“You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?” Steve asks, but there’s more awe in his tone than malice. “You really get off knowing someone could walk in here and see me fucking you?”

You don’t even know how to answer him. He’s given you no time to recover from your orgasm, fucking into you again with a renewed vitality. You’re overly sensitive, the pressure of his massive cock inside you bullying your sensitive hole. It shouldn’t feel good, it should be too much too soon - but it’s not because it’s Steve. And you don’t think you could dislike anything that he chooses to do to you.

“You wanna be fucked like a whore? Fine,” he says, pulling his cock out of you with lightning speed and flipping you around on the table so your ass is arched up for him. He takes a second to look at you, squeezing at the skin of your ass, dragging his thumb all the way up from your clit, past your wet heat and through your ass. He’s mumbling something unintelligible. You clench and shudder, a moan breaking out through your lips.

When he fists his cock and presses into you again, all that slow romanticism from earlier is gone. He is fucking you hard and fast, his thick cock pressing into a heavenly spongey spot that you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck Steve!” you cry out, ass working its way back on him of its own volition.

“Such a fucking brat. Couldn’t even wait patiently for me to fuck you for one minute. Too desperate for my cock.”

You want to argue that he was also fucking you, but your brain is not working fast enough to come up with the words. All you can focus on are his dirty words, the obscene squelching noises of him filling you, and how it feels to be taken by him.

“Maybe I should punish you for that. Always so disobedient. Maybe I’ll leave you high and dry here, fill you up and not let you cum.”

“Try it,” you growl, brain suddenly fully operational. “I’ll make you regret it.”

You hear him huff a laugh from behind you. “You’re adorable. Fucked out on my cock and still think you’re in charge. I’ll make you cum sweetheart, but only because I want to see you fall apart. Next time you won’t get this lucky.”

His cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you see god. His hands are so tight on your hips as he fucks himself into your body that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You hope you do.

“That’s it, isn’t it baby? That’s your spot. Fuck. Maybe I should reward you, now that I think of it. All my sweet girl wanted was to get caught getting fucked by me. You just wanted to show everyone that you’re mine. Want everyone to see me fucking that attitude right outta you.”

Being called his coils your stomach in a way you’d rather not examine. Instead, you twist your head back and scowl. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice strangled.

He chuckles again, but it’s strained. He’s pounding you with a force that you feel all the way up to your belly, all the way up to your teeth. You know you’re not far from coming again and neither is he.

“Is my pretty girl gonna cum on my cock again?” he asks, patting and squeezing your ass encouragingly. You nod, eyes squeezed shut, not even sure that he can see it from his angle. A desperate whine escapes.

“Good fucking girl. ‘Cause I’m about to come inside you. Want you walking out of here with me dripping out of you. Gonna fill you up so good, keep you topped up for every mission. Make you mine.”

That sends you tumbling over the edge, white-hot pleasure soaring through you. Your cunt clenches down hard on him and you feel him burst, spilling sticky ropes of cum into you. He groans loud, telling you how good you are for him while holding your hips with a bruising power, fucking into you violently. He shudders behind you, and eventually his aggressive thrusts patter out and slow into shallow jerks. 

Dark spots are exploding behind your eyes for a while as you come down, chest heaving as Steve drives his cum back into you slowly. You feel your mixed spend dripping down your thighs, spilling onto the wooden floors below. Steve hisses as he steadily pulls himself from your tight heat. He stops momentarily while he, presumably, watches his cum drip out of your hole. 

And then he reaches down to grab his underwear. He wipes it across your privates and thighs as a makeshift towel. It is decidedly not romantic, but the fact that he’s willing to go home in soggy underwear just to clean you up makes your chest tighten with affection regardless.

Steve begins to dress but it takes you another minute to gather the strength in your limbs to haul yourself up. Your hands are shaking as you yank up your panties and try to buckle your bra. Steve is fully dressed now, watching you intensely, thighs spread out on an office chair.

You’re feeling slightly awkward in a way you never do around Steve. You’ve never been short of quips or insults to throw at him, but the air has changed now and you’re not sure where you stand or how to navigate this.

You have just tugged on your jeans when Steve leans forward to grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. You hadn’t realised that you were waiting for him to do it until he does. You go with no objection, curling into his chest. It feels strangely natural for how combative you’ve always been with him. He nuzzles his face into your neck with a shy affection. 

“I’m sorry for requesting the transfer. I regretted it immediately after if I’m honest.”

“Why did you? It was kinda fucked up, Steve. And you didn’t even come to visit me when I got shot. It hurt my feelings because I would have been there for you.” You can’t even look at him when you say it. You are vastly uncomfortable being this vulnerable with him, but you suppose if there’s ever a time for venturing into uncharted territory, it’s now. Steve was right about what he said regarding your past relationships - you just never cared enough before. But you do now.

“I stayed there until you were stable,” he says. “I was just so angry that I couldn’t even look at you. The idea that you risked your life for me killed me. I hate the way you risk so much on missions. It makes me feel like I can’t protect you.”

“But sometimes you can’t, Steve. I know I should be less reckless. Being away from you for the last few weeks made me realise that. But I have to be able to make my own decisions too.”

“I know. I know it’s just part of what happens on missions but I can’t deal with you getting hurt for me. Not with you. Because I…”

He swallows hard, eye downturned. He fidgets against your thigh and it makes your heart ache. You’re feeling embarrassingly gushy, watching him be this fragile and open. You’re taken off guard by it.

“Because you want me?”

He gives you a tight, sad sort of smile.

“I want you so bad, I’m not even sure ‘want’ is the right word for it anymore.”

You’re fighting a goofy grin but it’s beaming out of you like sunshine. You kiss him nice and slow, feel his lips move ardently and reverently against your own. Your heart flutters where it presses against his chest, as if trying to fly its way closer to him.

You pour every ounce of your adoration into the kiss and feel Steve's grin against your lips as a response.

You pull away only when your phone buzzes with a text.

NAT: so i see you’re out of the doghouse

NAT: and now i need to find a new partner. goddamn.

Words that were meant to bring comfort, yet hit a concrete wall that you had erected around the feelings death brought. Smiling as sadly as you could, you accepted each one gratefully. Social norms telling you anything but that would be rude and inappropriate. So now, not only were you still holding back tears that you didn't want to shed in the presence of others, you had to play Tetris so they wouldn't topple over on the drive.

Still though, it was easier to focus on them than the grief that was clawing at your insides, you supposed. Easier to focus on the contents of casseroles than the oddity of returning to a place you thought you'd left in the dust when you decided to broaden your horizons.

As you drove, your mind picked out familiar things. The tree-lined streets that looked like they belonged on postcards were still the shining star of the sleepy town, impeccably manicured as always. Yet the landscape around them had changed in the decade since you'd laid eyes on it. The diner you used to get a quick bite to eat at after school had gotten a new coat of paint that made you wrinkle your nose. The library where you once pored over travel magazines and occasionally studied had gotten a new neon sign and updated the flower beds with limestone facades. The singular convenience store where everyone did their grocery shopping had gotten a modern facelift with new signage.

Time had seemed to touch everything except the layout, making everything both familiar and new at once. The nursery that was at the end of the street your grandmother lived on was just putting out their spring plants. A fresh wave of despair hit you square in the chest at the realization you wouldn't get to hear your grandmother lovingly describe what she picked to plant in her garden that season.

The stack of Tupperware leaned dangerously when you turned onto the road you learned to ride a bike on, and once knew all of the neighbors. Memory alone got you from the reception hall to now idling on the unpaved driveway of your grandmother's house, body working on autopilot the second you had passed the nursery. The house looked the same, in theory. Though there was a looming darkness where your grandma's presence would've normally brightened. Like the soul of the house had been snatched with her passing.

The plush leather seats seemed to have magnetized your clothing, your hands not able to move from the steering wheel. Of all the tasks you needed to take care of since you got the news, somehow getting out of the car and crossing the threshold to a quiet house where your grandmother no longer occupied was definitely the hardest.

Yet, it was your cross to bear as her sole heir. Her last wishes were for you to clean up the house that had been in your family for generations, and make sure whoever bought it would treat it with the same care as she did. And there was no way you could fulfill that if you didn't gather the courage to walk through the door.

Yanking your suitcase free from the backseat, you moved to face the front door, casseroles forgotten in their stacked configuration of the passenger seat. With trembling fingers, you finally unlocked the heavy wooden door and pushed in.

The scent of muted rose perfume and lemon pledge hit you first, and your mind briefly played a phantom memory of your grandmother. Rounding the corner from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel before she opened her arms for an all encompassing embrace that could cure all ailments. Pressing a hand to your heart to stop the ache as you took in the dim entry way, moving to the living room. The rooms and hallways looked the same as they did in your childhood memory only…smaller. Like you had outgrown the space, but not the feeling of comfort.

A fresh tinge of guilt wrapped around your throat as you saw the signs of your grandmother's aging. Pill bottles on the small end table, lined up in an orderly fashion. A walker stood at the ready next to her favorite arm chair that had a handmade throw blanket you sent her from a remote village of Machu Picchu. An unfinished crossword sat on the small coffee table that made your lip tremble. It would likely stay unfinished for all of eternity.

With a deep breath you moved to the bedrooms, taking in the changes that you had only heard from your grandmother when she visited you or spoke about on the phone. The kitchen had gotten a much needed upgrade from the old 70s appliances that were truthfully on their last leg for awhile.

Your childhood room had amassed some boxes, but remained for the most part untouched. That's where your suitcase landed, hoping what you packed would be enough until you could get the house ready to sell.

The heels you wore to the funeral clicked on the worn hardwood, and you could almost hear your grandmother's voice asking you how you walked in those things. The last room you hadn't inspected yet was hers. And the closer you got to the door at the end of the hallway, the stronger the scent of her perfume became.

Memories flooded in one by one as you dared to reach for the door knob. Cuddling up next to her while awful soap operas played on an ancient TV with a lace doily draped over it. Gossiping about the townspeople like they were characters in her own personal drama series. Your grandmother always made it a point to know everyone's business.

Dropping your hand from the knob, you bolted for air. For space to breathe that wasn't bashing you over the head with guilt. Guilt for not coming back as she aged even though you could have. Guilt for your selfishness of always flying her to you on your travels instead of relaxing with her in the home you basically grew up in.

The sliding glass door squeaked as you stepped into the backyard oasis that was still thankfully maintained to perfection. The sun was just dipping below the trees, casting everything in a soft orange glow, and birds were calling somewhere off in the distance. Out here, your thoughts always seemed to halt.

In the summer, wildflowers would bloom along the fence line, fruit trees towards the back of the property would produce lemons and cherries for pies that would be baked from scratch or preserved. Rows of raised flowerbeds held all manners of vegetables, herbs, and fruits. Even in her old age, your grandmother had continued its upkeep insisting that it helped her feel young again.

And when her body began to wither with the throes of time, she hired trusted gardeners and landscapers from around town to keep its spirit alive. Something you were tasked to ensure the next owners of the house would do. Even now, the thought of this space still overflowing with life being redone in a trendy minimalist aesthetic brought a strange surge of anger in your veins.

Just as you took a deep breath, you heard a rustling sound from a raised flower bed to your left. Something too loud to be from the light spring breeze. Slowly making your way over, you saw the source of the sound. Nestled between the stalks of herbs that had survived the winter frost, was a small, tawny bunny with wide black eyes trying to burrow for safety. Yet, she was ensnared in what appeared to be fishing line, an angry red mark visible against her fur where it dug into her back leg. She stopped at the sight of you, going completely still except for the rapid twitching of her nose.

You shrugged off your black cardigan without a second thought, draping it over her body in hopes of keeping her warm. You couldn't bear anymore thoughts of death today if you could help it. Dashing inside, heels briefly getting caught in the grass, your thumbs were already flying over your phone screen to find the closest vet. It wasn't lost on you that you used to know this town — and the vet clinic — like the back of your hand. And now you needed to Google a place you used to call home because you didn't trust your mind to remember where it was.

Grabbing a small shoebox from the kitchen counter, you returned to the bunny. Gently snapping the fishing line so as not to disturb the wound, you wrapped the cardigan completely around her and placed her in the box. "Hold on for me, okay?" you pleaded, securing her as best you could before making your way back to the car. "I've got you."

The casserole dishes you had been too drained to move still sat in the front seat, a glaring reminder that you hadn't been able to stomach anything real since the news of your grandmother's passing. But you had more pressing matters to attend to.

Based on your search, there was still a singular vet in town. The street address was the same as well, familiar now that it was staring back at you. Summers spent at that very address using every spare minute to nurture your passion for animals. And while you should know how to get there, you didn't trust the decade old map in your head while a life hung in the balance.

Pulling up to the clinic was like opening a time capsule. The name had changed to "White Wolf Animal Hospital", proudly displayed on a wooden sign. The front facade had been redone, upgraded slightly with a modern undertone though still keeping the rustic charm. The big oak tree you used to sit underneath during hot summer afternoons still stood, branches larger and broader now.

Carefully scooping up the box, you pulled open the clinic door, a bell announcing your arrival with a faint clink. The reception area was empty and quiet, though the overhead lights were still on indicating that it should have been occupied. It was odd that no one was manning the front, a position you used to fill during your free time, so you knew how important it was.

You checked your watch to see if you were too late for their working hours (you weren't), then chanced a glance at the bunny. She was still in a state of shock, eyes blinked slowly up at you. Sighing, you set the box down on the high counter, close to convincing yourself that you could go to the back and use your limited knowledge to maybe help the little creature.

Surely this place wasn't closed yet if the door was unlocked? And if it was, what kind of person bought the clinic and was managing it so inadequately?

"Hello?" You called into the emptiness, heels continuing to click with each step. The clinic wasn't that big, surely if anyone was here, they would have heard you. Picking up the box again, you moved to start opening doors to exam rooms until you found anyone to help, when the farthest one swung open, a man in a lab coat stepping through.

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry, but we're —"

Time froze as soon as blue eyes you never thought you'd see again met yours. Your heartbeat increased wildly, just as it used to when you saw him. Of all the people you had expected to be running the old vet clinic, Bucky Barnes was the absolute last one.

He looked nearly the same as he did in your memories of him, somehow. A little older, a little more muscular, with wisps of incoming grays in his dark hair and stubble around his jaw as the only things to show any time had passed since you had said goodbye. When the relationship between two young and dumb kids couldn't stand the test of long distance and an amicable breakup followed, you thought that would be it. And the 20 year old you left behind would be the forever image you held of your first love.

But now here you were, shaking free his own memories if the way his eyes darted around your figure were any indication.

"Bunny?" he asked, breathless.

Stepping closer, you held the box out for him to see, you almost asked how he knew what you had brought him. Until you realized he wasn't referencing the injured animal. He was talking to you.

A nickname bestowed to you once upon a time. When the stars twinkled brighter and your futures weren't yet decided, a silly thing based on an inside joke of an inside joke that you couldn't remember the origin of. Hearing it from him was in and of itself, another kind of shock.

"Oh," you both said in unison, chuckling awkwardly, trying to figure out where to go next. Because, truthfully, what words were there to say to someone after ten years and barely a birthday or holiday card? You weren't even planning on looking him up, not wanting to disturb whatever peace he had built by showing up unannounced. And yet an injured bunny sent those plans to crumble.

His gaze dropped to the cardigan in the box, then to the modest black dress and heels you hadn't bothered to change out of. His features morphed, worry lines deepening as he came to a quiet conclusion as to why you had returned in the first place.

"I…found a bunny in grandma's garden. It looks like she got caught up in some fishing line," you explained, breaking the silence. You moved closer, box still held out like a peace offering in hopes of getting his calculating stare off of you and towards the more pressing matter.

"Come on back," Bucky motioned with his head to the exam room behind him, holding the door open for you and letting you go in first.

Suddenly incredibly aware of the clack you made with each step, and how you were trying to breathe calmly and not breathe in the familiar aroma of his cologne. You placed the box onto the metal exam table, stepping back to give him space to perform the exam.

"Alright little one, let's see what you've gotten yourself into." Bucky's voice still held that gentle quality you remembered falling in love with. It was surprising how much you missed it, when something that faded over time without you realizing it was suddenly back with clarity.

His hands moved carefully, cradling the small animal that somehow seemed even smaller once it was in his palm. The glint of black and gold on his left hand caught your eye then, a sleek and modern prosthetic that had your chest clenching, mind reeling with scenarios of what could have happened for him to lose his arm. Vaguely, you did remember your grandmother telling you briefly of how there was a fire at the animal clinic, and that someone had been injured. She just hadn't told you how or…who.

Bucky's voice calling your name snapped you from trying to decipher the mystery and defrost any more memories. He was looking at you expectantly, probably asked a question you didn't hear and therefore couldn't answer. "Sorry, what?"

A soft chuckle left his mouth, making your heart melt just a bit further. "Do you know how she got wrapped up like this?"

"No," you answered, arms wrapping around your waist. "I was getting some air in the backyard when I heard her rustling in between the rosemary and parsley. I'm not even sure where the fishing line came from, grandma didn't use it for this very reason."

"Well she's lucky you found her." Bucky smiled in your general direction, but he hadn't met your eyes since the nickname faux pas. Turning, he grabbed some cleaning solution and gauze.

You watched as he tried to dress the wound, but the bunny was wriggling to the point it had become a struggle of not injuring her further. "Let me help," you offered softly, already pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. Helping to hold the bunny still, Bucky was able to get her patched up. Based on your limited knowledge, the wound didn't appear that deep, but without your intervention there was no way the poor thing would have survived.

Putting the thought of anymore death out of your head, you turned to dispose of the gloves and let Bucky do a final wellness check. Ignoring the familiarity of what just happened by reaching up to fidget with the pendant of your necklace.

Bucky barely looked over at you, but still asked: "When's the last time you ate anything?"

"Oh, about…twelve hours ago," you answered truthfully, but when he leveled you with a pointed stare, you felt the need to ramble in defense. "But I have…casseroles. In the car. For…later."

"Casseroles," he deadpanned, now moving his attention to bringing out a small cage and preparing it with straw and bowls from various cupboards.

"The backseat is full of Tupperware containers. Apparently all of grandma's friends thought the best way for me to deal with her death was by pouring a bunch of ingredients into a dish and letting me play a guessing game of what I thought was in it."

His lips twitched into a barely there smile, placing the bunny into her temporary home where she immediately hopped to the corner, snuggling into a tight ball. "I'm going to keep her here for observation for a few days, and contact some wildlife rehab centers in the morning."

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, he rocked onto the balls of his feet. "In the meantime, let me take you to dinner. We can catch up."

It was a simple request, one you could deflect again. You did have casseroles…but they likely weren't even good anymore, considering they should've been refrigerated as soon as you got to the house. But as it neared 6 pm, you'd been running on empty for hours without realizing it. And your stomach was growling in protest of being ignored.

"Okay," you agreed, continuing to fidget with your necklace. It was a simple agreement. And yet nothing was going to be simple about bridging a decade of non-communication into one dinner.

"We can go to Frankie's up the road, just give me a couple of minutes to close up," Bucky suggested, nodding towards the door to the front.

You nodded, the name of the old diner hitting you like a force field. Memories of past dates, post homecoming and prom nights, and…the night you had both decided that the relationship wouldn't work if you left. There were no fireworks, not even a fight or careless words thrown. Just two people mature enough to realize that the life you wanted was one that he couldn't follow you into. And loving each other enough to say it instead of forcing someone to give up their dream.

Initially, you thought it would be easier to sever ties completely. Considering there would be long stretches where you didn't know where you would land, you didn't want to lead him on when you also didn't know if you'd be back.

Yet every year you'd look at important dates on your calendar just a little bit longer. A birthday, anniversaries of first kisses or relationship milestones that no longer meant anything hoping that you had made the right decision by putting yourself first and that Bucky was at least happy. Because that's all you'd ever wanted for him.

"Ready?" Bucky asked, returning to you with keys twirling around a finger easily. The lab coat was gone, giving a closer glimpse of his broad shoulders stretching the plaid button-down shirt he was wearing as he grabbed a jacket from a hook behind the reception desk.

You nodded, following him out of the clinic and onto the sidewalk. The streetlights were just coming on, bathing everything in an amber glow, with the soft chirps of crickets providing ambiance as you began walking.

It was absurd if you thought about it for too long. How normal this would've been had you not had to cure the wanderlust of your soul.

"So…" you both started awkwardly, chuckling at your timing. Perhaps this sort of clumsiness was just what ten years apart does to two people who used to finish each other's sentences.

"So, how long are you in town for?" Bucky asked, keeping a respectful distance with his hands shoved into his pockets and focusing on the ground in front of him.

You matched his pace, heels scraping along the sidewalk while your hands weren't really sure what to do with themselves, the anxious habit of twisting the pendant the only thing you were able to think of. "Only until grandma's house sells. Her will specified that I need to stay there while it's on the market, something about making sure it goes to the right person," you explained calmly. "You know how particular she was about that garden of hers."

Bucky nodded thoughtfully, a few pieces of hair bouncing as he did so. The uncomfortable silence lingered again, pressing inwards like it knew it shouldn't be here. There was the sense that there were several thousand words unsaid, and yet none were rising to the surface.

"So…how long are you in town for?" you asked, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

He smiled fully then, lines around his eyes and mouth a little deeper than you remembered. "Quite a while, I think."

You stopped next to him in front of the diner, nose wrinkling in slight disgust as you saw the new paint job it had been given. A bright cherry red and white awning with bright, electric blue signage, where there was once a soft yellow storefront with inviting turquoise accents. Who decided that your favorite diner needed to look like a bomb pop had exploded? Only…was it really your favorite diner anymore?

"Don't worry. It may have gotten a botched facelift, but the food is still good," Bucky assured, holding the door open for you, the still familiar smell of fryer grease and salt with the undertones of ground coffee even this late in the evening wafted out.

There was once a time you recognized everyone who worked at Frankie's, including the owner, who named it after his late father. But now, only new faces blinked back at you while you were shown to a booth in the corner.

Just like your grandmother's house, the booths felt and looked the same, yet seemed…smaller. You had anticipated that after ten years of growing, yet you didn't think you'd ever outgrow a place that meant so much to you.

The Formica tabletop had been refinished, probably at the same time the awful paint job had occurred outside. This corner booth was one you would frequently sit at, and one your fifteen year old self had boldly carved your and Bucky's initials into, like it was going to be as permanent as what you thought your relationship was.

"What can I get ya, Doc?" a waitress asked, stopping by the table with a pen and notepad in hand. She smiled warmly at you briefly, but her attention was focused mainly on Bucky. A habit of people from a town where everyone knew everyone.

It was strange to hear Bucky of all people be referred to as 'doc'. Technically, it was his title, and you knew that. It just took a stranger saying it out loud to make it click that the boy who used to shotgun energy drinks, demolish your high score in Guitar Hero, and whisper sweet nothings against your skin was an actual doctor. Even if it was for animals.

"Two coffees please, Joyce, and I'll have my usual," he answered, not even glancing at the menu.

You rattled off a simple sandwich and French fry order, settling on the first familiar thing you saw. A little grateful that not everything had changed.

Joyce returned with two mugs of steaming coffee, and you wrapped a hand around one, letting the warmth seep into your palms.

"So, where did you end up going?" Bucky asked, pushing the tin of sugar towards you before you had a chance to grab for it.

"Ah, all over really? Spent a couple of years traveling around central Europe picking up odd jobs. Learned how to ask for directions and where the bathroom is in about eight languages," you explained, focusing more on the slow turn of your spoon.

He nodded again, eyes finally freely roaming over you when he thought your gaze was downcast. Up until now, he'd really focused on anything that wasn't your face. It made something in your chest twist, knowing that your surprise appearance was just as big a shock for him as it was for you.

Guilt, like bile, settled in the back of your throat. You had promised to come back, in this very booth actually. Sure it was before you knew where your life would take you, but still. You could have visited.

Your eye caught the black and gold glint of his left arm again, heart hammering to know how exactly that came to be. You hadn't really stopped wondering, but didn't know how to bring it up. You tried taking a sip of your coffee, averting your eyes back to Bucky's, but he was giving you a small, knowing smile.

"About a year after you left," he began, leaning back in the booth like he was reliving the memory in real time. "A fire broke out from some faulty wiring. Almost lost the whole building."

You put that into a quick perspective, trying to figure out what you were so busy doing while something so horrible was happening to a person you claimed to care about.

"All the animals got out," he continued, drumming his fingers against the table top. "I went back in to get the old clinic cat. Stubborn thing was hiding in the back storage room. I was able to get her out, but got pinned in the process."

You swallowed thickly, guilt still radiating outward. "Grandma told me about the fire, but never the extent of it."

"She probably just didn't want you worrying," he answered, sipping his coffee.

Your eyes finally met his since the first time at the clinic, cataloguing freely the changes age and the stress of running a business had caused. And his did the same to you. "Bucky, I'm - "

You were cut off from an improvised and too late apology by Joyce, dropping the food off at the table.

Shoulders dropping, you didn't even know what you would've said anyway. Something like that should be more thought out so you could get out everything you needed to say.

"So old Doc Hensley finally retired then? Any idea where he ended up?" you asked, steering the conversation away from a haphazard apology.

Bucky huffed a chuckle, popping a fry into his mouth. "Bought a timeshare in Cabo. Left me with the clinic once he knew I could handle it after I got my degree."

The image of walking into an empty reception area had your head tilting slightly. "Can you…handle it?" you asked gently, remembering just how difficult it could be to run the whole operation by yourself.

One of his shoulders raised slightly, the corner of his mouth tipping up like he knew what you were really asking. "It's been harder recently. Lost my front desk associate after he decided to choose a different career path."

You knew he didn't mean anything by the words. That was just the story of what happened, but still, an apology tried to worm its way free again. Like he wouldn't have this problem had you stayed…

"And where did you finally end up? Or are you still traveling?" he asked, and you wondered if he could see where your mind was wandering, and he had looked for a way to bring it back to the present.

"I'm working in the tech field now, based out of New York City, where I live. Mostly remote stuff, so I could keep traveling around if I want. I took a bereavement leave to get the house sorted," you paused to look at the darkening sky, realizing you had not made a dent in packing up the house or contacting a realtor to begin the process of putting it on the market.

"Do you like it in the city?"

"It's good, I suppose. The apartment is tiny, but it's in a great neighborhood, and my - " you paused briefly because it really hadn't hit you how awkward this next glimpse into your new life would be. "- my boyfriend likes living there."

Bucky stilled, coffee cup halfway to his lips as a mix of emotions quickly flickered over his eyes., before he shifted his gaze downwards. "How long has that been going on?"

Chewing your lip at the sudden change in demeanor, hand that wasn't occupied with the coffee mug flying to the pendant necklace again. "About two years."

He nodded his head once, like it was something final, and you couldn't help feeling like you had just sucker-punched him with that news. "Is he good to you?"

It was your turn to nod with a small smile when you answered, "Yeah, he is."

You should have expected this reveal to land awkwardly, as everything else had with him since you ran into his clinic. But in practice, it felt so much worse for reasons you didn't currently want to dwell on. Especially when every single turn of events since the funeral - except for saving that bunny - had made guilt become the leading emotion for the foreseeable future.

Turning your mug in your hands, you fought against the urge to fill the silence. Even as Joyce came to take away your empty plates and drop off the check, you still wanted to say something. But what could you say to someone whose feelings you hurt twice in the span of a decade? In the very same diner, no less.

You turned to dig in your purse to put some money down, but Bucky had already placed cash on the table and leveled you with a look that crossed a decade. Enough that you knew whatever small argument was about to happen, you would not win.

"Thank you for dinner. You really didn't have to," you protested, scooting out of your side of the booth and following him out of the diner.

He smiled gently, something unguarded now in his expression. "You ran into my clinic in what I'm assuming are your funeral clothes with an injured bunny. It's the least I could do."

Out on the sidewalk, the temperature had dipped considerably now that the sun had set. The moon had risen, providing a silver haze mingling with the amber pools of light of the streetlamps.

The silence between you and Bucky no longer felt like it was begging to be filled with awkward questions and small talk, it had become slightly more manageable. The dinner was successful, if that bar was measured by divulging big life events and evading the pitfalls of a reunion neither party was prepared to make.

You shivered against the chill during the short walk, slightly berating yourself for leaving the cardigan you had worn earlier with the bunny.

Bucky cleared his throat, draping his jacket over your shoulders without question or ceremony. He used to do something similar on cold nights, walking down these same sidewalks. Only it was his Letterman jacket he'd put over your shoulders and then wrap a hand around yours. His hand didn't find yours though in the present.

"How are you doing? With…everything?" he asked gently. It was a loaded question in the loaded silence while your hand was itching with the phantom feeling of his. Gone was the formality of catching up, and he was genuinely asking. Looking for an honest answer that none of the funeral goers earlier in the day would have wanted.

You let out a shaky sigh, guilt in the back of your throat being replaced with a heavy hollowness. Tears really hadn't fallen since you got the news, and some form of robotic numbness had taken up residence where emotion should be, and you didn't want tears to fall now. "Okay, I suppose. Being back in the house was hard. Didn't really have time to dwell too hard on it when I found the bunny."

Bucky glanced sideways at you, something in his expression shifting at your answer. You must have worn your sadness plainly enough now. "Do you need any help? Boxing things up or anything?"

You were approaching the clinic's parking lot where your car was waiting. "I don't know where to start, really. I couldn't even open her bedroom door," you paused to rifle through your purse for the keys. "The whole place feels like a giant game of Minesweeper, and I just keep stepping on mines instead of flagging safe spots."

"Well…" Bucky sighed, stepping back to give you space to open the door to your car. The wafting smell of casseroles made you grimace, thankful that you had taken Bucky's offer to get some real food tonight. "The clinic could use some help. If you ever want somewhere to be that isn't the house."

You faced him fully then, leaning against the car, tilting your head back to look at him. The passage of time had been kind to him. And maybe in another life, this date - if that's what you could even call it - would've ended with him gently pressing you against the car, his hand at the nape of your neck. It would be comforting even now, yet impossible for you to ask for on several counts.

"I'm not even licensed for anything clinical, Buck," you sighed, looking back down at your shoes, worried about getting too lost in his eyes. "I'd just get in the way."

"I'm aware," he answered simply, "and no, you wouldn't."

You kicked a small pebble with your toe, watching it bounce between his feet. Deep down, you knew he wasn't expecting an answer right now. He really wasn't even expecting you to do it. It was just an offer of a distraction so you didn't wallow in grief.

"I'll think about it," you finally answered with a small smile, gaze tracking over his face.

He nodded, opening the car door for you further so you could slide in. "Try to get some sleep. It really was good to see you."

"You too."

Shutting the door and driving away with an easy wave, you mulled over the last few hours in your mind. How little building blocks had all snapped into place so you could end up here. It wasn't until you turned onto the road home that you realized his jacket was still draped around your shoulders. And now that if the heaviness of going through your grandmother's things got to be too much, you had a sliver of an excuse to show up and slide behind the reception desk as if no time had passed at all.

Sleep evaded you, like it always did in a new place. Ghosts of your childhood and the things you left behind had you tossing and turning for most of the night. If you had managed to drift off, it was dreamless, and interrupted by sounds of the house settling that you were no longer used to. You rose before the sun, intending to at least start clearing some of the easier parts of the house.

The kitchen felt like the safest place to start. Not to mention if you were going to tackle anything on your to do list, copious amounts of caffeine were going to be a necessity.

The cupboard always held seven mugs, six were from the set of china your grandmother had acquired on her wedding day. The single out of place mug was a chipped butter-yellow with lopsided daisies hand painted on it. One that you had presented her when you were no more than seven years old. And ever since then, you watched her pour coffee into it every morning, reserving the 'fancier' mugs for company.

No one was ever allowed to use it while your grandmother was alive…and you decided you'd like to keep it that way. Setting it on the counter, the flagship of the 'keep' pile, you started the ancient coffee maker and let the aroma of fresh coffee fill the kitchen.

There were only a couple of texts from Nick asking how you were. A fresh pang of guilt knocked against your ribs that you hadn't responded. That you were too busy reliving the past to fully remember the present. You sent off a simple response…

You [7:39 AM]

Morning! Slept OK, but it's been a lot to take in…hoping to make progress with the realtor today. Miss you xx

With your coffee mug in hand, your feet carried you to the solace of the backyard while you drafted an email to the local realtor in your head. The sun was still hiding behind the trees, but must've been barely over the horizon, as the sky was lightening to a pale purple.

Glancing sideways at the small herb garden where you'd found the bunny, there was a small indent in the greenery still visible. A small frown tugged at your lips. You didn't really know how the bunny was doing this morning after her little ordeal. Sure the wounds weren't that bad, and the fact that she survived the car ride alone should've been enough to calm your mind. Yet, as you moved back inside going room to room to take stock of what you needed to accomplish, the poor bunny still lingered in the back of your mind.

Along with the image of an empty reception area. If Bucky was truly short-staffed, who was going to be checking on her throughout the day? Considering you were the one to drop her in his lap, maybe you should just…

Then, your eyes landed on the borrowed jacket that had been draped over your shoulders last night, where it now laid on the back of the couch. You should return it, at least, and when you did that's when you could check in on the bunny.

You should also start adding more to the 'keep' pile and clean up a few of the more personal effects of your grandmother's so listing photos could be taken. But the thought of doing that felt insurmountable when you were worried about the little creature. And Bucky trying to run that place on his own…

So, with a half-drafted email waiting to be sent in your outbox and memories that you didn't have the mental capacity to untangle yet, you grabbed the jacket and your keys and left all responsibilities to wait.

The drive to the clinic was familiar now. You pulled into the parking lot just in time to see Bucky emerging from a house next door to the clinic, juggling a bag and a travel coffee mug, his keys held between his teeth while he situated everything into a comfortable hold.

Stepping out of your car, you waved sheepishly at him, fiddling with your own key chain. "You live around here?" you asked, once he was in earshot.

Really, you expected to surprise him, seeing as this was your second time showing up unannounced in less than 24 hours. Yet there were no signs of shock on his face, just a knowing smile and the hint of relief in his piercing gaze. "I live next door," he gestured to the house, key sliding into the lock. "Easier and faster to get here in case of an emergency. What are you doin' here?"

You held the jacket out like a peace offering, "I didn't want to steal your jacket, and…I was worried about the bunny."

His lips twitched at the corners while he held the door to the clinic open for you to pass through first. "I checked on her last night before I turned in, and she was doing great. You can go see for yourself if you'd like."

You walked to the back, lights flicking on overhead as Bucky wordlessly prepared his clinic for the day. The bunny was awake, moving as gingerly as she could through her bedding of straw to get to a small food bowl. She caught sight of you, twitching her nose as she ate. The bandages you had helped place were still intact, though you suspected Bucky would need help changing them soon.

Your cardigan had been folded carefully and placed next to the cage, no longer needed now that the bunny was safe and warm. Moving to pick it up, your eyes caught sight of a small placard that would normally get filled out during intake. In Bucky's semi-neat handwriting was the name 'Rosemary' along with a few progress notes.

"See? She's a real trooper; the first night is always the one to watch."

"Bucky you…you named her?" you asked, turning to look at him while he adjusted his lab coat over his shoulders.

"I did. Figured she might be staying a bit until she gets her strength up, and we can find a wildlife center to help us release her."

For a moment, you didn't say anything, turning to look back down at the tawny bunny - Rosemary - instead. You could sense Bucky pick up on something being wrong as he moved closer behind you. "Was that okay?" he asked, voice dipping now in concern.

Nodding quickly, you turned the cardigan over in your hands. "It's just….I mean…you named her after my grandmother?"

Bucky's composure completely faltered as he finally connected it, eyes going wide with surprise. "Oh! I - fuck - I only named her that because you said you found her in the herbs, and I didn't - I'm sorry."

You huffed a small laugh at his stumbling, really unnecessary apology. It wasn't like your grandma liked being called Rosemary anyway. She much preferred everyone call her 'Rose' or 'Grandma', even if they had no relation to her. "It's really fine, I just…wasn't expecting it. It suits her, though."

Bucky's mouth opened like he had more to say, but just outside the room, the bell jingled to announce that the first client had come in for their appointment. "Well, that's me. You'll be okay back here?"

Nodding, you glanced back at your cardigan in your hands.

"Hey," he said, hand already braced on the door to the front. "Seriously, you can stay as long as you need to."

"Thanks," you murmured, knowing what that offer was. Stay somewhere neutral if the house is getting too loud. And you really were grateful for it. The crushing weight of responsibility still sat in your chest, but it was easier here when glaring memories of the past weren't around every corner.

But sitting in a room with your thoughts while the bell jingled twice more, and the sound of an overexcited dog came from beyond the door, wasn't really helping either. A different kind of guilt hit then, when you knew you could help. You knew, roughly, where the client files were. You knew how to soothe owners when something slightly traumatic happened, and they were worried. You knew some patients would take longer, and a backlog would happen if intake forms weren't completed before Bucky saw them.

Setting the cardigan back down next to Rosemary's cage, where she had already curled up for a nap, you pushed your way to the front. Bucky was bent over the reception desk, fingers rifling through folders. "Let me," you said gently, moving to nudge him out of the way, but he had already stepped back before you got too close.

He gave a grateful smile, but didn't dwell further, showing the dog and her owner to one of the exam rooms. Orienting yourself was easy enough, or would have been. But whoever Bucky had manning the front had completely obliterated your filing system that you spent your entire last summer here working on.

"Who fuckin' organized these?" you grumbled under your breath, knowing you'd need to get this back into shape at some point. Even if you didn't plan on staying, the need to create efficiency was already eating away at you.

The bell jingled again, and you looked up to see an elderly woman with a cat carrier clutched tightly. "Well, I'll be, I didn't expect to see Rose's granddaughter here ever again."

You chuckled softly, recognizing her as one of the many whom you met at the funeral the day before. "Just getting my mind off things. What brings you in today?"

A sympathetic smile creased her face. "We're here for Figg's annual checkup." She raised the cat carrier a bit.

Nodding, you pulled the paperwork free, and began the simple process. Asking questions if anything was concerning or anything had changed since last time. "Take a seat and Doctor Barnes will be out here shortly." The line out of your mouth was standard once the paperwork was completed. Though it used to be 'Hensley' you said, and Bucky's surname coming from your lips felt a little foreign. Still, you couldn't stop the flare of warmth in your chest at knowing he fulfilled a dream he'd talked about since you were kids.

"You know, these used to be organized to perfection," you groused, sliding Figg's client folder to Bucky when he emerged from an exam room.

A look of amusement danced across his eyes as he picked up the folder. "I do know."

You settled behind the desk once they were out of sight, starting to reimplement everything back to perfection. Something about doing something menial with little emotional consequence was healing. Giving you the space to maybe come to terms with having to go through every one of your grandma's belongings.

The day began to run smoothly. You sorted paperwork, greeted patients as they came in, and tried to get your mind to clear as much as possible. It was a little alarming if you stopped to think about it too much. How easy it had been to slip back into a persona and exist in Bucky's presence. Despite the initial awkwardness of dinner the previous night, and a few moments where the space between you narrowed too close, the stiffness had dissipated slightly, leaning more towards two people who had always known how to coexist in the same space.

It wasn't until your phone buzzed under a particularly thick stack of papers that reality came to a head.

Texts from Nick asking how things were coming along had been sitting unanswered, and you'd been too caught up to respond. Right. You had been in the middle of an email when you had decided you'd needed to be anywhere else.

With a lull in the day, you opened the half-drafted email back up on your phone. But just as you were double-checking the contents before sending it, Bucky's voice pulled your attention.

"Would you mind helping me redress Rosemary's bandages?"

And just like that, your phone lay forgotten once more, a more important task needing your full attention.

Once the last patient of the day left, the clinic lights had been dimmed, and the front door locked, you returned to Rosemary for one last check-in.

"Thank you for staying. " Bucky said, with this being the first real chance the two of you had to be alone. "You really didn't have to."

"I did, though. Couldn't leave you stranded when all I was going to do was stand frozen in the hallway of grandma's house."

You were aware of his proximity as he moved closer, while he carefully deduced what an appropriate amount of space there should be between you. "The offer still stands, you know. With the house. I have the weekends free if you need an extra pair of hands."

"Speaking of an extra pair of hands, could I…come back tomorrow? It was nice getting away from the house." You hated how timid your voice sounded, asking for permission to be in a place he'd already said you could be. But you really didn't want to get in the way or cause a distraction. "I figured I'd rather sort through paperwork rather than grandma's things…"

You caught the small twitch of Bucky's fingers from your periphery. Like he wanted to reach for you in comfort, but wasn't sure if he should. "You don't have to ask, you know. Just show up if you want to."

There was a long, white box waiting on the doorstep of your grandmother's house when you arrived. Picking it up and seeing it was from a local florist, your first instinct was that this was a late funeral arrangement. Someone that your grandmother had befriended on her travels with you, who couldn't make it to this small town.

Already gathering a vase from the linen closet, your eyes were finally able to start making mental notes of what to do with the contents after clearing your head at the clinic that day. But when you opened the box, you didn't see what appeared to be a funeral arrangement. There were a few dozen pink and white tulips nestled in brown kraft paper, wrapped with a delicate lace ribbon.

Plucking the card carefully from the greenery before situating them in the vase, your heart thumped just slightly harder at the familiar scrawl on the white stationery.

Hope these help you smile. You'll be okay. - B

Your favorite flowers from an ex of the past, yet maybe… a friend of the present had your mind reeling. Though you couldn't linger on what the feeling of being seen in such a vulnerable way, without having to word it for too long.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, another dose of reality being poured down your throat for what felt like the thousandth time that day had just arrived.

Nick [6:42 PM]

What did the realtor say?

It was never meant to be something long-term. Maybe a week of clinic work at most until your head cleared enough to tackle the responsibilities of selling your grandmother's house. But by the second week of working a structured Monday through Friday, 8 to 5…a routine had been established.

You would arrive just as Bucky stepped out of his front door. Both of you would tackle the opening tasks separately, with you checking in on Rosemary, who was getting stronger every day.

The once messy files were now put back to their original glory, ready to be handed off to whoever Bucky decided to hire for this position. Who would hopefully keep it at least more organized than when you found it.

It became easier to breathe in the charm of the small town. Most everyone who came in recognized you as Rose's granddaughter, and would want to regale you with their favorite tales of your grandmother. Sometimes you'd be able to handle it, but others, Bucky learned to step in and redirect the conversation to the pet that was being seen. You weren't sure when he'd begun recognizing your grief was about to spill over unintentionally, but it was welcome. Like he'd never stopped knowing when to protect you, but the skill had waned while not in your orbit, only to sharpen with each day you kept showing up.

Sometime in that second week, the space you and Bucky carefully kept between you seemed to shrink. Until one day, poring over the appointment book to try to find room for a last-minute call in, the distance was nonexistent. Close enough that you registered the warmth radiating off of him, and practically feel the fabric of his shirt against your arm.

Neither of you moved to fix it, or place the wedge back. But you didn't acknowledge that something had shifted from when you first showed up with an injured bunny, either. The moment fleeting, as you solved the problem of squeezing in an appointment, and both resuming your separate tasks that didn't require such tight proximity.

In the middle of the third week, you realized that bereavement for your job that helped pay rent for an apartment in the city would be coming to an end soon, and you'd need to make arrangements. That combined with an onslaught of texts from Nick had reality continuing to press in from all sides.

Nick [11:23 AM]

How's the house coming along?

You [11:24 AM]

It's coming…still kind of hard to go into some rooms.

Nick [2:47 PM]

Did you ever hear back from the realtor?

You [2:58 PM]

Not yet, I still need to get some more cleaning done :(

Nick [7:15 PM]

Let me know if you need help finding an agent, I can pull some strings.

You [7:42 PM]

I think someone more local would be best, but I appreciate it. Love you xx

Somewhere along the way, his texts had become less about with your well-being, and more concerned that you hadn't been working towards the end goal of selling the house.

You still hadn't mentioned why you weren't really able to get much cleaning done. It wasn't a lie really, just a careful omission. You still hadn't been able to work up the nerve to go into your grandmother's room. Things did need to be cleaned for staging photos to be taken, but by the time you got back from a long day at the clinic, you didn't have the strength.

Not to mention, how were you supposed explain to your boyfriend of three years that the reason you're avoiding the house is because you're essentially working for your ex? You couldn't even explain to yourself why going to the clinic saved you from an emotional spiral that would've inevitably kept you rooted to your bed, and you didn't feel like you should until you had a concrete answer.

One weekend with the clinic closed, the storm clouds of your mind finally began to clear. The haphazard boxes that you'd started to stage around the rooms didn't seem quite so insurmountable. Determination flared the moment your eyes opened to the now familiar slatted ceiling and soft light filtering through the blinds, like the soul of the house had finally awoken and said 'let's start healing now'.

The living room was an easier place to begin, and maybe if you came home to visible progress, you'd be more inclined to keep moving ahead. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, you began with the bookshelf that stretched from the ceiling to the floor along half of the wall, filled to the brim with cookbooks, knickknacks, framed pictures, and the occasional phone book.

Three boxes marked 'donate', 'New York', and 'discard' followed you as you worked along the shelves, sneezing every so often as clouds of dust broke free. Just as you neared the top shelf closest to grandma's favorite arm chair, you spied a bundle of postcards tied with twine, wedged between two thick mystery novels. Once you got them free, a wave of emotion hit, paralyzing any more of the progress you would make today.

Dropping to the soft rug with your legs crossed you began flipping through them. Every single postcard you had ever sent your grandmother was saved in this bundle. Tangible evidence of everywhere you'd been able to explore now lay in front of you.

Lisbon, Edinburgh, Melbourne, Mumbai, Rio de Janeiro…

Reykjavík, Iceland. You ran a finger over the glossy image of a waterfall you'd seen in person, remembering the moment you got to cross it off your bucket list. Roughly a year after you left…the same time Bucky would've been -

You didn't allow yourself to finish that thought. Instead, you wrapped the postcards back up, gently set them in the New York box, and didn't sort anything else for the rest of the weekend.

That Thursday was what Doctor Hensley would call 'a hard luck kinda day'. Like no matter what happened, a disaster was around every corner. The culmination came when Bucky's last appointment ran longer than it should've. When he had to pause at the door of the exam room after some X-rays came back, and the news he had to deliver was going to be one of the most devastating things a pet owner had to hear.

Regrettably, you'd forgotten this part. How sometimes this job asked you to hold someone together while simultaneously tearing them apart. You sighed heavily, hearing a muffled cry from beyond the exam door. With no more appointments that evening, you locked the front door, dimmed the lights, and silenced the desk phone.

It never got easier, no matter how many times you'd witnessed it, but you would try your hardest to make the owner comfortable when they left.

And when they did, it was with a tear-stained face and a strangled goodbye, a leash twisted around their hands that no longer had a purpose. Bucky emerged a minute later, a look of pure devastation etched deeply into his face. "Can you - "

"I've already called the cremation facility." You answered before he had a chance to ask. "They'll be here in a half hour at most."

Bucky nodded, eyes downcast. "Thank you, bunny," he whispered before turning and making his way out of the back of the clinic. The nickname caught you off guard, touching a nerve that was connected directly to your heart. He hadn't called you that since it had slipped out when you first showed up at the clinic with Rosemary.

You left the reception desk, finding him sitting on the short concrete steps that led out of the back door. He looked smaller somehow, his shoulders sagging inwards like he'd forgotten why he'd wanted to get into this profession in the first place.

His eyes were glassy when he glanced sideways at you when you sat down on the steps beside him. Crystal clear and bluer than the sky after a rainstorm. Deciding that now was when the space between you narrowed into nothing in an attempt to comfort, your shoulder brushed his.

"They were one of the first clients that came in after I took over," Bucky whispered, looking down at his hands clasped between his knees. "I watched them grow up, and just…"

You knew no words would help at this moment in the grieving process, having heard all of the canned idioms people thought they should say when a soul passes on a few weeks ago at your grandmother's funeral. They still didn't help now if people tried to give them. Instead, your knuckles gently brushed against the back of his hand, ignoring the slight flare of anxiety and welling of emotion at the familiarity of it. When he didn't shrink back, your fingers worked in between his palms, freeing one of his hands from the other and putting yours in its place.

He didn't say anything more, but squeezed your hand a little tighter in thanks, while you both watched the sun set beyond the treeline.

That next morning, you lay in bed for longer than you meant to, replaying the scene from the evening before. Something had shifted the minute you decided to comfort Bucky with touch rather than words. Or maybe it had shifted before that, and your brain was only now catching up. Seeing each other for eight hours a day, five days a week so suddenly after a decade of silence was enough to close any distance you thought would still be here. You didn't want to examine that too closely, almost afraid of what it could mean.

So instead, you made coffee and went to the clinic like normal, pushing whatever feelings were rising back down where they belonged.

In the week that followed, Nick's texts took on a different edge. Like he was trying tactic after tactic to get you to hurry up and move on like you were a client of his he was trying to sway.

Nick [10:14 AM]

Seriously though, how long do you think this is going to take? I miss you.

You [11:58 AM]

She has a lot of stuff and I want to do this properly…I'll be back as soon as I can, I miss you too.

Nick [12:01 PM]

Well, my buddy knows a good real estate lawyer if you need a referral to see if this can get settled faster?

You [3:47 PM]

No, I think it'll be okay. There's really nothing to settle except some memories, and it's still a bit raw for me.

Nick [3:49 PM]

I just feel like I haven't properly talked to you in days…

You [6:07 PM]

I know, I'm sorry babe…I'll try to make it up to you soon.

Nick hadn't been completely wrong, when you thought about it. On your phone calls, you hadn't been fully present, and you knew it. But when the only thing he wanted to talk about was how the house was coming along and if you had emailed the realtor (you still hadn't), it became more of a performance to speak to him. Especially when you hadn't touched a single box since you had found the postcards and you still hadn't mentioned the clinic.

The realtor email was something that felt like a finality that you'd been putting off. Like the second you sent it, it was going to put into motion that you'd be leaving once again, and that there was going to be a deadline attached to your time here.

But being reminded over and over by Nick….something snapped in you during a midday lull.

The draft had been sitting in your outbox since the morning you had decided to return the jacket and check on Rosemary instead. You added a few extra sentences, that above all, whoever bought it had to have your full blessing before any papers would be signed. The 'woosh' sound that it had finally been sent felt almost like a cold bucket of water being dumped over your head.

It should have felt like relief. One less thing off your plate. But it felt like the opposite. Your sudden change in mood must've been clearly written on your face, or Bucky had simply relearned how to read you.

"Everything okay?" he asked gently, leaning against the reception desk.

"Yeah, just…just sent an email."

He didn't respond, only gave a single nod, and changed the subject. But the corners of his mouth tilted down like he already knew what the email could be and what it meant for him.

Anxiety began to loom once again as soon as the realtor responded with suggestions of open houses, staging times, and a listing price. You tried to ignore it, but it was like any excuses you afforded yourself had finally run dry. That weekend, you reached through the invisible barrier your mind had placed over your grandmother's bedroom and finally opened the door.

It looked perfectly preserved, like it had been waiting for her to come back. Her perfume was strongest in here, having been sealed in with you unable to open the door. The vintage-looking crystal bottle that held the perfume in question was sitting on the dresser, primed for use. With trembling fingers, you allowed yourself to pick up the bottle, running your thumb over the beveled edges, remembering how it was to sit in this room and watch her get ready for the day.

You sprayed a small amount on your inner wrist, the urge to bolt again for fresh air still prevalent, but not quite as urgent as it had been that very first day. And with it, every time you moved, the perfume wafted around you, like the spirit of your grandmother was indeed still here.

It helped you move through the room. Opening the closet to assess what needed to go where once the boxes were brought in, immediately placing her jewelry box in a makeshift 'New York' pile. Trying not to feel like you were snooping as you opened drawers that you would've never looked in if your grandmother were still around.

It was in the nightstand that you felt the beginning of an avalanche you didn't know how to stop.

Your grandmother's planner was in the top drawer. She always said she liked to make sure she crossed off every to do at night, and look at the day ahead when she woke up. Among the mundane things like doctor's appointments, planting schedules, and get-togethers she had planned, your name appeared every Sunday at 2 pm without fail. A weekly ritual you hadn't really forgotten, but had just chosen not to think too much on in fear of what it would do when you realized you no longer had it.

The Sunday after she passed, your name was underlined with a small note that said 'Ask her to come home.'

She never did ask you to come back. Instead, always packing a bag and making a trip to where you were in the world, and never once making you feel guilty for it. And even if she had asked, would you have brushed it off and said this place was behind you? Calling it a chapter of your life you'd already finished? Cradling the planner, you sank onto the bed, where you would often curl up against her side.

You still hadn't properly cried since you got the news and began funeral preparations. Always keeping your mind and hands busy…the clinic, filing, packing. Because falling apart normally meant that what had happened was a finality. And you hadn't been ready to let go of your grandmother in that way yet.

In the end, all it took was realizing that she wanted you to come back and that she was probably in some other plane of existence where people go when they leave, regretting that she never got to ask.

And in that moment, you lay against the pillows that had a lingering scent of her shampoo mingling with the borrowed perfume on your wrist and finally let the tears fall.

You cried until there was nothing left, whispering apologies to the room like your grandmother could hear you. Even though you knew she'd tell you there was nothing to apologize for, and that your journey would've wound up exactly where you were always supposed to be eventually.

That next morning felt lighter, once the weight of tears you'd been carrying had been shed. Only made brighter when you walked into the clinic to do your standard check-in on Rosemary. Her wounds had healed to the point that no more bandages were needed, and she had developed her own routine as soon as the lights of that room flicked on.

The moment she heard your voice, she hopped to the front of the hutch, having learned that your presence meant either food or attention. And she loved both.

"Oh, the rehab center called and said they'd be able to do an assessment on her next week," Bucky said from the doorway while you started to clean her cage. You could feel his eyes on you while you worked, quietly assessing your reaction to the news.

Nodding, you held your hand in the cage for a second longer than necessary, letting Rosemary nuzzle into your fingers before she moved to her food bowl. "I guess we'll see how she does," you smiled up at him before making your way to the reception desk to set up the files for the day's appointments.

It wasn't until you arrived home that evening, sinking onto the couch with a glass of wine, that you had the chance to finally check your phone. Your stomach dropping slightly at the number of notifications you had waiting.

Nick [9:04 AM]

Morning love <3 Any word from the realtor?

Nick [11:23 AM]

Do you know when you'll have a timeline?

Nick [3:21 PM]

I miss you… I don't like that you're still there all by yourself.

Nick [4:10 PM]

What's actually going on over there?

Nick [5:39 PM]

When are you coming back?

Nick [6:08 PM]

Wait, did you extend your leave? How much longer is this going to take?

You [6:42 PM]

I did…I just couldn't balance that work with the house and wouldn't have been able to give it my all. My performance would've suffered.

Nick [6:44 PM]

OK…

Conflicted didn't even begin to cover the pressure in your chest. You truly didn't have an answer as to when you'd be back or how much longer it was going to take.

And the days were flying by at a breakneck speed to the point that you had become comfortable in the house and with your current routine. Gone were the days of slouching over a keyboard, staring at three different monitors while noises of the city hummed beyond your too-small apartment.

Here, there was…peace. A calm you didn't know you missed until you allowed yourself to stop and appreciate it. You weren't sure when you'd begun to miss the hustle and bustle of the city, or when the image of your apartment had become too fuzzy to remember.

Or when you stopped looking forward to the thought of leaving again.

The thing with making someone wait for your attention was that eventually…they became too big to ignore.

In the middle of sending out email reminders for appointments and vaccine schedules, the bell above the door jingled.

Not even looking up, you began your standard greeting. "Welcome in, we'll be right - "

"Finally, I've been looking all over for you."

Your fingers stalled on the keys, the voice familiar, yet didn't belong in this realm of your world because you hadn't invited him in yet.

Nick stood expectantly in the middle of the clinic, dressed like he'd caught the first flight out after a long day at the office, with the rich scent of his aftershave so out of place it made your head spin.

It took several beats for your brain to catch up with what your eyes were seeing, and that you should register the feeling of happiness of seeing your boyfriend after weeks of being apart. But you only felt confusion and a slight annoyance as to why he was here in the first place.

He cleared his throat, opening his arms further, obviously expecting a much warmer greeting.

"What….what are you doing here?" you asked, finally rounding the desk and returning his embrace.

"I missed you?" he phrased it like a question and that it was the most obvious answer before pressing a quick kiss to your lips. "I thought you could use some help so you could come home sooner."

Nick's hands landed on your shoulders to hold you at arm's length, performing a quiet assessment like he would an asset before making an offer. "And imagine my surprise when I didn't find you at your grandmother's house and," he paused to wave his hands around the space that felt smaller with him occupying it, "here."

His sharp gaze met yours, and then you realized he was waiting for you to explain what here was. "I'm just…helping out. They were short handed and - "

"You've been working here?" His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Instead of - "

"Helping," you corrected quickly, placing your hands on his chest. "It's not - I really just needed somewhere to be that…wasn't the house."

"Love, you - "

That was the moment Bucky had seemingly decided to exit an exam room, cutting off Nick's sentence. "Hey, did the Bartons confirm or - oh."

It was like watching worlds collide in front of your eyes after the swinging of a door.

Realizing it was you who was in charge of introductions, you piped up to fill the awkward silence. "Oh, Bucky, this is my boyfriend, Nick. Nick that's - "

"Doctor Barnes," Bucky interrupted with the same tone you knew he reserved for difficult patients, extending a hand to Nick.

"Nick Fowler." The handshake was civil and brief, both men's smile not really meeting their eyes.

Bucky nodded. "I'll let you two catch up." And with that, he disappeared through the same door he'd just come out of.

Nick watched where he had disappeared for just a second longer than you thought necessary.

"Uhm, we can get lunch," you offered quickly, grabbing for your purse. "I'll show you the town."

Sitting in a booth at Frankie's, you quickly remembered that Nick always had loud opinions. And those were normally fine when dulled by the equally loud buzz of New York. But here, where things were quieter. And it made him stick out obnoxiously.

"It's…cute," was Nick's only praise while he barely looked up from his phone, food sitting untouched in front of him. "But I have some thoughts about the listing price of the house."

And that was all he said about a place that had been your solace for weeks. Cute. It shouldn't have landed wrong, it was a compliment after all. But he said it like it was an insult. Like he was a parent praising a child's finger painting.

That night, Nick had tried to convince you to go to his hotel. Stating something about it being weird to stay in the house and that he was already missing the amenities of the city. Strangely, he hadn't really said he missed you. You didn't push him to stay where he didn't want to be, but you felt the gap being widened between you and him even if this was the closest distance wise you had been in weeks.

The next morning, he showed up at the house bright and early, an easy smile on his face. "I figured I'd come help you pack," he offered, letting himself in without waiting to be invited. You knew he meant well, but it really was beginning to feel like he didn't want to be here longer than necessary while you were trying to get him to see the charm of this place.

"Nick, I have to go into the clinic today…"

"Oh, you're still - okay, um," he paused, hands on his hips as he looked around. "I'll go to the cafe then, I've got to get some work done anyway."

And that was that. His lips brushed yours in a rushed goodbye as he walked away, already talking on the phone to settle some sales pitch.

It wasn't until you stepped into the clinic that you realized you could breathe fully. Like you weren't walking on eggshells or performing or worried you were going to say the wrong thing. Bucky gave you a tight smile, but neither of you addressed the very clearly Nick shaped wedge that had surfaced. Instead, you worked around each other like normal. Letting the routine heal the staggering nerves that had for some reason started clawing at your insides.

That evening when Nick was helping you sort through a few boxes, taping them up and getting them ready to ship, he made the comment you'd been expecting. "You know you don't have to keep doing that. Volunteering for him."

"I know, but…I like it and the clinic does need help until someone fills that position."

Nick nodded like he understood, but you doubted he did.

The day of Rosemary's wildlife rehab assessment came, and when you mentioned it over breakfast to Nick, the only thing he managed to say was "So you'll be done at that clinic soon, then?" before directing the conversation to potential owners he had found for the house.

The foundation of your relationship with Nick continued to crack after that.

You watched with bated breath as the wildlife rehabilitator carefully took Rosemary out of her cage. He examined the now fully healed wounds where the fur was just beginning to grow back, jotting something down on a clipboard. Once she was set back down on the metal exam table, Rosemary hopped straight to you. She sat back on her haunches and looked at you expectantly, nose twitching with what you supposed was indignation of being handled by a stranger and to remind you that her breakfast was late.

The wildlife rehabilitator immediately confirmed what you'd probably already known. Rosemary had become too accustomed to humans and wouldn't survive on her own in the wild if released. You and Bucky exchanged a glance, a silent conversation happening with one single stare. "I"ll keep her," Bucky offered, watching you cradle Rosemary before gently putting her back in the safety of her cage.

Over dinner, you told Nick about your day, casually mentioning that Rosemary would be staying with Bucky for the foreseeable future.

"How well do you know him? Barnes," Nick asked, focusing on something on his fork instead of you.

You bristled only slightly, giving the bare minimum. "Pretty well, we went to the same high school, and worked at the clinic together."

He nodded, corners of his lips downturned, and didn't say more about Bucky. But did continue to make arrangements around 'the asset' as he had begun calling the house.

The cracks became fully noticeable and not something you thought you could fix when Nick showed up unannounced at the clinic the next day, offering to take you to lunch.

You had already agreed, standing to go let Bucky know that you'd be right back when he appeared from the back, head too buried in a file to notice Nick was there. "Hey bunny, did you get the Maximoffs their vaccine records they requested or - " he stopped as you stiffened. The nickname ringing through the clinic like a death knell. Ever since that evening on the steps after the euthanasia, he had tentatively begun calling you that again. And - a minor fault of yours - you let him. Allowing yourself to be swept away with the comfort it gave you.

To Nick's credit, he didn't cause a scene then and there, but there was a storm swirling behind the stare he shot at Bucky.

"I'm so sorry - didn't really realize - I'll - " and with that, Bucky disappeared to the back again, but the damage had well and truly been done. Maybe it had been done for a while, but you were trying to hold the foundation together with temporary band-aids.

Nick cleared his throat, giving you a once-over before saying, "I'll just see you tonight."

He came to the house that evening after your shift like he had been doing since he arrived. Normally, he picked up dinner, and had his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. But tonight, he was empty handed.

The door had barely shut before he said it. "Bunny."

You had been braced all day for this fight the second bunny slipped from Bucky's mouth. "It's just a nickname," you tried to play it off.

He folded his arms across his chest, head dropping like he was trying to solve some sort of puzzle. "Why did he call you that, though? That's not something you call an employee. Or volunteer or whatever the hell it is you're doing."

"It's just a silly nickname, it doesn't mean anything."

Nick shook his head briefly, still not meeting your eyes. "From when?"

He was backing you further and further into a corner. "High school," you answered.

"Did you date him?"

You looked up at the ceiling with a deep sigh. "Yep." There really was no sense in lying about it now.

"So you've been working for an ex-boyfriend for weeks and you didn't think that was something I needed to know?" his voice sharpened.

"I really didn't think you'd understand. We worked at the clinic together in high school and - "

"Bunny," he said again, cutting you off, something calculating behind his narrowing eyes once again. "Like your tattoo."

Your hand brushed over the spot on your hip almost like a shield, where you did indeed have a small bunny tattoo. No one had questioned it before, because they thought it was something you got on a silly whim. And yet here it was, the true meaning behind it being cracked open.

"How long have you had it?" he asked, eyes trained to where your hand lay over it.

You chewed your bottom lip. "A while."

His voice quieted. "Did you get it for him?"

Shutting your eyes, you nodded quickly.

"This is just," Nick shook his head again in disbelief, turning away from you. "You had a life, a real career. And you're talking about throwing it away to file paperwork for…for him."

"I came back for my grandmother. This is not about him," you clarified.

"We've been together two fucking years, and you never brought him up. Or this boring ass town. And yet all of a sudden, your grandma dies and you want to be back here? For what? Help me understand, because this all just seems like a dead end."

"See, that's the problem isn't it?" you asked, voice raising in pitch to match his. "You don't understand. All you've done since you got here is try to sell the house and belittle every fucking thing without trying to see it from my perspective first."

"I thought that's what you wanted! When you left you said you just needed to settle your grandma's estate and you'd be back."

"Maybe what I wanted changed!"

"Does that include me?"

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. As you tried to reach for the most diplomatic answer. Though to Nick, your silence must have been answer enough, as you averted your eyes further. Because at this point, after watching him interact with a place you had fallen in love with again, you realized you couldn't be with someone who looked down on this town the way that he did.

"I see," he whispered. "Guess we're done then." he said it like he'd won a prize. Like he'd been expecting this and had been waiting for the culmination of it for longer than just today.

You gave a single nod, eyes looking down at the rug instead of him. "I guess so."

He scoffed, brushing past you to the front door. "I'll mail you your stuff so I don't inconvenience you by asking you to leave this place again."

And with a final door slam, rattling the pictures on the walls, he was gone. The silence he left behind deafening. But as finite and heavy as the silence felt, it was nothing compared to the weight that had been lifted off your shoulders. Of trying to live two separate lives at once while ignoring what felt like an inevitability.

Though losing a relationship in such an explosive way was never easy, and what you really needed before you spiraled into an uncontrollable mess was…

You picked up your car keys, hoping to go to the only place of comfort you had ever known.

You sat in the parking lot of the clinic longer than you probably meant to. Worried that you were disturbing Bucky after a long day. Probably made longer after your relationship with Nick silently imploded midday and you hadn't returned.

Soft light was filtering onto the flowerbeds from the curtained windows, so you at least knew he was awake and home. You approached the door like it might bite you, or tell you to get lost and that you no longer had claim to the comfort he brought you. But Bucky's words of 'if you ever need to be somewhere that isn't the house' echoed in your head. Sure he may have been talking about the clinic, but your mind had equated that to him as well, and how the thoughts quieted in his presence.

When you knocked, he opened the door not long after. Hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly, dressed in a black t shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, and dark sweatpants.

A look of wide eyed confusion flickered across his face while he took in your appearance, not all that different from the first time you dropped into the clinic unannounced.

"I…didn't know where else to go," you shrugged, looking down at your feet.

"That's okay, come in." he assured, opening the door wider and letting you pass.

The living room felt like the embodiment of him, warm and minimally decorated. Cozy in the same way a cup of coffee is during a fall rainstorm. A lamp was on in the corner next to a record player that was spinning something, but the needle had been lifted so no sound was coming out.

"Can I get you anything?" he offered, watching you orient yourself in his space.

Several things ran through your mind at once of what you wanted, each seemingly more and more unattainable. Sinking onto the couch with wobbly knees, wrapping your arms around your body like a shield. "A drink would be nice."

"What do you drink now?" he asked quietly. "Surely your tastes have changed from the dollar store boxed wine you used to sneak."

You mustered as close to a smile as you could , eyes watering at the fact that he remembered the rebellious teenager you used to be. "Whatever you're having is fine."

Bucky returned with two small tumblers of amber liquid, placing one in your hands. You murmured a thanks, turning the glass between your palms when you heard him fiddle with the record player in the corner of the room, lifting the needle back onto something soft and ethereal.

He settled beside you, as far away on the couch as he could, just enough to give you some space if you needed it.

"Nick and I broke up," you finally said, taking a large sip of what you deduced to be whiskey, the liquid immediately warming your chest.

Bucky nodded, slowly swirling his own glass in his hand like he had already known the second he opened the door to find you standing there. "I figured, after…my mess up earlier. Are you okay?"

"Not really," you huffed a dry chuckle, finishing the whiskey. "And it wasn't your fault."

The silence lingered like it had the first night the two of you went to the diner. But this wasn't awkward or loaded with expectations. Silence between you and Bucky had morphed over the past few weeks into something you found comforting. It's probably why you subconsciously decided to show up at his doorstep. Yet after everything that had transpired with Nick the past few days, it felt like something finally had to give and you needed to fill it.

"I owe you an apology," you sighed, leaning forward to put the glass on the table.

"You don't - "

"I do, Buck, I - please just let me," you turned towards him, something still guarded in his expression.

His eyes roamed your figure, sensing the determination behind your words and he sat back against the couch cushions. "Okay."

You stood, unable to say the hard parts while sitting still. Maybe that's why you weren't able to do it in the diner. There wasn't enough room to get your thoughts out.

"I'm sorry for never coming back like I promised," you started, beginning to walk back and forth in front of the couch where he sat. "I'm sorry I left in the first place, that was really fucking selfish, but - I should've at least called. Sent you a card or something on your birthday or the holidays instead of just - "

Your hands found your hips, eyes glaring at some nondescript spot in the dim room, before you began pacing again.

"I was in fucking…Iceland," you blurted, waving a hand at nothing. "When the fire happened. I figured it out a few weeks ago when I found some postcards I sent and - " you stopped, letting out a frustrated laugh. "I was standing in front of a waterfall I'd been dreaming about for years and you were - "

"Don't apologize for that," Bucky tried to interject, but the thread you were currently unraveling couldn't be stopped.

"I know you made peace with it, I know you know there's nothing that I could've done, but I would've…if grandma would've told me - " you stopped again, the thoughts now not coming out in the correct order, brain working faster than your mouth could move.

"She had 'ask her to come home' written in her planner for the Sunday after she died. She was going to ask me to come back. And - and she never got to. I don't know what had changed for her want to ask me that. And it just feels like - " Tears were now free falling, words tumbling out even faster.

"Hey," Bucky's voice finally broke through your own, and he was standing in front of you. "I know," he nodded. His hands raised settling on your shoulders first and then drifting up to cradle your face. "I know."

"No, that's - I don't - "

"It's okay, we're okay," he said, softer this time. Thumbs wiping away the tears that were collecting on your cheeks. His hands were a welcome weight on your skin. One familiar, one not, the cool touch of the prosthetic felt different, but not wrong. Still…him.

Bucky was now closer than he had ever been, your chest brushing his with each shuddering inhale. There was something unguarded in his expression when you opened your mouth to start the spiral again, but he shook his head, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "We've always been okay."

"You can't mean that. Not after I just…disappeared."

"We both agreed all those years ago that was best," he reminded you. "Might've been slightly misguided, but…"

His voice trailed off, something left lingering between you as he stepped closer, body pressed to yours completely. "I never stopped loving you, you know."

The words hung in the air. Suspended by the dreamlike reverb of whatever record he had chosen. Rendering you speechless after you had just spilled the contents of your heart.

A rush of memories flashed in your vision. The first time he had said 'I love you' in history class when you were barely sixteen, the times he whispered it against your hairline during school dances and beyond, the first time you'd given each other everything, the last time you had heard it in that diner booth before you started to travel…and yet, him saying it now had healed twenty-year-old you who thought you'd never get to hear those words from his lips again.

"You - " you thought about repeating it, but with everything that had happened since that morning, it was a snap decision to start acting on your feelings instead of continuing the spiral that had kept you frozen from your true desires for far too long.

Your own hands lifted to mirror his hold, cradling his jaw the way he cradled yours. His eyes hadn't stopped darting around your face ever since he had said those seven words. Like he was worried you were going to disappear when they finally registered in your brain.

And when they did, you didn't run like you had been recently whenever things got too weighted. Instead, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his, allowing yourself to finally melt into him fully.

An explosion of time and fate, your mind had finally caught up to what you had been barrelling blindly toward for weeks now. His hands dropped from your face, arms wrapping tightly around your back like he planned to keep you there for all of eternity.

Bucky kissed you back, carefully at first, a sound of surprise escaping his throat like he couldn't believe what was happening. His lips tasted of whiskey, but underneath that, familiarity and comfort. Your arms wove around his neck, pressing your body to his, needing space to no longer exist between you.

The heat, the lingering tension of two people who had once given each other everything was rising steadily. His lips wandered from yours slowly, moving to your jaw, to your cheeks, tongue daring to erase the salt lines of your now dried tears. And you let him. Allowing him to explore the terrain of your features while your fingers twisted in the soft material of his shirt; an exploration of your own occurring along the muscles of his chest as he began to walk you backwards towards the couch.

"I've been wanting to kiss you since you walked into the clinic," he whispered, maybe more to himself than you as the backs of your knees hit the cushions. Each word was punctuated by a kiss somewhere on your skin, like his lips were magnetized and could not spend more than a second away.

A fire flared low in your belly, radiating out to your fingertips that had gotten bolder, taking the journey traveled so often underneath his shirt, tracing the ridges and dips of his skin. Once known completely by memory.

When you sank onto the plush couch, Bucky followed. His knees hit the rug, slotting himself between your thighs immediately. His mouth had moved to your neck, searching for the spots that used to leave you shaky and breathless, testing to see if they still did.

His hands radiated with unbridled tension as they trembled where they landed on your waist. Fingers dared to slide under your shirt, a sigh escaped from his mouth against your skin like he'd been waiting for this moment for far too long. "Can I?" he whispered in your ear, goosebumps erupting down your neck and arms.

You nodded quickly, leaning back so he could fling your shirt across the room. His mouth was back on you, restraint waning with each passing second, continuing a slow, almost agonizing descent. Moving over the swell of your breasts, down your sternum, teeth occasionally grazing your sensitive skin until his fingers dipped below the waistband of your jeans.

"C'mon bunny," he pleaded to the barrier of your jeans, fidgeting with the button and zipper. "Please let me, I've missed her."

Huffing a laugh, you ran a hand through his hair, reveling in the desperation behind his widened pupils and kiss swollen lips. "Go ahead," you chuckled, the sound quickly replaced by a sharp inhale when he pulled you to the edge of the couch.

A low, desperate but barely there growl sounded from between his teeth. With permission, his fingers made quick work sliding the denim off. Bucky's head lowered to continue working down your body. Until he saw the faded ink of your tattoo in the low light.

His jaw slackened on an inhale, like he wanted to say something, but words escaped him. He briefly shook his head instead, thumbs hooking into your panties to draw them down your legs.

Bucky's lips parted, tongue brushing over the tattoo briefly and then moved closer to your aching center. It was slightly frustrating, to say the least. He seemed to be taking his time, while your body had been missing his for ten years. "Bucky…" you whined softly, trying to use your thigh to push him where you needed him, but his arms were faster. Wrapping under your thighs so you couldn't move.

"When'd you get it?" he asked, not looking up, focused instead on your lower belly, kissing right above your clit.

"What?" Every one of your nerve endings was on edge and he wanted to talk about this now?

His finger tapped twice on the tattoo just as his tongue finally grazed your clit. Your body jolted, legs straining against his hold. "Please tell me when you got it," he pleaded again, voice deeper as his tongue ran through your folds once more.

"Uh - I - fuck…" you gritted out as he continued the slow, even movement. He may have forgotten how to exist in your presence momentarily, but there was no denying that he had never forgotten how to please you.

"C'mon bunny, tell me," his dark gaze lifted, meeting your glazed eyes while he continued to tease. A smirk raised the corners of his mouth, one thick finger circling your entrance, moving in tandem with the devastating pace he'd set.

"Two years after I -" you managed, but got cut off by a moan when that finger slid slowly in, lips sealing around your clit.

Bucky pulled back, leaning his head against your thigh. His blue eyes now dancing with amusement watching you squirm while his finger never ceased the slow curling motion that had your back arching for more. "After you left?" he finished for you.

He kissed along your inner thigh, stubble leaving a slight scratch in his wake while he moved back to the tattoo.

You nodded, reaching for him, to put his head back where it belonged between your thighs, but he resisted, batting your hands out of the way with his that wasn't slowly driving you to madness.

"Why?" he asked innocently, thumb now circling along the bundle of nerves with featherlight pressure.

You whined in frustration. "Do we really have to do this now?"

"Yeah, think we do. Bunny," he laughed softly against your skin, kissing the tattoo once more, and then turned his head, finally flattening his tongue along your clit. "Go on, now."

He finally stopped teasing, allowing your hands to fly to his hair in muscle memory. "I - I missed you," you stuttered out, the languid pace feeling more like he was savoring a feast.

"Mhm," he hummed, the vibrations of it making head fall back and thoughts to scatter.

"I was in - " you moaned something that might have been considered Bucky's name, "I don't remember, but I -" you stopped to cry out again. He pushed another finger in, like he thought the problem with you blanking on the story was that you weren't full enough of him.

"It was your birthday and I was sad I wasn't here for it, so I got it on a whim to make you feel closer to me while I traveled, and fuck please don't stop." The words spilled out in one breath as your thighs shook next to his ears.

Your answer seemingly satisfied his curiosity, gone was the slow pace he'd set replaced by a hunger that hadn't been satisfied in a decade. His name fell from the tip of your tongue like it had been perched there for the same amount of time, as sparks flared up your spine, release crashing over you in rocking waves.

His fingers and tongue slowed, withdrawing completely. His hands found your waist again, lips kissing the tattoo one more time before traveling back up to your mouth. Still trying to catch your breath, you draped your arms limply over his shoulders, returning the kiss. He groaned into your mouth, his own arms snaking around your middle to pull you against him.

"Bedroom?" he asked, voice sounding hopeful and wrecked while you were still hazy, mind fuzzy, savoring your own taste on his lips.

"Bedroom," you confirmed. With a deep grunt, he lifted you off the couch. Your legs locked around him on instinct while he staggered through the house until he nudged open the door to his bedroom. Turning, he sank onto the bed, situating you on his lap.

A slight impatience took over your movements, yanking the hem of his shirt over his head. It was then you caught the first glimpse of the extent of his injury, making you pause. A clean scar sat where his shoulder used to continue, where the black and gold prosthetic was attached. "Can - " you didn't finish the question, fingertips already ghosting over the raised edges. "Does - can - "

"I can feel things," he confirmed, letting you come to terms with this new part of him at your own pace. "Even if I couldn't, I don't think I could forget what you feel like."

You gently guided him down to lay on the bed, kissing his mouth first, then moving in your own familiar path down places you knew made him impatient. But not before pressing your lips against the scar tissue, offering an apology. Whispering it in your mind and transferring it from skin to skin.

Continuing down over the planes of his chest that had grown hair since you last visited them. Teeth gently sinking into the soft skin over hard muscle of his belly. A trail of coarser hair disappeared under the waistband. You didn't ask permission, as your thumbs dipped below, smiling against his skin at his sharp intake of breath. Permission was given in the form of his hips raising and you tugging his pants down.

His cock landed heavy against his stomach, flushed, hard, and leaking for you already. Mouth watering, having already wasted too much time not being here you leaned forward, tongue dragging slowly from the base to the tip.

Bucky tensed under your touch, letting out a strangled sound. Your eyes flicked up to his face, smiling while you wrapped a hand around his length, seeing the veins protrude from his neck and arm while trying to keep some form of composure. Your thumb swirled along the reddened tip, spreading the precum before your lips parted, pressing a kiss in the mess you made. A near involuntary moan left your throat at his taste.

He inhaled sharply again, his hand finding purchase on your head, brushing any stray hairs away from your face. With your tongue resting on the thick vein on the underside, you allowed your mouth to part, taking his length fully into your mouth.

He let out a dulcet grunt, fingers flexing against your scalp. "Oh fuck I've missed your mouth," he breathed while you slowly bobbed your head up and down on his cock. The taste of him had always been addictive to you, something you didn't realize how much you missed until you had gone without it for so long.

Bucky had been vocal, you remembered. But his voice was deeper now, taking on a sharper edge while you worked, sending heat rushing through you all over again. The second he hit the back of your throat, his hands moved, patting your arms and grabbing your chin with a gentle urgency. "Can't be finishing in your mouth like a teenager, sweetheart, hop up here. I need to feel you."

You laughed, letting him pull you back onto his lap. He adjusted, back hitting the headboard while your thighs landed on either side of his hips. There wasn't a preamble to be had anymore, one of his hands guiding your hips down, the other fisting his cock to line it up with your entrance.

Sinking down onto him felt like you were finally coming home. Like it was a missing piece of a puzzle you'd tried to solve in a different room. Your forehead dropped, leaning against his, allowing your body to adjust to the welcomed stretch.

"She feels just like I remember," Bucky whispered, hips bucking slightly like he couldn't help it. "Perfectly fucking made for me."

In such an intimate position, overwhelming pleasure and devotion trickled down your spine. Feeling the passion radiating from his embrace as his arms wove around your back, one warm resting on your shoulder, the other slightly cooler, holding you steady on your waist. You moved slowly, wanting to savor the sweetness of finally being where you were supposed to be for as long as possible. And he let you, allowing you to set the pace with only slight twitches of his cock when it dragged against a certain spot.

"Why didn't you ever come back?" he exhaled shakily, breath mingling with yours. You were sure he was rambling. Asking a question to the room and not really expecting an answer.

You hummed, already gasping broken moans quietly as your hips circled. "I didn't think you wanted to see me ever again." The answer honest, finally breaking free.

The hand on your shoulder drifted to the nape of your neck, coaxing you to look at him fully. "You've always been it for me, bunny." His blue eyes two crystalline pools of vulnerability, laying his emotions out raw and hoping that you wouldn't try to run again. "No matter how long you were gone.

"You've always been it for me too." You said, hands coming up to cradle his face. "I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it."

His palm guided you forward, mouths meeting again as the pace became less about savoring, more about letting everything go that you'd been holding back for a decade.

Whispered words of love, of devotion, of pleasure mixed with the sound of skin on skin. A new desperation took over. Bucky held your hips, slamming up over and over, his cock hitting the spot only he knew how to reach that had your mind blanking except for his name over and over again.

Breathless moans turned ragged, until your body clamped down on his, fingers dug into each other's skin like the fact that he wasn't buried as deep as he could be was close enough. You felt the twitch and throb of his cock as he held you against his body, the heady feeling of his own release right after yours spreading through your veins until you slumped forward into the safety of his embrace.

In the afterglow, Bucky held you close, sliding down the headboard to lay flat against the pillows. All the while peppering any skin he could with gentle kisses like it was impossible for him to not to have his lips on you. Like he was making sure you were actually here.

The only thought you could muster in that moment as sheets were pulled over your bodies and your brain was still soft around the edges was that this was what home should feel like. This was the feeling you had been chasing around the world, and it took you leaving first to realize it.

"I'm done running, I think," you whispered into the crook of Bucky's neck.

"Yeah?" even behind the tiredness of his voice, the hope that you were finally coming back here, back to him was unmistakable.

You nodded, fingers tracing over his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart that you had somehow never forgotten. The rhythm lulling you into a deep, even sleep.

One Year Later

A chipped butter yellow coffee cup with hand-painted daisies clinked down on the metal outdoor table next to a vase of fresh pink and white tulips. Steam curled into the early morning air as Bucky sat down in the patio chair next to yours.

"I found a good flight to Iceland, by the way," his voice broke through your drifting thoughts while you watched Rosemary happily hop around in her handmade hutch situated by the herb garden where she had been rescued. "We would leave right after the reception."

You smiled, twirling the ring around your left finger. Vacating your chair, you planted yourself on his lap instead. "Yeah? I can't wait for you to see it," you whispered against his lips.

Bucky's head tilted back to look at you fully. The rising sun catching the look of pure adoration and contentment in his eyes. With a slow smile spreading across his face, while he wrapped his arms further around your waist, "And I can't wait to be married to you."

Lore Drop (as promised): On August 21, 2025, I had to make the incredibly difficult and unexpected decision to put my soul dog to sleep. Anyone who's ever lost a pet knows that this emotional pain is really unlike any other. I still cry every day about him, and miss him more than I can really put into words. I named the diner in this fic after him as a small memento. Suffice it to say that when I spun the wheel we used to choose our Barbie Bucky careers and I got veterinarian, my first instinct was to channel the grief of losing an animal and having Veterinarian Bucky be there to make it better. I sincerely hope everyone enjoyed this story way more than whatever grief fest I almost dragged y'all into lmao. A massive, giant thank you to @miraclediviner again for putting this together. Another thank you to Stantastic for welcoming me in with open arms when they asked me to join. I really don't know where I'd be without any of y'all, and I'm so grateful to have all of you in my life.

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @/miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain

Bucky Only: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @phantom-wolf-girl @optimisticchildtyrant @sassandscribbles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @procrastination20 @mathcat345 @highhopes1008 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @scarletkanami

Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357 @erina00 @buckytakethewheel @buckysdecaflove

As you moved into the hall, you were surprised to find Ransom’s door wide open. The far bedside lamp was on, but his bed was empty. But when you went downstairs, none of the lights were on. You cautiously flipped on the light in the kitchen, checking around, but the whole floor was empty. That was a bit odd, but not enough to interrupt your mission. You went straight to the pantry and got out the jar of peanut butter, grabbing a spoon from the drawer. As you were about to go back upstairs, something outside, by the back door, caught your eye. You stopped and waited until you saw movement again, so you cautiously moved forward and peeked your head outside. Ransom was standing a few feet to the side of the door, his gaze on the trees that lined the yard. There was a glass of whiskey in his hand, but it looked untouched.

You came out to stand next to him, closing the door behind you. “Sorry,” he said, very quietly, “did I wake you?”

You weren’t sure how that could have happened, when he was standing alone in the dark, completely silent. “No,” you answered. “I was just hungry.”

He glanced down at what you were holding. His nose wrinkled. “You’re eating peanut butter straight from the jar.”

“Yup,” you confirmed with a smile. “It was the only thing we had that sounded good. What I really want is a burger to dip in it.”

He raised his eyebrow at you. “A burger? To dip in peanut butter?”

“Uh huh! With extra pickles and extra mustard. And jalapeños.” Your stomach gave a little rumble, as if to cement your position on the matter.

Ransom wrinkled his nose. “That sounds disgusting.”

“Yeah,” you agreed with a sigh. “I want it so bad.”

“So I guess that means your appetite is back.”

“Yeah,” you gave him a relieved smile. “Finally.”

He nodded. “That’s good,” he said, quietly.

You waited a beat, comfortable in the silence, and then asked, “What are you doing up?”

He shrugged, looking back out at the trees. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Mmm,” you hummed in response. You could have gone back in, finished your snack, gone back to bed. But you didn’t. You weren’t sure why. But you settled in next to him and looked out at the trees.

After several minutes, he added, “My brain just won’t turn off.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, not turning your attention to him.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly. There was another very long beat before he continued, “I’m not going to be good at this.”

“Good at what?” you asked softly.

He shrugged, resolutely not looking at you. “Any of this. I have no idea how to be a father.” He swallowed, swirling around the ice in his drink but not taking a sip. “Or a husband. I don’t know how to be good at it.”

“Oh,” was all you said at first, his words landing in your chest. Then, “I don’t know how to do it either, be a wife or mother. Or,” you stopped, remembering all of your mother’s words and advice since you were a little girl and how hard you’d been trying to shut them out recently. “I guess I know how to be a certain version of a wife, but I don’t think that’s the kind I want to be.”

He finally looked at you, his eyes soft, a deep blue in the dark. “Like your mom, you mean.”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Hmm…” another swirl of his glass, “was she a good mom? To you?”

“Um…” you started, fully turning your head away, but you still felt his eyes on you. “I don’t know. I guess–“ You sighed. You knew the answer even though you didn’t want to say it. “No. No, I don’t think she was. Not in a malicious way, she just- I don’t think she ever had the capabilities. I think she was too beaten down by the time I came along. She loved me in the only way she was able, but… But maybe that wasn’t enough.” You blinked back a few tears and shook your head. The steady chirping of crickets filled the quiet. You tried to let it calm you.

“My parents never loved me,” Ransom said after a long enough beat for you to pull yourself together. “I know that for sure. They’d tell you they do, but they don’t. I’ve known it since I was a kid.”

You put the spoon in the peanut butter and set it down on the patio next to you. With both hands you cradled your stomach. You were starting to really notice it changing, now that you were officially in your second trimester. Now that there was no reason to try to hide it. “I want to love them so much, but I just, I’m afraid I won’t know how.”

Ransom put his glass down on the ledge behind him and then took a step towards you. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you very carefully. Then he took another step, reached a hand toward your middle and stopped. “Uh, do you mind if– Can I?“

It took you a moment to understand what he was asking for. Then, “Oh! Uh, yeah, sure.” You moved your own hands from your belly to make room for his. He carefully put both hands on you, cradling whoever was inside. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even really look up at you. But he stood there for a long time, holding you so gently, staring at your stomach like maybe if he stared hard enough, he could unlock some secret of the universe.

Eventually, you broke the silence, speaking softly in an effort to not disturb the peace you felt here in the dark. “I think,” his eyes shot up to meet yours at the sound of your voice. You gulped at the intensity of his gaze but kept going. “I think that as long as we try, we’ll be giving them more than we ever got. Maybe it still won’t be enough, but, it’ll be something. We just have to try.”

Ransom visibly swallowed, then looked you right in the eye and nodded. He took a step back and picked up his drink from where he’d left it, but he still didn’t drink it. He seemingly just needed something to do with his hands.

You stood in companionable silence for another long moment. Just as you were readying yourself to leave him alone with his thoughts and go back to bed, he spoke again. “What do you think about this house?”

“What?” was the only thing you could say to the strange abruptness of the question.

He was staring absently into the house now, a pronounced crease between his brows. “I keep trying to imagine a little kid running around here and I just can’t.”

Oh. You remembered back to that first day when you found out you were pregnant. You’d tried and failed to do the same thing. “No, I guess I can’t really either. And–“ you paused, finding your words, and he turned his attention to you, “when I first got here, I remember thinking that there was nothing in this house that seemed to have anything of you in it.”

He looked back into the living room through the large windows. “Linda got me this house when I turned twenty-five. It was already decorated and fully furnished when I moved in. I don’t know, I guess it was just the place I lived. Nothing more. And I never really thought about it.”

You didn’t say anything in response. He was clearly thinking through something. You took the moment to look at him, here in just the light coming out through the window. He looked different, you thought, now that you were actually getting to know him. Softer, maybe. Or smaller? Or, just, more like him.

“Maybe,” he said after several moments, “maybe it could be good to find a new place. Somewhere that fits all of us.”

“Yeah,” you said, quietly, a warmth moving through you. “Yeah, that could be really nice.”

He hummed in affirmation, and finally took a sip of his drink, before decisively putting it down again.

He didn’t say anything more, so you decided it was a good time to head back to bed. You quietly moved to the door, then stopped and turned back to him. “Hey, Ransom,” you called. He looked up at you, questioning, ready. “There’s still so much about this that really scares me, but I don’t think I’m scared of doing it all with you. Not anymore.”

The way he held your gaze at that was intense. Like he could really see you. And you could see him too. He swallowed roughly and then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. It came out rough. “Me too.”

You just looked at each other for a few more seconds. Then, with your hand on the door, you nodded back at him. “Okay. Well, goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” he said, soft and quiet. You felt his eyes on you until you were all the way inside.

Once you got upstairs, your room was empty. You went across the hall, and sure enough, Lola was curled up next to Ransom’s pillow. You smiled to yourself then went back to your room, leaving the door open, just a bit, a little dog-sized crack, in case either of them changed their minds.

You shouldn’t have been surprised how quickly things moved after that. If you’d learned anything about him it was that once he’d made up his mind about something, he acted quickly. The next week, Ransom had set up a meeting with a real estate agent—completely unaffiliated with his mother—and a week after that you were looking at houses. It felt surreal, actively making plans for your future family. But as the growth of your stomach became more noticeable every day, that future was starting to feel a lot more like your present.

There were some differences, it’d turned out, in how you and Ransom had pictured that future. You’d had your sites set on somewhere in Boston proper. Ransom’s empty neighborhood only added to your feelings of isolation and you were sick of it. You missed your apartment in downtown LA. and you wanted something urban again. You wanted parks and restaurants and walkability and culture. You wanted noise and activity and life.

Ransom couldn’t understand that. Especially with a baby on the way. He wanted privacy and quiet and space. But Ransom had a car he loved driving. Ransom had a job that got him out of the house everyday. Ransom had never had to worry about feeling isolated.

So you silenced the voice in your head that always sounded like your mom and put your foot down. This new life you were starting together would not involve another house that didn’t have neighbors. A house that made you feel like a ghost. A house that cut you off from society. So you stared Ransom down until he threw his hands up in exasperation.

Your real estate agent Deborah did her best to bridge the gulf between you, mostly looking at inner-ring suburbs that were quieter and upscale without feeling dead. You’d seen a few houses so far and at each one both you and Ransom had found reasons to turn them down. You hoped this one might be different. You were ready to have at least one part of your new life with this baby settled.

The car pulled up in front of a three-story, swell-front house in Brookline. It was constructed from red brick with black trim. There were brightly colored flower beds lining the walk up to the front door. It felt homey, at least from the outside. As much as you tried to focus on taking it all in, you were quickly distracted by the sight of Ransom, already there, pacing in front of the property and growling into his phone. You turned to the driver, asking him to wait there for you, as you weren’t sure if Ransom would be coming home when you were done or would need to return to work. As he nodded and got back in the car, you headed to Ransom who’d ended his conversation and now was shaking his head in frustration.

“Everything okay?” you asked him as you got close.

His shoulders relaxed at the sight of you. “Just fucking Harlan,” he said with an eye roll as he greeted you with a hug. That was something he’d been doing lately. Since that awful dinner at his grandfather’s house. It was nice. It was really nice. “He wants the baby to take his last name.”

That stopped you cold. “What?”

“Yeah,” Ransom scowled. “I think if he had it to do over again, he would have figured out a way to get my name changed when he made me his heir. But he didn’t, so now he wants to correct it with my heir.”

Your hands instinctively went to your belly. What if this baby isn’t your heir? a tiny voice asked. A voice that had been getting bigger ever since Harlan’s toast to your son at that dinner. But saying that out loud felt too much like tempting fate, so instead you voiced a safer anxiety. “The baby will have a different last name from us?”

“Hey, no. Don’t worry. I’ll figure out a way to talk him down. I promise.” He gently placed his hand on the small of your back. “Now, come on, let’s go let Deborah try to convince us that this is the house.”

You nodded, letting your hands relax at your sides, and let him guide you up the front steps to where Deborah was waiting to let you in.

Your first impression was that everything was very beige. It was staged beautifully. But god, you hated the color scheme. The paint, all the fixtures. All so beige. It was oppressive.

Deborah showed you through the house. The finished basement, the semi-open plan living and dining spaces on the first floor, the bedrooms and en suites on the second. It was nice, you supposed, fine. But it just felt like a house. You didn’t know what would push you over into loving it.

So, instead of looking around at the rooms you passed through, you started watching Ransom. You could see his keen eyes taking in every detail. You wondered what he was seeing. More than you were, it seemed. But you couldn’t tell what direction he was leaning. You still found him so hard to read.

Deborah ended the tour on the third floor. “This floor would make a lovely au pair’s suite,” she said with a soft smile toward your pregnant belly. You and Ransom hadn’t talked about that yet, the nanny situation. Only that you both lamented having been completely raised by nannies. “Or if you decide against live-in help, easily convertible into a set of offices.” She looked to you and then Ransom, who was peering around the small common living space. “Well, I’ll let the two of you explore a bit on your own. I’ll be right downstairs if you have any questions.”

You thanked her as she left, then turned to Ransom who was looking at you, a soft smile on his face. “This is the one, right?” he asked you.

“You think?” you asked back, looking around, trying to see what you were missing.

“I do,” he nodded. “I think it’s exactly what we need.”

You wrinkled your nose at the beige walls that surrounded you. “I hate all the colors.”

Ransom gave you a smile that you could only describe as affectionate. It made your stomach swoop oddly. “That’s fine,” he said. “We’ll get a decorator. Have it exactly how we want before we even move in.” He paused and his expression grew more careful. “You really don’t see it?”

You sighed as you looked around again. “I mean, I don’t hate it. And I’m trying, but…” You gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry.”

One last long, careful look at you had him asking, “Can I show you?” with his hand outstretched to take yours.

You only hesitated for a moment before putting your hand in his. “Okay.”

He quickly brought you down to the second floor, his hand warm and snug around your own. He stopped in the hallway. “We can figure out rooms for each of us eventually. You can have the primary if you want. I–“ He abruptly stopped, then shook his head. There was a look in his eyes that you couldn’t read. But then he gestured to the room directly across from the primary and said, “But that’s the nursery.”

You let him lead you inside. It was a large room with a window directly opposite the door. There were built in bookcases on each side of the window, with a low, padded window seat that ran between them. It was lovely.

Ransom came up behind you, close enough that you could feel a hint of his body heat, and pointed, over your shoulder, to one corner. “That’s where the crib will go. Something to match the built-ins.” He moved your attention to the opposite wall. “Some toy chests over there.” And then back to the space next to one of the bookshelves. “And a comfy rocking chair in the corner here. So we can sit with them.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. Tears had started to prick at the corners of your eyes. It wasn’t just that you could see what he was describing. It was that he could see it. That he had thought of the kind of room he wanted for your child. That he so clearly wanted them to be happy.

“We could do a forest theme. Sage and dark green walls, knick knacks on the shelves, get some big stuffed animals.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to keep your emotion out of your voice. “That sounds really nice.”

He grabbed your hand again. “Okay, come on. There’s more.”

He brought you downstairs next, and into the kitchen.

It was large, spacious, with two sliding doors that could separate it from the rest of the house if needed. There was an island with a large gas range on top of it and stools lining one side. It was nice, with all the appliances you could want in a kitchen.

Ransom was watching you take it in. “We’ll have a housekeeper who can prepare meals, of course, but I want this to be a place you can use whenever you want. But only when you want. When the doors are open, I think the sight lines are pretty good to the rest of this level.” He walked over to the breakfast nook that sat under a large window to the backyard, looking at something you couldn’t see. “I really like this,” he said, quietly. “The kid could sit here and color or play or whatever, while you cooked. Or I could sit here with them, and talk to you. Keep you company. I think this could be a really nice place to spend time in.”

You swallowed harshly around a lump in your throat. He was imagining so much. “Yeah,” you agreed, starting to see what he saw. “You’re right. It really could be.”

“Okay,” he said with a soft smile. “One last thing.” Then you let him pull you, a little dazed, into the backyard.

It was bigger than you’d expected, due to it being a corner lot. But you thought the property must have been extended at some point as well. There was a carriage house with the same red brick and black trim as the main house converted into a multi-car garage in the far corner. A paved drive leading from it to the street guarded by a wrought-iron gate. Nearer to the house, there was a small patio, big enough for a dining area. It was beautifully landscaped, surrounded by a tall, thick hedge screen.

“It’s not huge, but big enough I think. Lola would have plenty of room to run around. And maybe we could put a little swing set or something over there, some sort of play area” he gestured back to the dining area, “and you and I could spend nice nights out here, watch the kid play–“

He kept talking. You know he did. But you were so overwhelmed you couldn’t take in anymore. He hadn’t just imagined his own life in this house, with you as a background character. No, he’d imagined the three of you here, as a family, and the way these walls might contain your whole lives together. You were so overcome with feeling. You’d never felt like this before. You lunged for him without a single conscious thought to do it, connecting your lips to his.

Ransom went very still. Shocked. His whole body stiff against yours. Just as you felt him start to relax minutely, you brain finally caught up with your body and you pulled away, taking several steps back. Your hands came up to your mouth in horror. “Oh my god,” you muttered. What had you done? Why had you done that? “I-“ you started and stopped. You wanted to apologize but you didn’t know how to get the words out. And he was standing there, stock still, just staring at you. “I, um,” you swallowed harshly. “You’re, uh, you’re right. This house is ours. Um. You should go tell Deborah. Get the process started. But I–“ You tried to force yourself to breathe. “I have to go.”

And then you ran away, even with him calling after you. Back to the waiting car and then back home.

You beat Ransom home. Of course you did. Hopefully, he’d be gone for a while, getting things settled with Deborah. You didn’t know how you would face him. You fed Lola and let her out, and then you just paced around the lower floor of the house, round and round, before you finally got out your phone and typed a message.

Shit Steve, I think I really fucked up

The three dots to show he was typing appeared immediately, then disappeared, and reappeared.

Give me two minutes

You reacted with a thumbs up and waited. Two minutes later, on the dot, your phone rang. “Hey Steve,” you answered.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, urgently. “Do I need to come out there and beat someone up?”

“No,” you sighed. “This one’s all my fault.”

“Chip, what happened?”

You braced yourself. “I kissed Ransom.”

Steve didn’t say anything in response. For too long. Oh god. You really had fucked up. “Steve?” you asked nervously.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, sounding caught off guard. “I thought– Is that it?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean ‘is that it?’”

“I– I guess I don’t really understand what the problem is here. You think you fucked up because you… kissed your husband?”

“No, that’s not– When you say it like that–“ you struggled, then sighed. “You know that’s not how we are.”

There was another long pause from him and when he spoke again his voice was shockingly soft. “Are you sure about that?”

“Steve, I– What are you talking about?”

“Chip, I was there. From everything I saw and everything you’ve told me since, it’s obvious he cares about you. And vice versa.”

This time it was you who was quiet for a moment as you gathered your thoughts. “I know that he cares about me,” you said, and you meant it. You could finally admit that you felt his care every day. “But caring about me isn’t the same thing as wanting that kind of relationship with me. We’re friends and–“ you stopped, not sure how to say exactly what you meant. “We’re friends.”

When he paused this time, the silence was thoughtful. “Okay, Chip. I can tell you're really panicking and I want to help you, but I need you to help me understand why you’re so upset."

“I just–“ You took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears that wanted to form. “I don’t want to have ruined everything.”

“But what if you didn’t?” he asked, his voice gentle. “What if he feels the same way?”

You immediately shook your head, even though he couldn’t see you. “No,” you argued, voice quiet. “No, he can’t. That’s not something I get to have.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, hesitantly.

“I– I’ve always known that that isn’t for me. I– That’s not– Even being friends is more than I ever imagined I’d get to have. I should be so grateful to have a husband who cares about me at all. It feels too greedy to want anything else.”

“Oh, Chipmunk.” His voice was so sad. “It’s okay to want good things for yourself. I want everything good for you. I want you to have it.”

Your eyes were fully watering now. “I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“Listen, you know I hate to say anything nice about Ransom. But I think he really wants to take good care of you. If that’s true, he’d want you to talk to him about this. I think it’ll go better than you expect. I think you can trust him.”

“I want to,” you whispered.

“Talk to him,” he ordered. “Promise me you will.”

“Okay,” you acquiesced, your voice so small.

“It’s going to be okay, Chip.” He sounded so sure. “No matter what happens, it’s going to be okay.”

And for a moment, you were ten again, believing everything your big brother told you. “Okay,” you said. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he said, without hesitation. Then he sighed. “All right. I should probably get back to my meeting.”

“What? Oh no, you didn’t–“

“Stop, this was more important. But I should get back now. Let me know how things go.”

“I will. Thank you, Steve.”

“Love you, Chip. Bye.”

Love you. Bye Steve.” You hung up the phone and tried to hold onto the feeling that things might be all right.

You’d done your best to try to settle yourself down. You’d sat on the couch. You’d picked up the book you were in the middle of and opened it to where you’d left off. But you didn’t read. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed locked on the front door. You had no idea how this was going to go.

Even with all of your attention on the door, you still startled when it opened and Ransom walked in. He froze, a little, when he noticed you on the couch. He was carrying something. Your eyes flicked to it as you stood up, taking a few steps forward, but still leaving a gulf between you.

“I got you something. To eat,” he said, shockingly timid, gesturing at you with the greasy, white paper bag in his hand. He set it down on the kitchen island and took a step back.

You walked to the island and very carefully opened it. It was a burger, absolutely slathered in peanut butter. With extra mustard, extra pickles, and jalapeños. The exact burger you’d told him you’d been craving.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, “it took me a while to find a place that could do it. Because, you know, it’s disgusting.”

You just stared at it for a long moment, ignoring his teasing. Those feelings welling up inside you again. But no matter how he cared for you, you decided, it was enough. No matter what Steve said. You couldn’t fuck that up. “I, uh– I owe you an apology,” you said nervously, your fingers fidgeting on the counter top in front of you. You felt Ransom’s gaze snap to you, but he didn’t say anything so you continued. “I’m so sorry I kissed you. I never should have done that and it won’t happen again. I’m really sorry.”

You kept your gaze on your hands until the silence stretched on far longer than you were comfortable with. Nervously, you looked up, locking eyes with Ransom. His brow was furrowed. He looked upset. Was the apology not enough?

He stared at you for too long, like he was trying to find something in your expression, but you weren’t sure what. Then, finally, he asked, “What, exactly, are you apologizing for?” When your only response was to look at him in confusion—you thought you’d been clear—he rephrased. “Why are you sorry you kissed me?”

“Because–“ It felt like your breath was caught in your throat. The moment suddenly felt charged, for reasons you didn’t fully understand. “Because I know that’s not something you want and I–“

“I think,” he cut you off, voice low and so serious, “that you have no idea what I actually want.” And then, before you could parse what he meant, he surged forward, taking your face in both hands, and kissed you.

It took a moment for your brain to register what was happening, it was so far beyond anything you’d expected. But then you caught up, feeling his soft lips on yours, his hands gently cradling your head, the warmth of his body seeping into you. You let out a little gasp, finally understanding, feeling it for real, and he took it as invitation to deepen the kiss, his tongue tentatively entering your mouth. You sank into it, taking everything he was giving you. You’d never been kissed like this, never with such feeling. All you could do was ride its wave.

Far too soon, Ransom pulled away. But not far. He pressed his forehead to yours, his lips still so close, and whispered, “What I want is whatever you’re willing to give me. Not a single thing more, but not anything less, either. I want anything you might want.”

“Really?” you asked, your voice so small, overwhelmed. You could feel the tears starting to gather in your eyes, and you futilely tried to blink them away.

“Really,” he answered, and the certainty in his voice moved through you, as he brushed a tear off your face with his thumb. “I promise. Anything you want. Always.”

You took a deep breath. “I want to be a family with you,” you whispered. And with those words, you felt something inside of you, something that you hadn’t fully realized was undone, settle for the first time since you’d sat in Joseph’s office and been forced to sign that contract.

“Me too,” he whispered back. “Let’s be a family.”

And then he kissed you again. Like he meant it. And you believed him.

A/N 2: 😭😭😭 It only took eleven chapters but they finally did it, you guys!!!! I hope you love this as much as I do. Please let me know what you think!

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