Your Cishetero Makes Me Upsetero

Growing up, you’ve always pictured your wedding day as this grand, romantic thing. You’d have the perfect dress, the perfect flowers, the perfect everything. You'd walk down a petal-strewn aisle toward the love of your life, your heart doing a little fluttery dance. Maybe your dad would get teary-eyed. Maybe your mom would be proud for once in her life. You would be happy.

Yet here you sit, Grima and your mother fussing with the pins in your hair, and all you can feel is this cold, heavy dread.

“There,” your mother says, giving a final, sharp tug that makes you wince. “It’s adequate.”

You stare at your reflection. The woman staring back is a stranger. Sunken eyes, a dress of bright blue that clings to your torso before flaring out at the waist, and a silver circlet embedded with dark opals that feels more like a crown of thorns than anything else. You look like a princess, but you feel like a sacrifice.

“It’s beautiful, my lady,” Grima says softly. Her smile is genuine, which is the only thing keeping you from shattering into a million pieces. “His Highness will be speechless.”

One of them certainly will be, your brain supplies unhelpfully. And not the one she’s talking about.

Loki has not shown his face since his confession last night. You had stayed in the garden until your skin was chilled and your heart was raw, before sneaking back to your chambers and crying yourself into an exhausted sleep. Now, with the sun already climbing high into the sky, there is still no sign of him. The ceremony is at midday.

A knock sounds at the door. Your mother straightens, her expression hardening into one of habitual regal disapproval.

“Enter.”

A guard pokes his head in. “Apologies—”

“Out with it,” your mother snaps. She has always been a woman of little patience, and today even less so. “We are on a schedule.”

The guard swallows nervously. “The allmother has requested the princess’ presence in her chambers.”

Your mother’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly. “Of course.” She turns to you, her hands resting on your shoulders in a gesture that almost feels maternal. Almost. “Come. We mustn't keep her waiting.”

She makes to move, but the guard hesitates. “Apologies, my lady, but Her Majesty specifically requested the princess come alone.”

You immediately feel a surge of something you can't quite name. You didn’t always feel so fearful of Odin’s wife. As a child, you had a strange fondness for the queen, for the quiet way she watched over things, for the way her hands always seemed to know just how to soothe a scraped knee or a feverish brow. But now, since you and Loki had been playing this treacherous game, every interaction with the Asgardian royal family is filled with paranoia.

“Very well,” your mother says, giving you a look that’s a mixture of ‘don't you dare mess this up’ and ‘good luck.’ “We have preparations to finish anyway.”

Yo are led from your chambers by the guard, down familiar gilded hallways that suddenly feel like a cage. The guards outside the queen’s chambers bow as you approach, and one opens the heavy oak door for you.

Frigga is standing by the window, her back to you, gazing out at the sprawling grounds of the palace. She’s wearing agown of blue, her golden hair braided intricately. She looks every inch the queen.

“You sent for me, Your Majesty?” you ask, your voice sounding small and thin in the vast, quiet room.

She turns, and her smile is kind, but her eyes hold a strange, knowing light. “My dear girl. Come. Sit with me.”

She gestures to a small, plush sofa near the fireplace. You do as she asks, the hue of your gown a stark, vibrant slash against the muted tones of the room.

“Today is a big day,” she says, settling into a chair opposite you. “You must be very nervous.”

You nod, not trusting your own voice. You fidget with a loose thread on the sofa. There’s a lump in your throat that won't go down.

You wonder if she knows. You wonder if her husband knows. You wonder if anyone knows how close you came to throwing it all away last night.

Because, oh, how you had wanted to. You didn’t understand until Loki put the choice in front of you, but the desire to stay was a palpable thing. A longing that had been buried under layers of duty and fear and resignation, but was now clawing its way to the surface. And what could you do but deny it?

“I was nervous on my wedding day, too,” Frigga continues, her gaze unwavering. “Terrified, in fact. Marrying Odin was the most significant thing I would ever do. It would define my life, my legacy. There is a certain… weight to that, isn't there?”

“Yes,” you whisper, finally finding your words. “A great weight.”

She studies you for a long moment, and you have the unsettling feeling she’s peeling back your skin and looking right into your soul. It’s a different kind of perception than Loki’s. His is a sharp, clever thing. Frigga’s is a soft, enveloping warmth, a river that wears you down until you have no choice but to let it flow. And right now, you are afraid you might drown in it.

“You have been a good friend to my son. To both of my sons,” she says, and there’s no accusation in her tone. “Thor, for all his… Thor-ness, can be a bit boisterous. He doesn't always see the quiet things. But you do. You see Loki.”

You freeze, every muscle in your body tensing. There is that feeling again, as if you were a child caught with your hand in the cookie jar. But you school your features into a mask of calm, even as your heart starts to pound against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“He’s my friend,” you manage to say, your voice barely audible. “Of course I see him.”

She smiles, a slow, gentle curve of her lips. “Of course.” She leans forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “And because you see him, surely you must understand that Loki… he does not always react to things in the way one might expect.”

You say nothing, because what can you possibly say to that?

I know he’s a trickster? I know he has a temper? I know he whispered words in a garden that could cost my realm its alliance with Asgard?

“The two of you. Always bickering, always at odds,” she muses, almost to herself. “You know, when you were younger, he used to practice a particular illusion. A very simple one. He would make a rose appear in the palm of his hand. He would practice for hours, trying to get the color just right, the petals just so. And whenever he felt he thought he had perfected it, who do you think he would show it to?”

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t want to hear this. You can’t hear this.

“He would show it to Thor, of course,” she continues. “And Thor would clap him on the back before running off to do something more… heroic. He would show it to me, and I would smile and tell him it was lovely. But he was never satisfied with our reactions. He wanted more.”

She pauses, and the silence in the room is a heavy thing.

“Then one day, he showed it to you.” She is watching you so intently now, it’s as if she’s trying to will the memory into your head. “You were assisting me with my tapestry in the gardens. He came up to you, that same illusion in his palm. And you didn’t just say it was ‘lovely.’ You told him the petals were too symmetrical. That a real rose has imperfections. You told him the color was too vibrant. That it looked… fake.”

You remember. The memory, long buried under years of complicated feelings, resurfaces with a painful clarity. You had been full of a child’s blunt honesty, with none of the carefully curated diplomacy you now possess.

“He didn't speak to you for a week after that,” Frigga chuckles, amusement in her tone. You definitely remember that. “But the illusion he showed me the next week… it was the most perfect, most convincing illusion I had ever seen. Every petal was unique, every color was muted.”

“It looked real,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

You had noticed. He’d come up to you again, and without a word, held out his hand. And the rose had been perfect. The scent of it had even seemed real. And you had just nodded at him, and he had nodded back, and that was that. It was also after that he began to get a little too cocky with his illusions. Not long after that was the first he'd tried to make you believe a serpent was in your bed. You'd screamed so loud the entire wing of the palace had heard you. To this day, you have never forgiven him for that.

“He has always valued your opinion.” Her voice pulls you back to the present. “Far more than he would ever admit. It is why he goads you so.”

You don’t know why she’s telling you this. It feels like a warning and a kindness all at once, a beautifully wrapped dagger pressed into your palm. Your hands are trembling in your lap, and you have to clasp them together to keep her from noticing.

“Your Majesty,” you begin, your voice strained. “What is the purpose of this conversation?”

Please, Gods, let it just be a mother’s fond reminiscing. Let it be a last-minute attempt at comfort before the wedding. Let it be anything but what you fear it is.

She doesn't answer your question. Instead, she rises from her chair and walks to a small, ornate chest in the corner of the room. She opens it and pulls out a leather-bound book. It’s large, with no title on its cover. She brings it over to you and places it in your lap.

“What is this?” you ask, your fingers tracing the worn leather. It’s surprisingly heavy.

“A record of seidr,” she says simply. “Basic spells. Illusions, healing, minor conjurations. Things I believe you have a natural aptitude for.”

You stare at her, dumbfounded. “Me? But I… I have no magic. My realm—”

“Is full of it,” she finishes gently. “Your people simply use it differently. You weave it into your textiles, into your songs, into the very structure of your homes. You just don’t call it by that name.”

You open the book. The pages are filled with elegant, looping script and intricate diagrams. You can’t read a word of it, but there’s a strange pull to it. You feel a hum of energy that vibrates through your fingertips.

“I do not understand,” you say, your head starting to spin. “Why are you giving this to me? On my wedding day?”

Frigga kneels before you, her hands covering yours on the book. Her touch is warm, and for a second, the heavy dread in your chest lifts.

She doesn’t seem angry. Perhaps she knows not about Loki’s plea in the garden. Perhaps she has no idea how close you were to choosing him. She’s just… kind. And you don't know what to do with that.

“Because I am your queen,” she says, her voice firm. “And my duty is to protect my realm and its alliances. My son is to be your husband. He is a good man, but he is… focused. He sees the grand tapestry, but not always the threads. You see the threads. This,” she taps the book, “will help you mend them when they fray.”

Her words are a riddle, and you’re too exhausted to solve it. “Thank you,” you say, because it seems like the right thing to say. “I will treasure it.” And you mean it. In a life full of things you didn’t ask for, this book, this gesture of faith from the most powerful woman in the Nine Realms, feels like a bright spot.

“There may come a day,” Frigga softly speaks, “when you find yourself with no counsel but your own. If that day should arrive, I would rather you possess knowledge than fear.” She stands and smooths down her skirts. “Now, off with you. I’m sure you have much to do.”

You get up, the heavy book clutched to your chest like a shield, and give a curt bow before walking to the door. However, before you think to leave, you hesitate, your back to her. You need to know.

“Your Majesty,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Did Loki… did he say anything to you last night?”

There is a long silence, and you can feel her gaze on your back.

“Loki and I often speak late into the night. He is my son. Why do you ask?”

You shake your head, unable to turn around. “No reason. Just… a silly concern.”

“He is a prince of Asgard. He will do his duty, as will you. But duty does not have to be a cage, my dear. Sometimes, it is a key. You just have to find the right lock.” She doesn't confirm nor deny, only gives you a piece of her own kind of cryptic wisdom. “Go on. Don’t keep your mother waiting.”

She may not be Loki’s blood, but she is as adept at weaving words as he is. You find it almost hard to believe the two of them aren't actually related.

With a final, curt nod, you leave.

***

The walls are closing in, the dress feels like a shroud, and the book of spells is a heavy weight in your lap. You’ve read — or rather, looked at — the same page three times. It makes no sense. The symbols are like nothing you’ve ever seen.

You feel a strange sense of loss, that a gift with such potential is completely out of your reach.

A bit like your life.

The guards outside your door stand like statues. You’re a prisoner in your own chambers, and your sentence is about to be carried out. Every tick of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece is a hammer blow against your heart.

Midday is drawing near, and still no Loki.

You keep replaying Frigga’s words in your mind.

Duty does not have to be a cage. Sometimes, it is a key.

It’s a pretty thought, but you can't make it fit. Your duty is to Thor. To Alfheim. To the alliance. Loki is the opposite of your duty. He is the locked door you’re not supposed to open, and you doubt the queen was encouraging you to pick the lock to that particular room.

And yet, she gave you the book.

Why? Was it a test? A message? Or just a mother’s quiet attempt to give you a sliver of power in a powerless situation?

You have this aching suspicion that she knows. Not the specifics, perhaps, but the shape of the thing. If Thor of all peoplesaw what was between you, the woman who raised the God of Mischief must have some inkling. And instead of forbidding it, she armed you. The thought is more terrifying than comforting.

You rise from the sofa, needing to move. You pace the length of the room, the silk of your dress whispering against the stone floor. You stop at the window, looking down at the grounds. Thousands if not tens of thousands of your own people have gathered. You see their brightly colored clothes, a stark contrast to the muted earth tones of Asgard. They are here to see their princess marry a god. They are here for the celebration. They don’t see the fear. They don't see the cage. They only see hope for a better future.

You wonder if Thor is watching from some high balcony. You wonder if he feels as sick as you do.

A wave of vertigo hits you, and you grip the windowsill to steady yourself.

This is it. This is the rest of your life. You will live here, in this golden palace, as the wife of a man whoms brother you love.

Would it be possible for you to live such a life?

Could you stand in a court and watch Loki whisper secrets in another’s ear? Could you share a table with him and your husband and pretend your heart wasn’t being carved from your chest, piece by painful piece? Could you bear children with Thor and look at them, knowing that every single one of them is a symbol of a choice you made out of fear?

You close your eyes, willing the tears away for what feels like the thousandth time.

When you open your eyes, your gaze lands on the little elven children running among the crowd, their clothes no longer the rags they wore the day of the wedding announcement. They are dressed in fine fabrics, their hair clean and neatly braided. They are laughing.

You did that. Your sacrifice is already giving them something better. You cannot forget that.

In that instant, a resolve hardens within you. You were not raised to be a selfish woman. You were not raised to follow your heart. You were raised to lead and to protect your people, no matter the cost to yourself. It is a cold comfort, but it is a comfort nonetheless.

You are a princess of Alfheim, and you will do your duty. You will stand before the Allfather and you will say the words. You will take Thor’s hand and you will smile. And you will learn to be happy with it, or you will learn to be a very good actress.

But the thought still does not bring you any semblance of peace. That’s when you know, with a certainty that chills you to the bone, that the ache for Loki will not simply go away.

Damn the orders to not leave your chambers. You need fresh air. You know this place like the back of your hand, you know a servant's corridor that'll lead you to a secluded balcony, and with the wedding chaos it's unlikely you'll run into anyone.

You quell the hope in your heart that he might be there. It is too dangerous a hope to have. You are simply going to calm your nerves before the ceremony. That is all.

You slip out of your chambers, giving the guards a dismissive wave of your hand as if you have every right to be leaving. To your surprise, they don't question you, merely bowing their heads as you pass. Perhaps your status as the future queen is already granting you some small freedoms.

You navigate the familiar corridors with a practiced ease, your feet knowing the way even when your mind is a mess of static. The servant's passage is empty, as you expected, and you push open the heavy wooden door at the end of it. And—

“I don’t want to hear a lecture on being out of my rooms. I just needed—"

“Oh my gods!” You shriek, quickly turning away as your eyes land on the one person you definitely were not expecting to run into.

“I didn’t see, I swear!” Thor’s familiar, deep voice says, sounding as shocked as you are. You hear a rustle from behind you, and you don’t have to look to know he is also turning his back. “… did you?”

It was an old custom that extended from realm to realm — a bride and groom were not to see each other on the day of the wedding, lest they bring about bad luck. Though a silly superstition, you didn’t want to tempt fate. Not that things could get any worse.

"No! I mean, I didn't look properly! Just your back," you stammer, face burning with embarrassment. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be preparing?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he shoots back. "I came to think. This seemed a good a place as any. What's your excuse?"

"Same as you."

An awkward silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the crowds and the frantic beating of your own heart. This isn't how it's supposed to be. You're supposed to be full of romantic anticipation, and he's supposed to be… well, not standing with you on a secluded balcony, possibly struggling with the same things as you.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, careful to keep your eyes trained on the floor. From what you can see he in his ceremonial armor, the polished gold gleaming in the sunlight. He looks every bit the hero, the god, the prince. He looks like the future king of Asgard.

"You're wearing your armor," you say, stating the obvious as you try to break the tension.

“Hey! You said you didn’t see!”

“I didn’t see your face,” you retort, feeling a spark of your old self rise to the surface. “I do have peripheral vision.”

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that feels surprisingly genuine. “Fair enough. You are wearing your dress.” He pauses, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your head. “It’s… a very blue dress.”

“It is,” you agree, a small smile touching your lips. “it’s the color of royalty in my realm. My mother chose it. She called it ‘acceptable.’”

“She’s a hard woman to please.”

“She has to be,” you reply. “Our realm isn't as prosperous as Asgard. A single mistake could cost us everything.”

“Yes… I know,” he sympathizes.

A beat, and then,

"Thor..” your voice is barely a whisper. "Are you scared?"

He is silent for so long that you think he isn't going to answer. Then, he sighs, a weary sound.

"Terrified," he admits, and the vulnerability in his voice is so raw, it catches you off guard. "I've fought monsters. I've battled giants. I've seen the birth of stars. But this… this is different. This is… forever."

Forever.

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.

"I'm terrified too," you confess. It's the truth, and it's a relief to finally say it out loud.

You finally turn fully around, keeping your gaze fixed on the horizon. The golden spires of Asgard glitter in the sun, a breathtaking sight that does nothing to calm your nerves.

He's still facing away from you, a mountain of a man with shoulders that seem to carry the weight of the Nine Realms.

"My brother came to see me this morning.”

The casual way he mentions Loki sends a jolt through you.

You try to keep your voice steady.

“Oh?”

"He told me I was a fool," Thor continues, a wry humor in his tone. "He told me I was trading a lifetime of freedom for a lifetime of… well, you."

You flinch, a sharp pain lancing through your chest. "That sounds like him."

"He also told me that you were the most intelligent, infuriating, and stubborn woman he had ever met.” Thor’s voice drops, becoming more serious. “And that if I hurt you, he would personally see to it that my entrails were used to decorate the great hall.”

Despite the gruesome image, a hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips.

“He’s protective of you,” he acknowledges, but it sounds like the words of a man that has known it for years. It sounds like you are the last one to know.

You nod, the motion feeling almost automatic. You have no idea what to say. It feels as though every path your conversation can take is leading you someplace you can't bear to go.

"What do you want me to say to that?" you ask, unable to keep the bite from your tone. Your nerves are frayed. Your heart is raw. You feel like you're on the edge of a knife.

"Nothing," he says, a gentle reassurance. "I just want you to know that I don't plan on hurting you. Not intentionally."

Your throat constricts with emotion. He is not saying anything you didn't already know, but to hear it spoken aloud is like a balm.

He isn't Loki, but he is still your friend. The thought of spending the rest of your life with him isn't the worst fate… but it's also not the one you want.

"You are not a fool, Thor," you say, your voice soft. "And I am sorry if I made you feel like one."

You don’t know the extent of what he knows, or how much he understands, but he seems to accept your words as the apology they are.

“Let's just… can we just be Thor and you? For five minutes. Before we have to be them."

The prince and the princess. The symbols. The alliance.

You turn around, slowly, giving him a chance to object. He doesn't. You keep your eyes fixed on the middle of his chest plate, until you eventually build the courage to face him. His blue eyes, usually so full of bluster and confidence, are filled with a depth of emotion that you didn't know he was capable of.

You see your own fear reflected back at you.

You extend your hand. "Hi. I'm me.”

He takes your hand, dwarfing it with his own. His grip is strong, but surprisingly gentle. A God, but also a man. A good man.

"Hi," he says. "I'm me, too."

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite everything. "You're ridiculous."

"I've been told."

He squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back, a silent acknowledgment of all the things you can't say out loud.

You let go, your fingers trailing across his palm before slipping away completely.

You are both making this choice. You will both live with it and find whatever happiness you can.

But the thought keeps turning over and over in your mind.

Thor.

Your best friend.

"Have you spoken to Sif?” you blurt. "Is she..."

You trail off, unable to finish the sentence. You don’t even know what you’re trying to ask.

Is she okay? Is she angry? Is she hurt?

“Ay," he admits, and there's a deep sadness in his tone. "She is not angry with you, nor me. She is angry with the fates, and I cannot fault her for that.”

A fresh wave of guilt hits you, and you swallow down the lump in your throat. Your gaze drops to your feet.

He sighs, and when he speaks again, there is a forced levity in his voice. "Have you spoken to my brother?"

“Not today,” you admit, your heart clenching painfully at the question.

You want to tell him about the garden. You want to tell him how Loki looked, how he sounded, how he made you feel. Thor is your best friend, after all. But you can't. And that makes it hurt all the more.

He nods, a resigned kind of acceptance. "You know, he wont hate you,”

You shake your head, unwilling to let yourself think about it. "He already does."

He raises an eyebrow. "You truly believe that?"

"I know it."

His gaze softens, his eyes full of a gentle sympathy that you want to cling to. "Then you don't know my brother as well as I thought."

"Thor, I—"

A bell echoes throughout the palace grounds, signaling the hour. The wedding is about to begin. You feel like a noose has just been tightened around your neck.

He glances over his shoulder at the door. "We should—"

"Yes. Yes, we should," you finish.

Before anything, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He stiffens in surprise, but his arms come up around you after a moment. His embrace is comforting, and you lean into it. You are so tired of being strong. For a brief moment, you let yourself be weak.

"This doesn't change anything," you murmur into his shoulder, knowing it's not strictly the truth. But maybe you can make it true if you say it often enough. Maybe you can force it into existence. "You're still my best friend. You'll always be my best friend."

He squeezes you tightly. "And you mine."

You pull away, keeping your hands on his forearms. Your eyes meet, and there is an unspoken understanding between the two of you that neither of you wanted this.

At the very least, if you were to spend your life bound to a man who was not the one you willingly chose, you could do so with someone who felt the same way.

You take a steadying breath and step back.

“Okay, you first. I'll wait a few minutes before following. Just in case, because—"

"Our mothers would have our heads," he agrees with a small smile. "Very well."

He turns and walks through the heavy wooden door, leaving you alone on the balcony.

You take a deep breath, smoothing down your dress.

This is it. This is the rest of your life.

You close your eyes and remember Lokis face — the expression he may never wear for you again. You commit every detail to memory, even though it hurts.

You open your eyes, you straighten your shoulders, you square your jaw, and you walk back inside to get married.

***

The ceremony takes place in the great hall. It's the same hall where the Allfather announced the treaty all those years ago. However, it is unrecognizable now.

The golden pillars are adorned with garlands of flowers. The high ceiling glitters with thousands of tiny lights, like stars in the night sky. The tables and chairs are gone, replaced by rows of benches, filled with nobility from all the Nine Realms. And in the front of the room, beneath a golden canopy, stands the Allfather, regal as ever.

You walk down the aisle, your gaze fixed on Odin. If you look at the people, you might panic. If you look at Thor, you might cry. And if you look at the youngest prince, standing stoically beside the throne, you might forget what you are doing all of this for.

The heavy fabric of your dress trails behind you, the sound of it muted behind the soft violets of the court musicians. The whispers of the crowd are a low hum in your ears, but you can hear some of the comments as you pass.

"My gods, she's so beautiful!"

"She looks like a queen already."

"Do you think they'll be blessed with children soon?"

Your face burns with the heat of a thousand suns. You feel like an animal on display. You have been in this palace for years, and these people still look at you as if you are some exotic curiosity.

Grima and your mother are waiting at the base of the steps to the throne. Your mother looks positively regal in her gown of white and gold. She gives you a small nod of approval, which is more than you expected and you feel a strange sort of pride that she seems pleased with you. Perhaps she'll be a little less cold after today.

She takes your arm and guides you up the stairs, into position. You stand facing Thor, your eyes fixed on his chest plate. It feels safer than looking at his face.

Odin's voice booms through the hall, echoing off the high stone walls. "We are gathered here today to witness the binding of two souls. Through this union, we will strengthen our ties to the realms, we will show our commitment to peace and prosperity, And we will ensure that the realms will stand together against any enemy that might threaten them."

His words wash over you, feeling both distant and far too close. You barely hear him recite the ancient words.

It seems only a few seconds later that Thor takes your hand, and you know it is time for the exchange of vows. You look up at him, and his gaze is fixed on yours as Odin speaks.

"Do you, Princess of Alfheim, vow to serve Asgard as their future queen? To lead with wisdom and compassion, and to protect your people until you are pardoned from your duties by either death or decree?"

Your throat feels dry. The words stick in your mouth, and for one awful moment, you think you may not be able to say them.

“I—” you begin, your voice barely audible.

Your eyes stray without meaning to, and they finally land on Loki. He is standing to Odin's right, his expression unreadable.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He is so close, yet he seems a million miles away.

There is an expectant hush in the room as everyone awaits your answer, but you cannot look away.

You see it then. A flicker of something in his eyes.

Hope.

His gaze drops to your hand, where Thor is holding it, and then back to your face. And there, in the space between heartbeats, is a question you thought you'd never see from him.

Do you want me to save you?

There is a flutter in your chest, because even after everything, he would do it. Consequences be damned.

You look out to the crowd, at the people you have fought so hard to protect. You think of your parents, and you think of Frigga, and you think of all the sacrifices they have made for their people. You think of the elven children in the marketplace, and you think of the countless lives that could be saved with the treaty.

The next person you make eye contact with is the Seer from the market. She is sitting in the front row, her eyes glittering like a serpent. And as she looks at you, she lifts her gnarled hand and holds one finger up.

"You will someday make a wise and brave queen." Her breathless whisper was her final prediction, voice cracking from age and abuse, "Though only in one of these worlds will that hold true, my lady. Choose wisely, for once you choose, you will commit."

Oh, how badly do you want to be selfish. One look and you know that Loki would conjure an illusion in a heartbeat, he would pull you down those steps and out of this hall, and he would not let go until you were both free. But clever as he may be, even he cannot outmaneuver fate.

“—I do.”

The words leave your lips before you can second guess yourself, but the crack in your voice is impossible to hide. You tear your gaze away from everyone and focus on Thor.

It isn’t until you blink that you realize tears are streaming down your face.

Everyone else would simply see a woman moved by the gravity of the moment. But Thor… Thor would see the truth. Thor would see that the tears were for his brother.

“Do you, Prince Thor Odinson, heir to the throne of Asgard, vow to stand beside the Princess of Alfheim as her husband? To honor her counsel, defend her kingdom as your own, and rule with her in wisdom until death or decree parts you?”

Silence.

His blue eyes search yours, and for a moment the crowded hall disappears. There is only the two of you, standing exactly where neither of you wishes to be.

He raises your joined hands to his lips, and kisses your knuckles. His beard tickles your skin, and you barely repress a shudder.

“…No.”

A ripple moves through the hall like thunder rolling across the mountains. Murmurs erupt from every corner of the chamber. Nobles rise from their seats, confused whispers swelling into open disbelief.

the sound of Gungnir striking the stone floor echoes through the room, silencing the crowd. Odin fixes his son with a stare that could split mountains.

“What did you say?”

Thor releases your hand and turns to face his father, his broad shoulders squared. His voice is steady and clear as he speaks.

"I said no, Father. I will not marry her."

You stare at him, unable to breathe.

“My son,” Odin warns.

Thor turns first to you. His expression is gentle, almost apologetic.

"My friend,” he says, quiet enough for only you to hear. “I do this for your sake as well as mine."

Then, he turns to the crowd, raising his hands for silence. A natural born leader. The hall immediately quiets, and he begins to speak.

“This marriage was never meant to unite two people. It was meant to unite two realms. And it is that union I wish to forge. I wish to honor the treaty between our realms, but I refuse to do so at the expense of our happiness."

What in gods name is he doing? You want to scream at him to stop, that this is foolishness, that you are already willing to make this sacrifice. But your tongue is tied to the roof of your mouth.

Your mother looks as though she has just seen a ghost. The Allfather looks like he might actually murder his son on the spot. Frigga, however, is the only person in the entire room who does not look surprised. She merely watches, her hands clasped calmly in front of her.

“The prince of Asgard still stands before you.”

Thor turns.

“Loki.”

Your blood freezes in your veins. You follow his gaze to the youngest prince that is still standing by the throne, and you watch as the full weight of Thor's words hits him.

“Loki possesses every right of royal blood that I do. He is a son of Asgard. If the purpose of this union is alliance, then the alliance need not die because I refuse to make prisoners of us both.”

Odin’s face hardens.

“Have you lost your senses?”

“No, Father.” Thor’s voice remains unwavering. “I have found them.”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you realize what Thor is doing. He is offering you an out. A way to save the alliance without forcing either of you into a loveless marriage. And he is doing it at the risk of being exiled.

He is saving you both.

"Loki is a prince of Asgard," Thor continues. "He is my brother.”

It is such an ordinary word. One Thor has spoken a thousand times without thought, yet never has it carried such weight.

Not after Jotunheim.

Not after learning the blood in Loki’s veins did not match the blood that raised him.

Every eye drifts to Loki, waiting to see if he will deny it, reject it, or disappear behind one of his carefully crafted masks.

He does none of those things.

He simply stares at Thor, as though he no longer understands the language he is speaking.

He doesn’t move.

For once, the God of Mischief has no clever retort waiting on his tongue. The carefully practiced mask he wears before the court has cracked. Disbelief flickers across his face, chased quickly by something far more vulnerable.

Forgiveness.

Fear.

They wage war behind his eyes.

“If this alliance is to endure, let it be built upon truth rather than sacrifice.” Thor’s gaze shifts between you and Loki. “I ask that the crown recognize Prince Loki as my equal in this matter and permit him to take my place.”

“You would surrender your claim?” Loki asks quietly, his voice stripped of every ounce of wit.

Thor smiles a tired, familiar smile that reminds you of two boys racing through palace corridors long before crowns and kingdoms demanded pieces of them.

“No,” he answers. “Only what was never mine to begin with.”

Odin’s face darkens, every trace of composure vanishing beneath the weight of wounded pride “Enough!” he thunders.

“You presume to dictate affairs of state before the assembled Nine Realms?” Odin narrows his eye, staring down his son with a look that would cower a lesser man. “You would cast aside years of negotiation for the sake of sentiment?”

“Do you ask me as my king…” Thor’s voice is calm, carrying to every corner of the chamber. “…or as my father?”

Odin says nothing.

“If you ask me as my king, then hear your heir.” He gestures toward you and then toward Loki. “The treaty remains intact. Alfheim shall still be joined to the House of Odin. The alliance is preserved. Nothing is lost but my place at the altar.”

His tone softens, pleading.

“But if you ask me as my father… then I beg you to look at your sons.”

Odin hesitates, and for a moment, his iron façade crumbles. His gaze flicks from Thor to Loki.

Two princes.

Two sons.

One standing with his shoulders squared against the weight of a kingdom.

The other standing impossibly still, as though moving might shatter the fragile hope that had settled over him.

At last, Odin exhales.

“…Very well.”

A murmur ripples through the gathered court.

“The alliance shall stand… If Prince Loki is willing to accept the duty his brother relinquishes…”

Loki doesn’t hesitate.

“I am.”

Your heart thunders against your ribs as Odin turns to you. "Princess, do you consent to this arrangement?"

You are not sure what compels you to look to Frigga first. You aren’t certain why it is her gaze that you seek for confirmation, but it is. The queen of Asgard gives you a small nod of approval. And with that, you turn back to Odin.

"Yes," you say, your voice only wavering slightly. This time, the words come easily. “I do.”

Odin studies his oldest son for a long moment before giving a single nod.

“Then take your brother’s place.”

Thor steps aside, leaving the center of the dais open.

Loki descends the stairs and pauses in front of you. There is so much unspoken between the two of you. So many questions, so many emotions, so many things that could go wrong. But he is looking at you with an expression that makes you almost calm, and there is only one thing left to do.

You offer your hand to him, palm up. He looks at you like he doesn't believe you're real. His fingers tremble as he reaches for you, slowly sliding his hand into yours.

Just like the first time you ever touched him, you feel that familiar spark ignite at the contact.

With rapid clarity you finally understood.

All this time, you had believed the prophecy asked you to choose between two princes, and in only one of those scenarios would you someday become queen. You had believed the fates were demanding you sacrifice your happiness for the good of your people.

But the truth is so much simpler.

So much more beautiful.

The court would still bow. They would still call you “Your Majesty.” But only one of those women would answer without wondering who she might have been.

“Well,” he says, his voice low, meant only for you. He tilts his head and that familiar smirk tugs at his lips. "This is an unexpected turn of events."

***

You are married to Loki.

The binding had been made, the vows exchanged. Despite all odds, the peace treaty remained intact.

The feast had stretched long into the day, overflowing with music, laughter, and enough mead to convince the court that perhaps this strange turn of events had been fate all along. Lords who had expected to toast Thor instead now raised their goblets to Loki without hesitation, and though he wore his usual composed expression, you caught him glancing over the crowd now and then as though waiting for someone to declare the whole thing an elaborate illusion.

No one did. The marriage was real. Which left only one tradition still to fulfill.

Your ladies fuss over you in the antechamber, their chatter filling the room while deft fingers tug pins from your hair. Golden ornaments clink softly into waiting trays, followed by jeweled combs and the heavy ceremonial veil that had rested upon your head throughout the day.

“There,” one of them murmurs, running a brush through the loose waves cascading down your back. “Much better.”

Another laughs. “Her Highness looks terrified.”

“I am not,” you reply automatically.

The women exchange amused glances.

“You are,” one says gently. “Every bride is.”

You couldn’t exactly explain that the ceremony itself wasn’t what had your stomach tied into knots. It was everything that had led to this moment.

This morning, you had sat believing you were about to spend a lifetime with one brother. Now, as another maid slipped a simple ivory robe over your shoulders in place of the elaborate wedding gown, you found yourself preparing to share a bed with the man you had spent years despising.

The irony was almost laughable.

Had anyone told the girl who used to argue with Loki over every imagined slight that one day she would become his wife, she would have accused them of madness. But life in Asgard had grown unexpectedly, unbearably strange.

“All done,” your head lady says softly, fastening a simple gold chain around your throat. “You are ready, my lady.”

You look at your reflection.

The woman staring back at you hardly resembled the princess who had entered the hall that morning. Gone was the dread and the carefully rehearsed smile. In their place lingered a sort of calm.

“My father and mother won’t be in attendance, right?” you ask, turning away from the mirror.

You knew the customs, of course. But given the circumstances of this marriage — the sudden switch of grooms, the rushed ceremony, the political maneuvering beneath it all — you found yourself unable to stop double-checking every detail.

“No, my lady,” the head lady assures. “The traditions are clear. The bride and grooms relatives are not permitted beyond the threshold. The final rite is to only be witnessed by the officials and the elders of your two realms.”

Relief washes over you stronger than you expect, but it is quickly followed by another wave of nerves. “And the marriage will only be officially recognized once—”

“Once it has been witnessed that the union has been completed,” she finishes. “Yes.”

You nod slowly. The ceremony in front of the court meant little in Asgardian law. Without this final tradition, the marriage could be dissolved. All is not yet done, which means there is still time for it to all fall apart.

A Knock at the door echoes through the small room, and one of the younger maids scurries to open it. Your father stands there. His expression is neutral, but the lines etched around his eyes are deep as though the day had aged him years.

“Leave us,” he orders.

Your ladies bow deeply, then file out with soft steps, closing the doors behind them.

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. He just studies you in the way only a father could — as though he’s trying to reconcile the child he raised with the woman standing before him now.

“Is mother upset?” you ask, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Your mother is… adjusting,” he says, stepping forward. “She had planned this day differently.”

His answer does not surprise you. It mattered not that Thor said no out of love for another, only that you had not been enough to secure the marriage.

She had planned your entire life differently, and your wedding to Thor had been the culmination of decades of alliance building. And while the treaty itself remained intact, the entire foundation had shifted beneath everyone’s feet.

You are not guaranteed to be future queen of Asgard anymore. Loki is not the heir, not the one who would inherit Asgard lest Thor’s disobedience to Odin’s orders cost him his place. The political implications of this marriage are complex, and though your own realm would gain a powerful connection through you, it would never be the one your mother envisioned.

“Are you upset?” you ask, finally meeting his gaze.

He shakes his head. “No. I am not.”

He steps close, reaching out to adjust the chain at your neck. His fingers linger against your collarbone for a moment, then drop.

“Your mother has never been good at adapting,” he says quietly. “She forgets that the tides shift and a queen who does not change with them drowns. You are different than her.”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of the little girl who had always tried so hard to be what her parents wanted.

“You do not think it is.. dishonorable?” you ask.

“Dishonorable to make peace? To save lives?” he scoffs. “No. You were not the one to make the mess, child. You simply made the most of it.”

He smooths the front of your robe, and the familiar gesture brings tears to your eyes. He used to do this when you were small — pat down your dress before you went into formal events, straighten your hair, wipe a smudge of dirt from your cheek. But the tenderness in his touch now is heavier, layered with years of regret and a quiet pride he rarely voiced aloud.

“But I must ask… are you truly alright with this?” he asks. “I’ve heard no complaints from you. You’ve accepted this union with Loki with a grace I would not expect.”

You realize for the first time that beneath all the political maneuvering and duty, he is simply a father asking the question that matters most. The question he cannot ask in front of a court or even your mother.

“Would it matter?” you ask softly. “If I wasn’t?”

A beat passes.

“Not to the realm,” he admits finally. “But it would matter to me.”

Something in your chest tightens, and although you have shed most of the tension of the day, the threat of tears rises again. You blink them back quickly.

“I know that my birth was never a matter of personal joy,” you say, testing the words that have lived unspoken between you for years. “It was political strategy. My very existence is a treaty.”

Your father exhales slowly, and his face shows a strain you rarely see. “That is a burden no child should bear. Yet you have, and I am… so sorry for it.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod, throat tight.

“You have spent your entire life preparing for a role. The daughter, the diplomat, the future queen of Asgard through Thor,” he says, stepping back slightly. “I never taught you how to be yourself.”

Your mind races back through years of lessons. Etiquette, diplomacy, history, warfare, political strategy. The things that would make you valuable. Useful. But never once had someone asked you what you wanted.

“It matters not now,” you say, forcing steadiness into your tone.

“I am not finished,” he says gently. “I have spent my years as a king trying to secure alliances. But I have spent my nights as a father worrying about my daughter. And tonight, I find myself wishing I had worried less about the alliance and more about you.”

He reaches out and takes your hands. His palms are rough, but his grip is steady.

“I have no right to say this,” he says, “but I will. If Loki ever harms you—”

“He won’t,” you interrupt quietly. “He’s not what everyone thinks.”

Your father raises an eyebrow. “You believe that?”

“I do.”

“Then I will trust your judgment.” He releases your hands. “But know this: if you find you cannot bear this life, if you need an escape, you need only send word. I will come for you. Whatever the cost.”

You stare at him, stunned. This is the first unconditional offer you have ever received. The one thing he cannot offer as a king, he is giving you as a father.

“Thank you,” you manage to say, your voice thick.

He nods, and no more words are needed between you. He simply holds out his arm, and you take it.

The halls are quieter now. As you walk, the torchlight flickers off the golden walls, making your shadows dance and merge on the polished floor.

Your father is silent, and you are grateful for it. There is nothing left to say that can prepare you for what comes next.

When you reach the doors leading to the Hall of Concord, two guards straighten, their faces impassive. Your father stops before them, then turns to you.

“Your mother and I leave for our realm tonight. This will be the last I see of you until the next solstice, unless you send word sooner.”

Your mother did not even intend to stay to say goodbye. A familiar pang of disappointment settles in your chest, though it is duller than it once would have been.

“Travel safely,” you say.

“And you,” he gives you one last lingering look. “Be well, my child.”

Then he is gone, striding away down the hall without a backward glance. You watch him until he turns the corner, then turn to face the doors.

Now or never.

Warm light spills into the corridor as the doors are pushed opened, carrying with it the low murmur of conversation and the faint perfume of burning incense. You step inside, your breath catching despite yourself.

The chamber stretched farther than you’d expected, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow above. It was the one room in Asgard you’d never been permitted to see before this day.

You had heard tales of it, of course. The floor was said to be made of a single, massive slab of obsidian so polished it reflected the open starlit sky above.

At its center, upon a raised dais, rests the ceremonial bed.

It is draped in ivory linen embroidered with silver vines and golden leaves, the canopy above woven with the banners of both Asgard and Alfheim. Fresh blossoms spill across the coverlet — a bit over the top, even for Asgard. But you have learned that when it comes to their traditions, Asgardians do nothing halfway.

Around the dais stand the assembled witnesses. The royal steward occupies a place of honor at the head of the room several feet from the bed, while the elder nobles and respected families of both realms form a wide semicircle beyond.

It is easy to lose your nerve when everyone is looking at you. But when your eyes find Loki, a strange calm descends.

He stands near the foot of the dais, alone and apart from everyone else. Gone are the ceremonial layers he’d worn during the wedding, exchanged for garments befitting the final rite. A simple robe to match yours — only of a deep forest green. His hair, no longer pulled back in the formal arrangement of earlier, fall in dark waves across his shoulders.

He looks less like a prince and more like a statue carved from night itself, all sharp angles and quiet grace.

As the doors close behind you with a heavy thud, the conversation ceases. Every eye turns toward you and you have to resist the urge to fidget with the chain at your neck or straighten the nonexistent wrinkles in your robe. Instead you lift your chin and walk forward, your steps echoing in the sudden silence of the hall.

You come to a stop before Loki, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him but not quite touching. The air between you is charged, alive with the unspoken and the unknown.

“All rise,” the Stewards voice booms. “We are gathered here tonight for the final rite of union, witnessed and recorded in the halls of Asgard and the courts of Alfheim.”

His gaze sweeps over you, then over Loki, but there is no warmth in it. Only the cold, steady assessment of a man whose only care is protocol and the preservation of tradition.

“In accordance with ancient laws and for the security of the realms, the bride and groom shall consummate the marriage here tonight, in the presence of their witnesses.”

You can feel a light flush begin to creep up your neck, and you fight to keep your expression neutral. It is one thing to understand the tradition intellectually, quite another to hear it spoken aloud.

“Only once the union has been sealed will the treaty be binding and the marriage recognized by all Nine Realms,” he concludes. “What is done here tonight cannot be undone.”

Loki hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you entered the room, and as the man speaks, one side of his mouth curves into a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Nervous?” he murmurs, so softly that only you can hear.

“Of you? Never,” you murmur back, matching his quiet tone.

His smirk widens into a genuine smile that reaches his eyes, making them glitter in the torchlight. “Liar.”

The formal words come to an end, and with them everyone takes their seats.

Loki does not ask to take your hand this time, instead reaching for it with the ease of one who knows it is already his. You allow your fingers to curl around his as he pulls you up the dais toward the bed, where he then pauses to regard you.

His other hand comes up to brush a stray hair from your face. It lingers there for a moment, tracing along your cheekbone and coming to rest just below your ear.

“Do you trust me?” he asks softly, his voice pitched for you alone.

Recklessly so, you think. But you do not say it aloud. Instead, you tilt your head slightly into his touch and answer with a sure nod.

He leans in close until his lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. The feeling sends a shiver down your spine, and your eyes flutter shut of their own accord.

He smells of leather and cedar, clean and woodsy. Something you could lose yourself in if you were not careful, and you have never been careful with him.

His breath is warm as it ghosts along your skin.

"Good.”

His hand comes up to cup your other cheek and he kisses you slowly, languidly. His mouth moves with agonizing tenderness against yours, his lips brushing over yours again and again with the lightest touch.

Somewhere in the dizziness, your hands find his chest and curl into the fabric of his robe. You cling to it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself against the gentle assault of his mouth.

You can’t pinpoint the exact moment you end up on the bed, only that at some point you are no longer standing but laying with your head pillowed on the softest pillows you have ever known.

Loki still stands above you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he reaches to untie the sash at his waist. The robe falls open to reveal smooth planes of pale skin and taut muscle, and you have to resist the urge to reach out and trace your fingers along the lines of his abdomen as you did what now impossibly felt like a lifetime ago.

He lets the garment drop from his shoulders to pool on the ground at his feet, revealing the full expanse of him.

All glory and no shame. His lack of nerves come as little surprise; you doubt that Loki has ever had occasion to feel shy about his body. Nor should he.

Yourself, on the other hand...

You have never felt more exposed than you do in this moment, and your body has not even been laid bare yet.

Loki seems to sense your discomfort, because his expression softens as he climbs onto the bed to kneel over you.

“Express yourself,” he says, and it is not just Loki making a suggestion. It is the command of a Prince. “Use your tongue. What is it that has you worried so?”

You don't know where to start.

That you're not an Aesir.

That you have no claim to beauty or grace, not like the women he must have been with in the past.

That it will hurt.

That you will embarrass yourself.

That you will embarrass him.

What comes out instead is, "I'm... scared."

He leans closer, and for a moment you think he means to kiss you again. Instead his lips graze your cheek until they come to rest by your ear, the warmth of his breath making you shiver.

"Be more specific, princess.”

The way his voice rolls over you is enough to make your head swim.

You are suddenly hyper aware of everyone's eyes on you, and it makes you feel small and exposed. You know they cannot hear your words, but they can see the way you move, the way your expression changes. The thought makes your cheeks flush, and you close your eyes against the scrutiny of the room.

“They are watching us," you whisper. "It makes me nervous."

His fingers trace a slow line down the side of your neck before coming to rest over your pulse.

"You want them to stop?"

"Yes," you breathe.

He takes a deep breath, and you feel the warmth of it against your throat as he exhales.

"Then open your eyes."

You do, and it takes you a moment to realize what has happened.

The stands are empty. Gone are the nobles and the courtiers and the family. The only person who remains is Loki.

“What—” You start to sit up, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Illusion," he explains, smiling faintly. "They are still there, able able to see everything that goes on in this room. I'm afraid that part is unavoidable. But we can pretend, at least, that it is just the two of us."

You glance around the room again, marveling at how real it all seems.

"How long can you hold this?"

"Longer than you could imagine.” His lithe fingers begin tracing along the edge of the robe where it falls at your collarbone, dipping into the hollow of your throat. "Why? Do you have other fantasies you would like me to indulge?"

"What else can you do?"

A slow grin spreads across his face.

"What can I not do, princess?" He slides your robe aside, exposing your shoulder to the chill of the air. "Perhaps I'll show you, some day."

“And why not today?"

His lips ghost across your collarbone as his hands move to the sash at your waist. He undoes it slowly, never taking his eyes off yours.

“Two lessons and you believe yourself ready for all I have to teach?"

You shiver as he slips the robe from your shoulders to pool beneath you, leaving you bare before him. He pauses a moment to look at you, his gaze roving over your body with such intensity that you have to fight not to shy away.

"Perhaps I'm eager to learn."

He makes a soft noise of amusement in the back of his throat as he lowers himself above you.

“Oh, darling. You haven't the faintest idea what you're asking for."

Your legs part of their own accord to allow him to settle between them, and he lowers his weight onto his forearms. The sudden feeling of his skin against skin makes you gasp, and his lips curve into a smile against your throat.

"I could take you to the ends of the universe and back, and you still wouldn't begin to comprehend the power at my fingertips." He pauses, seeming to consider his words. “Perhaps one day I'll show you just how far that power extends."

Your pulse quickens at the thought, and Loki chuckles as he feels it thrumming beneath your skin.

"Not tonight, princess," he murmurs, trailing kisses down the column of your throat. "Tonight I intend to do things properly, if only for your sake."

"I thought you didn't believe in doing things properly," you manage to rasp as he nips at your throat, eliciting a small sound from the back of your throat.

"Oh, I don't." He shifts slightly, and you feel the hard length of him against your thigh. He then presses forward until you are forced to spread your legs further apart to accommodate his hips. "But I've no desire to break you so soon after getting you."

His tongue traces a slow, languid line along the shell of your ear before he takes the lobe gently between his teeth. You gasp again, and this time the sound is accompanied by a breathy moan as you feel him slide between your folds, hot and heavy.

He hums with pleasure at your reaction, his voice low and smooth in your ear. "Does that feel good, princess?"

He pushes forward again and you nod, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"So eager," he purrs. "And to think, you were so reluctant to let me touch you before."

You open your mouth, but before you can find the nerve to say anything he trails his fingers down the side of your neck until they come to rest above the swell of your breast. He lets them linger there a moment, tracing light circles around your nipple before pinching it gently between his thumb and forefinger.

It's just enough pressure to make you arch your back with a soft cry, and Loki's chuckle sends a warm shiver running down your spine.

"Look at you, writhing beneath me like a wanton little thing.” His free hand comes up to tangle in your hair, his grip firm as he forces your head back, exposing your throat. "Have I created a monster?"

"Loki," you gasp, feeling the slow tug of pleasure between your legs as he tauntingly grinds his hips against yours. "Please."

The hand in your hair tightens. "Do you remember what I told you the first time you came to me for a lesson?"

You try to nod your head, but he holds you firmly in place.

"Answer me."

"Y-yes."

"Say it."

You close your eyes. "Patience is a virtue."

It was the second thing he’d taught you that night, after teaching you how to let go of shame.

The first you had nearly mastered — but patience? That would take much longer, and knowing you had all the time in the world, you know he will insist on being thorough.

Loki hums with approval, and his fingers release your nipple to trace a lazy line down the center of your chest.

"Are you patient?"

No.

"Yes," you breathe.

His laugh is deep and dark in your ear as his hand dips lower, teasing the soft skin just below your navel.

"Is that so?"

"I can be," you insist.

His fingers come to rest at the apex of your thighs, where you ache the most, and he makes no effort to disguise his amusement as you instinctively press yourself against his hand.

"Mmm, I see. Shall I test your mettle, then?"

His fingers finally, finally, slide between your folds to stroke your aching clit and you moan as they begin circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, teasing you mercilessly. It isn’t much longer until you give a small cry as he slips one inside, the sound echoing through the “empty” chamber.

This isn’t tradition.

He pumps slowly, in and out, curling his finger up to brush against the spot that makes you whimper with need.

Tradition dictates that this is supposed to be clinical, quick. It does not require that the groom take the time to play with his bride before he finally sinks inside her. In fact, you are certain that Loki is going well beyond the call of duty here.

But there is no way in Hel that you are going to stop him.

He watches your face carefully as he adds a second finger, stretching you so as he begins to pump a little faster. You gasp softly as his thumb joins his fingers to stroke your clit in slow circles, drawing the pressure out with agonizing tenderness.

“So tight,” he murmurs, and it sounds as if the words have been drawn out of him against his will. “I know not how I am meant to fit myself inside you."

You open your mouth to say something clever in return, but it dissolves into a soft cry as you feel another finger slip inside. It is slightly painful now, but it is tempered by the pleasure of feeling full. He holds still for a moment, allowing you time to adjust, before he resumes the steady rhythm.

You can't remember what it was that you meant to say.

Your head is thrown back, the muscles in your neck straining as you arch against his hand. The only sound in the room is the harsh panting of your breath and the wet squelch of his fingers moving in and out of you.

You feel the tightness building low in your stomach, but you can't seem to find the words to warn him. Instead all you can do is moan, and it spills from your mouth again and again as you try to find purchase on the sheets.

He takes one of your hands in his free one, entwining your fingers together, and pins it above your head. His other hand continues its relentless assault on your body, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge.

It's too much. It's too much.

"Loki," you gasp. "I — I —"

And then his lips are crashing down on yours, swallowing the rest of your sentence. The sudden pressure is enough to send you hurtling over the edge, and you come undone with a silent cry.

Your head is spinning as he pulls away, his breathing slightly labored, and you watch as he lifts his fingers to his lips to lick them clean. Just as he had the first night you spent with him.

You distantly wonder if the invisible crowd can see the familiarity with which he does it, or if that knowledge is just for you.

He lowers himself above you, and you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance.

"Look at me," he commands softly.

You do.

"Are you ready?"

You nod, and his expression softens.

"I want to hear you say it. Do you want this?"

You take a deep breath.

Is it not too late? You are already naked and exposed and laid bare before him.

Could you turn back now, even if you wanted to?

He seems to sense your hesitation, because he lets go of your wrist to cup your cheek. it helps you to focus.

“Stop thinking of your people. Think of only yourself, here with me, in this moment. For once in your life, do something selfish." His thumb strokes lightly over your cheekbone, and his eyes search your face. "Do you want me?"

There is only one answer.

"Yes."

He lowers his head until his lips are hovering just above yours, but he makes no move to close the distance. Instead he stays there, suspended in space as if waiting for something.

It takes a moment to realize what he is waiting for.

You lift your chin and press your lips to his, tentatively at first. When he does not pull away, you deepen the kiss, parting your lips and letting your tongue trace along the seam of his mouth. He opens to you, allowing you access, and you slide your tongue against his with a small sigh.

He groans against your mouth as the hot, velvet weight of his cock stretches your entrance. You can't help the gasp that escapes you as he slides in inch by agonizing inch.

Finally, when he is fully sheathed inside you, he breaks the kiss to murmur softly against your lips.

“I promised you three lessons," His voice is a low rumble. "Let this be the last one.”

Letting go of shame, learning to service, and…

“What is this one?" you manage to choke.

"Surrender," he breathes, and you cry out as he pulls out almost all the way before slamming back into you.

Your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulder as you cling to him, anchoring yourself against the sudden onslaught of sensation.

He sets a slow, steady pace. His thrusts are not punishing, but they deep and thorough. Your body has never felt so full. So complete.

You don’t know when it happened, but somehow your hands have found their way into his hair as you cling to him, unable to form a coherent thought beyond more. More. More.

It doesn’t hurt as you feared. In fact, there is no pain at all. Just an unexplainable thing, like the feeling of stretching before a long run or the slight burn of sore muscles after training. It feels strange and new, but not unpleasant.

And then it feels... good.

He takes his time, slowly rocking into you with a measured kind of gentleness that you would not have expected from a God who is known for his lack of restraint. He touches you everywhere he can reach as if trying to memorize every inch of you. And you touch him too, because he is yours now, and you have the right.

Your fingers slide over his arms, his chest, his shoulders. They tangle in his hair then trace along his jaw. They find his back, his hips, the curve of his ass. They roam wherever they please, leaving small marks in their wake.

He does not seem to mind.

At some point he takes your hand and guides it between your legs, urging you to touch yourself as he watches with a hooded gaze.

And you do, because he asks it of you.

Another break of custom, and one that comes uncharacteristically naturally.

Is it truly so easy to abandon the formalities and the rigid expectations you’ve been trained to follow your entire life? You never even knew such an option existed.

You wonder if this is who you really are. If perhaps this was the version of you that had always been there, hidden beneath the skin and just waiting for someone to free it.

Your entire life you have been a person who obeys rules and traditions and decorum. Even here, on your wedding night, you have followed them dutifully.

But with him it is different. With him you do not feel bound by the things that have always governed you. With him you feel free.

It is a revelation, and it sends you soaring.

“You, princess of Alfheim and Asgard, are going to be the death of me," Loki groans, and his voice is little more than a broken whisper.

His words send a jolt through you and you tighten around him, drawing a low moan from his throat.

He drops his head into the crook of your neck, where it seems to fit so perfectly, as if it was meant to be there all along. He presses an open mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear as his hips begin to move faster, harder. His thrusts are becoming erratic, and you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“I am yours. Say it."

"You are mine," you whisper.

"Again."

"You are mine, Loki."

It is as if he is still seeking reassurance even now.

And he is yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

Just as you are his… but he has given you something more than that. Something no one has ever given you before.

You are not just a wife that belongs to him. You are a woman that wants to be, and that makes all the difference in the world.

Your hand finds his cheek and you turn his face toward you until your noses are brushing and his breath is mingling with yours.

"I am yours," you say again, and you hope he understands what you mean by it.

I love you.

It’s a startling thought, but not one that is entirely foreign.

In truth you think you might have loved him all along, from that very first day when you arrived at the palace as a girl and he had — albeit begrudgingly — given you a tour of the grounds.

All the arguments and the sharp words. Every time he had delighted in getting beneath your skin, only to linger long after he had left the room.

You had mistaken constancy for conflict.

Everyone else eventually yielded to you. They bowed because you were a princess. They agreed because it was easier. They smiled politely and told you what they thought you wished to hear.

Loki never did.

He questioned you. Challenged you. Infuriated you. He was the only one who ever met your fire with his own.

And somehow, in all those years of bickering and barbed remarks, neither of you had realized you were doing the same thing over and over again:

Finding your way back to one another.

Perhaps love had never arrived all at once. It had grown quietly in the spaces between the things you didn't say and the way your eyes always found his across a room.

You love him.

You love him and looking back on it now, you cannot remember a time when you didn’t.

And you have surrendered.

You let go of everything that has held you back for so long and allow yourself to fall. Surprisingly, it is not frightening. It is exhilarating and freeing and everything you ever needed.

All you must do is follow.

And you do, tumbling headlong into your own desire. You come undone for the second time with his name on your lips, and you are dimly aware of his answering groan as you clench around him, sending him hurtling over the edge with you.

As the world begins to right itself around you, you become aware of Loki's breathing. It is ragged, harsh, as if he had just run a great distance or fought a long battle. You are not far behind him.

Carefully, he pulls out of you. The sudden emptiness makes you shiver, but in one swift motion he pulls you up until both of you are positioned upright in the center of the bed. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck and he holds you close, his face buried in your hair.

“You alright?" he murmurs softly, and you nod.

The moment seems to stretch on forever, but in reality it can only be a few heartbeats before he reluctantly lets go and pulls away.

“Are you ready to face them?” he asks, glancing pointedly at the empty stands where everyone else waits.

Your eyes follow his, and you take a deep breath.

"Yes," you answer, and this time you are certain of it.

He nods, and the room slowly fades back into focus. The weight of a thousand eyes becomes a physical thing that settles on your shoulders like a cloak as the illusion dissolves completely, revealing the stands once again filled with people.

Some of them looked beyond shocked. Some were even looking away, their expressions ranging from scandalized to embarrassed. Others did not bother to hide the way their eyes were locked on the two of you, curiosity and something akin to hunger on their faces.

The Royal Steward steps forward, his face red as he clears his throat. "With this, the final rite of union is complete.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, "On behalf of Asgard and Alfheim, we thank you."

You watch as the Royal Steward bows, and the rest of the stands quickly follow suit.

"I believe that is our cue," Loki says, and there is an amused note in his voice.

In a flash of emerald light, your robes settle once more upon your shoulders.

A ripple of murmured disapproval passes through the assembled court. According to tradition, Loki should have cleansed you with the ceremonial cloth, dressed you himself, and formally presented you to the court.

It is terribly improper.

Entirely deliberate.

So unmistakably Loki.

Although unnoticeable to the crowd, you know his choice to leave his seed dripping down your thighs was intentional. You have to fight the urge to squirm where you sit.

Before you can take so much as a single step, he slips one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees. With effortless ease, he lifts you from the bed.

A startled laugh escapes you, instinctively looping an arm around his shoulders.

“Loki!”

“You weren’t truly planning on walking, were you?” he murmurs, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Half the realm would spend the next century debating your gait.”

Heat floods your cheeks.

He isn’t wrong.

After everything the day has demanded of you — of both of you — you are fairly certain your legs would betray you before you reached the door.

“You are insufferable,” you whisper.

“And yet,” he replies, unable to suppress the crooked smile tugging at his lips, “you married me anyway.”

The great doors swing open before you, and the once reluctant crowd bursts into cheers. It follows you through the corridors and out into the gardens, where the people gather to celebrate the union of two kingdoms.

It is a thing of wonder, the way they look at you now. No longer with the guarded suspicion and distrust they once held so closely, but with hope and a kind of quiet pride.

They look at you as if they have never seen you before, and you suppose in a way they haven't. You aren’t just a princess of Alfheim anymore. Now you are also a Princess of Asgard.

Loki carries you all the way to the edge of the fountain and sets you down gently on the marble ledge.

The cheering seems to have quieted somewhat as the crowds take their places around the garden, but the joy is still palpable in the air.

Everything seems almost too perfect to be real.

Thor dances with Sif, laughing as she drags him about the grass.

The allfather watches over the proceedings with his usual grim expression, but there is something softer about it that you have never seen before.

The allmother wears a serene grin as she gazes out over the festivities. She catches your eye and gives you a small nod of approval, and you know that whatever has placated Odin is largely due to her influence.

Volstagg hoists a barrel of ale onto the table, prompting several of the nobles to begin passing out glasses. Fandral is already on his second if the way he sways is any indication.

And finally, the seer.

She stands alone beside a tall ash tree at the edge of the garden, her white eyes staring off into nothing. Or perhaps they see everything. You cannot say for certain, but you know that she can sense you, for her head turns in your direction and a small smile plays across her lips.

You have no doubt that you have made the correct decision.

You had believed the shadow the seer spoke of belonged to Loki. The forgotten prince. The keeper of secrets. But shadows were never proof of evil, they were only proof of light. And you knew now that he was not the shadow in this story.

He was the light.

Your light.

And your heart had chosen him.

By time the sun had set, your feet were aching from dancing and your cheeks were sore from smiling. You have been introduced to more people than you care to count, and it is late enough that even the most enthusiastic revelers have retired for the night.

Now you sit side by side on a cliff overlooking the sea, watching as the waves crash against the rocks below. Your bare feet dangle off the edge, and it feels almost as if the two of you are suspended above the world.

For a long moment neither of you speak, content to sit in this newfound peace together. But it is unlike the youngest prince of Asgard to let a silence linger for very long, and you feel the need to break it before he does.

"What are you thinking?” you ask softly, glancing over at him.

He stares off into the distance, his expression thoughtful.

“That I do not deserve this.” He glances down at his hands. At the ring on his finger. “It is not my nature to be happy. I can’t help but think that sooner or later this will be taken from me."

You reach over to place your hand over his, intertwining your fingers.

“Not if I have anything to say about it."

“I am not of Asgard — not truly. I do not know what the future holds for me here."

You stay quiet, letting him work through whatever he needs to say.

“It was never a question who would someday take my fathers place as king, no matter how much I might wish it otherwise. Thor has always been the clear choice for the throne, and he is better suited for it than I. It is his birthright, and I have accepted it. Odin will forgive him for his indiscretions, as he has always done before. Even when it nearly cost him his life and all of Asgard besides.”

When the silence stretches on, you prompt him gently, "I do not see how this pertains to us."

He sighs. "You too, as my brother, was born to rule. You have always been meant for greater things than I. And I… I can not make you queen. I fear that one day you will find yourself resenting me for it."

For a moment you just stare at him. Then, despite every effort to stop yourself, you laugh.

Loki blinks.

“You are laughing.”

“I am.”

“I’ve just confessed one of my deepest insecurities.”

“You have.”

“And your response is laughter.”

You nod, trying — and failing — to compose yourself.

His brow furrows in that wonderfully familiar way, offense settling across his features with almost theatrical precision.

“You find this amusing?”

Something warm blooms in your chest.

There he is.

The infuriating, dramatic boy who had spent years arguing with you over everything from swordsmanship to whether roses ought to have perfectly symmetrical petals.

“No," you manage to say, seriousness finally returning to your voice. "I find it ridiculous."

Loki opens his mouth, but you hold up a hand to silence him before he can speak.

“I was born for the sole purpose of being a pawn. Something I’m sure we both know all too well. We were made to be used, Loki. And we have been used. By our parents. By our people. By everyone else who believes they have a claim to us.”

He looks away, and you reach out to tilt his face toward you once more.

“I never wanted to be a queen. All I ever wanted was to be free. And now that I am, I don't think I could go back." You hesitate a moment, trying to find the right words. “You do not get to decide what I deserve. Neither does Thor, nor Odin, nor anyone else in the realms. Only I can. And I have decided that you are what I want. Do you understand?”

His eyes search yours for a long moment, but you hold his gaze steadily.

Then he smiles.

“Of course your first act as my equal is to give me an order."

You narrow your eyes at him, but you can't quite disguise the smirk tugging at your lips.

"And my second act will be to toss you over this cliff if you don’t obey it."

“Careful. Threatening the prince, husband or not, may be considered treasonous."

"If you think that is a threat, then you clearly have not been paying attention," you say dryly, raising an eyebrow.

He grins. "Darling, I have been paying attention to everything about you since the day we met."

You roll your eyes and give him a little shove. "Flatterer."

He catches your hand as you move to push him, and in one fluid movement he tugs you forward until you are on his lap, his arms wrapped securely around you.

"Perhaps," he says, “but that does not mean it is not true."

The smile you give him is shy, and he traces a finger along the curve of your cheek as he gazes at you.

“You know, we can visit Alfheim whenever you like." His thumb grazes along your lower lip. "I believe I am owed a tour."

You smile.

"I think I would like that."

You are certain that there will be difficulties both large and small, and some that may even seem insurmountable. But that is something you can worry about another day. Tonight, you do not wish to think of anything except him.

“Then it shall be.”

You make a noncommittal noise as you settle against him, your head coming to rest just below his chin. His heart beats steadily beneath your ear, and you allow yourself to bask in the warmth of him.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, echoing the question you had asked him moments earlier.

You close your eyes, letting the sounds of the horse and the sea wash over you.

“For the first time since arriving in Asgard as a frightened little girl, I feel at home."

Loki shifts slightly so he can press his lips to the top of your head.

“Welcome home.”

You smile.

“Your mother spoke to me today.”

He hums softly. “Should I be concerned?”

“Probably.”

He chuckles.

“She gave me a gift.”

You feel him stiffen just enough to know you’ve piqued his curiosity.

“A gift?”

“A book. On seidr.”

Loki pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Mother gave you a book on magic?”

“She believed it would serve me one day.”

“Then I suspect it will,” Loki says simply. “My mother was rarely in the habit of giving gifts without purpose.”

“But that wasn’t the strange part.”

You think back to the worn leather binding beneath your fingertips, to Frigga’s gentle hands resting over yours.

This will help you mend the threads when they fray.

At the time, you had thought she meant treaties. Politics. The endless obligations of a queen. Now you wondered if she had meant something much smaller and Indefinitely harder.

You wonder if perhaps she meant family.

You think of Thor, who had surrendered everything because he refused to make prisoners of either of you.

You think of Odin, who had, if only for a moment, looked at both of his sons instead of only one.

You think of the years Loki had spent believing himself unseen.

Threads. Broken ones. Frayed ones. And somehow, all of them had begun to weave together.

A queen was not the one who wore the finest crown.

She was the one who refused to let the kingdom unravel.

“She knew,” you whisper.

Loki’s brow furrows.

“About us,” you clarify.

You feel him hesitate before answering.

“I think…” He exhales through his nose. “I think she knew long before either of us did.”

A laugh escapes you.

“That is horribly unfair,” you murmur.

“It is.”

“We spent years arguing.”

“So we did.”

“We could scarcely be in the same room without finding something to disagree about.”

“I distinctly remember you beginning most of them.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him. “I did not!”

“You absolutely did.”

“I simply corrected you.”

“You called my illusions ‘uninspired.’”

“They were.”

He lets out an affronted noise.

“I still don’t understand why she chose today of all days to give me the book,” you say thoughtfully, ignoring his protests.

Loki scoffs, though it is more fond than annoyed

“oh she has just ensured I shall never win another argument.”

You laugh.

“I hardly need magic for that.”

“No,” he sighs dramatically. “That has been painfully evident for years.”

He kisses your forehead.

“I pity the poor soul who attempts to outwit both of us now.”

You lean into him, smirking.

The Thrombey estate smelled like roasted duck, expensive wine and old money.

Summer Cohen sat at the long dining table tucked between Jacob and Donna trying not to fidget as the annual Friday night dinner unfolded around her. Harlan was at the head carving meat with the precision of a surgeon while the rest of the family filled the room with overlapping conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional passive-aggressive jab.

Jacob was mid-monologue again gesturing with his fork as he launched into another blog-inspired rant.

"It's just basic economics," he said, voice nasal and insistent. "The immigration policies I wrote about last week—"

"Jesus Christ" Ransom muttered from across the other side of the table. "Can we have one fucking dinner without politics?"

Summer bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She shouldn't find his rudeness charming but compared to Jacob’s endless droning it was almost refreshing.

Jacob’s face flushed. “Right because God forbid anyone at this table actually engages with reality.”

Walt cleared his throat shifting in his seat. “Jacob’s just… passionate. That’s all.”

“There’s passion,” Ransom said, reaching for his wine glass, “and then there’s insufferable.”

The crystal caught the light as he raised it to his lips, his blue eyes meeting Summer’s over the rim—steady, unreadable , deliberate.

"Let's leave politics for the campaign trail shall we?" Harlan’s voice cut through the tension, his knife pausing mid-slice through the glistening duck. He turned his attention to Summer, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Summer, tell me about your literature classes. You're taking Victorian novels this semester aren't you?"

Summer straightened in her seat grateful for the lifeline. "Yes I am. We just finished Wuthering Heights last week."

"Ah Brontë" Harlan nodded appreciatively. "Passion and revenge on the moors. What did you make of Heathcliff?"

"I think he's utterly compelling," Summer replied, aware of how her voice softened. "Monstrous yes but there's something about his intensity that makes you understand why Catherine couldn't escape him."

"Ah the allure of darkness" Harlan mused resuming his carving. "Some of the most memorable characters in literature walk that line between monster and man."

Summer felt a prickle of awareness and glanced up to find Ransom watching her one eyebrow slightly raised. A flush warmed her cheeks. She quickly looked away reaching for her water glass.

"I prefer Mr. Darcy," Donna offered. "Much more… suitable."

Ransom snorted softly. "Please. Darcy’s a bore. Heathcliff’s the only one with a pulse."  

He tipped his wine glass in Summer’s direction — a subtle conspiratorial gesture — and added “At least he’d keep things interesting.”

Summer’s breath stuttered. It wasn’t a wink not exactly but the look he gave her felt like one.

“It seems readers have always been drawn to the complicated men” Harlan observed, finally able to sit and enjoy the food on his plate. “The ones who straddle that line between virtue and vice. It’s a tale as old as storytelling.”

“I think you might be onto something there dad” Linda said dabbing delicately at her lips. “Though I never understood the appeal myself. Why waste time on a man who needs… untangling?”

Summer shifted in her seat hyper-aware of Ransom’s gaze still lingering on her. The weight of it slid down her spine like warm fingertips. She focused on her plate cutting her duck into neat perfect squares.

“Maybe it’s not about fixing them,” she said softly. “Maybe it’s about recognizing that people can be both—dark and light—and still worth understanding.”

Jacob scoffed beside her. “That’s what people say when they’re making excuses for bad decisions.”  

He placed his hand over hers, his palm slightly clammy. “Not everyone needs to be complicated.”

Summer eased her hand out from under his pretending she needed it for her wine glass. “Right,” she murmured, lifting the glass to her lips.

When Summer looked up again she caught Ransom’s gaze still fixed on her—steady, unbothered and far too knowing. Something dark and appreciative flickered in his eyes a glint that felt like it was meant only for her. The corner of his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile—not the polished performative charm he used on the rest of the family but something quieter. Something private.

“More wine Summer?” Harlan offered his voice warm as he reached for the decanter, breaking the moment.

“Yes please” she said—too quickly.  

The crystal decanter clinked softly against her glass as Harlan poured. The burgundy wine swirled, catching the chandelier’s glow.

Conversation drifted toward business—publishing numbers, adaptation rights, and foreign sales. Joni chimed in with airy enthusiasm. “Well I think it’s wonderful that Jacob has such strong opinions. Young people today need to be engaged. It’s all about authentic expression.”

“Is that what you tell your Instagram followers?” Ransom asked in a deceptively mild tone. “The healing powers of overpriced face serums and—what was it last month? Crystal-infused water bottles?”

Joni’s smile tightened. “Wellness is a journey not a destination Ransom. Maybe if you opened your mind a little—”

“I’d rather open another bottle” Ransom cut in already reaching for the wine. “Anyone else?”

“I could use another son,” Richard said, lifting his glass with a grin.

Donna dabbed her mouth delicately with her napkin. “Speaking of young people being engaged, Summer's been looking into internships for next semester. Something in writing or publishing isn’t that right dear? It’ll look wonderful on her résumé when she graduates.”

Summer felt every pair of eyes shift toward her—some curious, some indifferent one far too intent. Ransom’s.

“I’m still exploring options,” Summer said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Publishing is the goal but I’m open to other writing opportunities.”

Linda hummed thoughtfully. “Well it’s smart to start early. The job market is brutal these days.”

Richard nodded. “And you’ve got a good head on your shoulders Summer. You’ll land somewhere impressive.”

Jacob puffed up beside her. “She will. I’ve been helping her look at a few places. I told her she should aim high.”

Ransom let out a quiet snort. “Yeah aim high” he murmured, eyes flicking toward Summer.

A brief lull settled. Harlan glanced between Summer and Ransom, something thoughtful in his eyes.

“You know” he said “you’re bright you’re ambitious—we could use someone like you. Ransom’s department is always drowning in manuscripts.”

Summer froze.

Jacob cut in quickly and smiled tight. “Well… if that’s what you want, Summer. I’m not exactly thrilled about you working under Ransom but it would be a good opportunity.”

Ransom’s grin sharpened. “I wouldn’t mind showing you the ropes.”

Summer nearly choked on her wine. “Oh—no, that's really not necessary. I wouldn’t want to take up your time. I’m sure you’re… busy.”

Ransom arched his brow. “It wouldn’t be a problem. I’m very hands-on.”

Harlan chided lightly “Now Ransom” though his mouth twitched.

“What?” Ransom’s expression was all innocence but his eyes told a different story when they locked onto Summer’s. “I’m just offering professional guidance.”

Summer reached for her water glass desperate to cool the heat spreading through her body. The ice clinked against the crystal as she took a long sip.

“I appreciate the offer” she finally managed her voice steadier than she expected. “But I’d hate to be an imposition.”

Harlan gave a small dismissive wave of his hand as if the matter were already settled. “Nonsense. You come by Monday and we can get the paperwork started.”

Dessert arrived ati thirty minutes later—generous slices of lemon cake still faintly warm the citrus scent drifting across the table. Coffee and tea were poured steam curling into the air as the family settled into a looser, more languid rhythm.

Summer tried to focus on her plate but her mind kept replaying Ransom’s voice the way he’d said hands-on Jacob’s tightened jaw. Her pulse still hadn’t fully settled.

Meg glanced down at her phone. “Oh shoot. I should probably head out. I told the girls I’d meet them tonight.”

She pushed her chair back and leaned over to kiss Harlan on the cheek. “Thanks again for dinner Grandad.”

Harlan patted her hand. “Drive safe sweetheart.”

Meg slung her bag over her shoulder and waved vaguely. “Bye everyone.”

Most of the family barely looked up. Only Summer and Ransom seemed to track her movement toward the foyer.

A moment later the front door creaked open.

Then—

“Holy shit.”

Meg’s voice carried down the hallway.

Linda’s head snapped up. “Meg?”

“You guys need to see this!” Meg called.

Chairs scraped. Richard stood first followed by Joni who fluttered toward the foyer. Walt and Donna rose as well. Summer hesitated but curiosity tugged her forward. Ransom didn’t move—but his eyes followed her.

In the foyer Meg stood frozen with the door half-open snow whipping past in violent sheets. The wind howled. The porch, driveway, trees—everything was swallowed in white.

“It’s a blizzard,” Meg said, stunned. “Like… a real one.”

Richard pulled out his phone. “Let me check the weather—”

Joni grabbed the remote in the living room. The TV flickered on. A red banner flashed:

BLIZZARD WARNING — WHITEOUT CONDITIONS. TRAVEL IMPOSSIBLE. STORM EXPECTED TO LAST TILL 7AM TOMORROW MORNING.

Joni let out a breathy laugh. “Well… that’s not ideal.”

Linda pressed a hand to her chest. “Looks like no one is going anywhere tonight.”

Summer exhaled slowly. The flutter in her stomach wasn’t just nerves.

Behind her she felt Ransom step into the doorway. When she turned he was watching her—that same intense look that made her warm and unsteady.

“I’ll have Fran make sure all the beds are ready” Harlan called toward the kitchen.

Fran appeared moments later wiping her hands on her apron. “Everything alright Mr. Thrombey?”

“We’ll need the guest rooms prepared” Harlan replied, gesturing to the window where snow fell in thick sheets. “It seems we’ll be having company tonight.”

Fran’s eyes widened. “All of them?”

“Better safe than sorry” Harlan said.

Fran nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Summer felt her stomach drop. The idea of spending the night under the same roof as Ransom made her mouth go dry. She glanced at Jacob, who was staring glumly at the weather report on the TV, his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“Guess we’re not making it back to campus tonight,” he muttered, sounding more inconvenienced than concerned.

Walt cleared his throat. “Well, this is… unexpected. But we have plenty of room, don’t we, Dad?”

“Of course,” Harlan said, doing a mental count of the bedrooms, his mind clearly moving three steps ahead.

Jacob slid an arm around her waist, pulling her closer than she wanted. “Well, this is kind of romantic, isn’t it?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “Trapped in a mansion during a snowstorm?”

“If you say so,” she murmured, trying not to stiffen.

Jacob chuckled, oblivious. “Maybe when everyone goes to bed we can fool around a little.”

Summer recoiled, pushing him off with a sharpness she didn’t bother to hide. “Jacob! Your whole family is here!”

He blinked, confused by her reaction. “Come on, Summer,” he whispered, leaning in again. “Everyone will be asleep. No one will know.”

Summer stepped farther away, shaking her head. “I’m not comfortable with that, Jacob.”

His face fell into that familiar sullen pout she’d grown to dread — the one that always made her feel like she’d done something wrong simply by having boundaries.

“Fine,” he muttered, crossing his arms.

The word hung between them, heavy and petulant, as the storm raged harder against the windows.

A few minutes later Fran returned with a set of neatly folded towels balanced in her arms. “I’ve got the guest rooms sorted Mr. Thrombey. There’s just one small issue… With everyone staying tonight we’re one room short.”

Harlan frowned. “I see. Well I’m sure we can make arrangements.”

“Summer can stay with me.” Jacob said, his sulking immediately vanishing  as he straightened. “Problem solved.”

Summer forced a polite smile, though her stomach tightened. “I don’t mind taking the library sofa if us sharing a room is a problem,” she offered quickly.

The idea of curling up alone with a blanket and a book sounded far more peaceful than being trapped in a room with Jacob.

Walt let out an awkward laugh. “I don’t think anyone here is naïve about what goes on in bedrooms. Young people will be young people. It’s only natural.”

Summer’s face went hot. She stared at the floor mortified hyper-aware of Ransom like a spotlight.

“Walt” Donna hissed, elbowing him.

“What?” Walt lifted his hands. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

Jacob slid a hand to the small of her back. “See? It’s not a big deal.”

“Actually,” Ransom said, voice slicing through cool as a scalpel. “I don’t think the rest of us want to hear what Jacob sounds like in the bedroom.”

Jacob’s face went splotchy.

Ransom leaned against the doorframe bored but eyes sharp. “Just saying what everyone’s thinking right Walt?” He drawled letting the implication hang in the air.

Walt’s head jerked up, his face flushing a deep, blotchy pink.

“Hey—now hold on,” he sputtered, pointing a finger in Ransom’s direction. “I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t twist my words.”

“Oh?” Ransom drawled again, one brow lifting. “So you weren’t implying anything about Jacob’s… performance?” He let the last word hang in the air like a lit match.

Jacob huffed, crossing his arms. “Whatever. Everyone’s blowing this out of proportion.”

Ransom then added with a glance at Jacob, “Relax kid. No one’s blowing anything.” He paused—just long enough for Jacob's nostrils to flare. “Yet.”

Jacob bristled. “What the hell is your problem?”

Ransom didn’t look at him. His attention stayed on Summer—dark deliberate. “Not my problem. But it’s about to be yours.”

Harlan cleared his throat. “Alright that’s enough for tonight. Everyone get some rest.”

Summer lay stiffly on the edge of the mattress, later the glow of the TV flickering across the dark room. She flipped through channels mind replaying the night—Ransom’s looks the under-table brush the way he saw straight through her.

The door creaked open. Jacob shuffled in, sighing dramatically. “Ugh you’re watching TV? You know I hate falling asleep with noise.”

Summer kept her eyes on the screen. “I can turn it down.”

He waved a hand annoyed. “Why do you even need it on? It’s distracting.”

She turned the volume down. Jacob kicked off his shoes with loud thuds, flopped onto the bed and yanked the covers toward himself. “I’m freezing. You always hog the blankets.”

She hadn’t even been under them. An elbow jabbed her ribs as he shifted. “Can you turn that off? I can’t sleep with all that light.”

“I’m not tired yet.”

“Well I am” he snapped. “Some of us actually need rest.”

Summer stared at the back of his head chest tight. A year of this—staying because her mother and Donna had been best friends forever.

She’d only agreed to that first date to appease her mom, hoping they’d both see they were better as friends. Instead Jacob had really liked her and now she was stuck suffocating while he assumed his comfort came first because it always had at home.

She turned the brightness down. Jacob groaned again about the TV being too loud. Done arguing—in someone else’s house after the family tension and the charged looks from Ransom—she jabbed the power button. Darkness swallowed the room except for faint moonlight.

“Thank you” Jacob mumbled, already drifting off cocooned in the blankets. His arm soon flopped across her stomach—heavy possessive unwanted.

After an hour of silent suffering beside his steady snores Summer carefully extracted herself. She needed air. Space.

She tiptoed to the door, slipped into the hallway and eased it shut. The corridor felt like another world—shadows and old secrets.

In the dimly lit kitchen she filled a glass with water from the tap, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. She leaned against the counter letting the quiet settle over her. The storm howled outside but inside her chest the night’s tension still churned—Jacob’s entitled complaints, the weight of her mother’s expectations, and the constant dangerous pull toward Ransom that she’d been trying to ignore for months. Just a few minutes of peace. That was all she wanted.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Summer nearly dropped her glass. Ransom leaned in the doorway, arms crossed wearing navy pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt that looked expensive on him. Hair slightly mussed.

He tried again when she didn’t answer. “Trouble in paradise?”

Her heart leapt. She set the glass down carefully. “I just needed some water.”

Ransom’s mouth curved. “Right. And Jacob’s snoring has nothing to do with it.”

“He doesn’t snore that loudly.”

“Please. I could hear him from down the hall. Sounds like someone strangling a lawnmower.”

Despite herself a smile tugged at her lips. “It’s not that bad.”

“Liar.” He moved closer, reaching past her for a glass. His arm brushed hers—electric.

She stepped back. “What are you doing up?”

“Same as you. Too many thoughts.” He took a long sip. “The kind I probably shouldn’t share.”

Her pulse jumped. “What kind of thoughts?”

He set the glass down, eyes locking on hers with that intense knowing look. “You really want to know what they are?”

The air between them thickened. Summer’s throat went dry. She should laugh it off. She should walk away.

“I… should go back to bed” she whispered.

Ransom didn’t move. His gaze held hers steady and unrelenting. “Is that what you really want Summer?”

She opened her mouth but the words wouldn’t come.

He stepped closer voice dropping low and rough. “I’ve watched the way you look at me. Not just tonight—for months. The stolen glances across the table, the way your breath catches when I say something that cuts a little too close, the way we talk to each other like we’re the only two people who actually see what’s happening. This isn’t nothing. There’s something here. I know you feel it too. Tell me to leave right now and I will. But if you don’t… then stop pretending we’re both imagining it.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Guilt twisted sharp—Jacob upstairs, her mother’s friendship with Donna, the fear of being the one who ruined everything. But with the suffocating year with Jacob and the relief of finally being truly seen… the rubber band of months of tension had been stretched too far.

She didn’t tell him to leave.

Their eyes locked for one final charged beat. Then the space between them vanished.

His mouth captured hers hard and insistent. Summer gasped against his lips, her body going rigid with shock before melting into the kiss. Ransom’s hand slid from her waist to the small of her back pulling her closer until their bodies pressed together.

He tasted like expensive whiskey and mint—a dangerous combination that made her head spin. His lips moved against hers with confident precision, demanding a response she couldn’t deny. Summer’s hands which had been frozen at her sides lifted hesitantly to his chest. The thin cotton of his t-shirt did nothing to disguise the hard muscle beneath.

“This” Ransom murmured against her mouth, his voice a rough whisper that vibrated through her “is what you’ve been thinking about.”

It wasn’t a question. He knew. He’d always known.

Summer’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt not pushing him away but pulling him closer. The kiss deepened his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her knees go weak. She pressed herself against him feeling the hard planes of his body against her soft curves. His hands moved up her back fingers splaying across her spine pulling her even closer.

The kiss shifted deeper and became something hungrier. Summer’s mind went blank all thought consumed by the sensation of his mouth on hers, his hands on her body. This wasn’t like anything with Jacob—this was dangerous, all consuming. The kind of kiss that threatened to swallow her whole.

Ransom pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. Without a word his hands moved to her waist, strong fingers gripping firmly as he lifted her onto the marble counter with effortless strength. Summer gasped as her hips hit the cold surface, her legs instinctively parting to make room for him between them.

“Perfect,” he murmured, stepping closer so that his hips slotted against the inside of her thighs. His hands remained at her waist, thumbs tracing small circles against the thin fabric of her tank top.

Summer’s breath came in short shallow bursts. From this new height she was almost level with him, able to see the flecks of darker blue in his icy eyes and the slight stubble along his jawline. Her heart hammered against her ribs as he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.

“I know you want this. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it…”

He trails off as his eyes drop to her thighs the thin fabric of her underwear doing nothing to hide the growing dampness at their apex. His expression shifted darkening with unmistakable hunger.

“Right there” he whispered his voice rough as his thumb traced the outline of her hip bone. “You can’t hide from me, Summer.”

Heat flooded her face as she instinctively tried to squeeze her thighs together but his hips prevented it. She was completely exposed her body, betraying her most intimate thoughts.

“You’re dripping for me already” he murmured, sliding one hand from her waist to her inner thigh. His fingers were warm against her skin, inching higher with deliberate slowness. “And we’ve barely started.”

Summer’s breath caught in her throat. She should stop this—should push him away, slide off the counter and return to Jacob’s room before this goes any further. But her body refused to move, every nerve ending screaming for more. Her hands moved of their own accord sliding up to grip his shoulders fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath the thin cotton.

“Ransom” she whispered his name falling from her lips like a prayer—or a warning.

He lowers his head, his breath hot against her neck. “Say it again” he commands his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear.

“Ransom” she gasps arching into him as his hand slides higher on her thigh.

The kitchen is silent except for their ragged breathing and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Outside snow continued to fall in thick relentless sheets trapping them in this moment of stolen intimacy.

His fingers inched higher tracing the edge of her underwear. Summer held her breath, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain the whole house must have heard it.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Summer’s lips parted but the words wouldn’t come. Instead she gripped his shoulders tighter, her fingernails digging into the thin cotton of his shirt.

She leaned forward pressing her forehead against his, her breath coming in short desperate gasps. “I can't,” she whispered.

The confession hung between them vulnerable and raw.

Ransom’s eyes darkened something primal flashing across his features. Without another word his fingers slipped to the front of her underwear tracing the slick heat of her through damp silk. Summer gasped her head falling back as he found her center, his touch confident and precise.

“Fuck” he breathed watching her face as his fingers worked her. “You’re even more responsive than I imagined.”

The words should have embarrassed her but instead they sent a fresh wave of heat through her body. She felt herself growing wetter, her hips beginning to move in rhythm with his touch.

“Tell me. Does Jacob touch you like this? Hmmm?” He wondered aloud.

Summer shook her head. “No,” she whimpered. “He doesn’t—he never—”

Ransom’s eyes darkened with something that looked almost like satisfaction. His fingers moved with deliberate precision circling her most sensitive spot in a way that made her thighs tremble.

“Of course he doesn’t” he murmured, voice a low rumble that vibrated through her body. “Jacob wouldn’t know what to do with you if he had an instruction manual.”

Summer’s head fell back, her hair spilling over the counter’s edge as she struggled to keep quiet. Every nerve ending in her body focused on the point where his fingers moved against her building pressure that threatened to shatter her completely.

Ransom’s hand kept its lazy rhythm between her thighs, two fingers stroking along the soaked silk pressing just firmly enough to make her hips twitch.   

He didn’t push inside her yet. Not until he decided she’d earned it.   

Summer’s breath came in shallow bursts.  “We—we shouldn’t—”

“Shh.”  He cut her off by leaning in, capturing her mouth in a slow filthy kiss.   

His tongue slid against hers like he had all the time in the world, tasting the water she’d come down for and the faint trace of Harlan’s wine still on her lips from dinner.   

When she moaned into his mouth he smiled against her then started the descent.   

He kissed the corner of her jaw then lower, open-mouthed along the side of her neck.   

Down to the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered. The neckline of her tank top was next.   

He nudged it aside with his nose and dragged his lips across the swell of one breast, tongue flicking over her nipple through the thin fabric until it pebbled.   

Lower still—across her ribs, her stomach, each kiss wetter and more deliberate as he sank smoothly to his knees on the cold tile.   

By the time his face hovered in front of the silk panties Summer’s legs were trembling.   

Ransom looked up at her once—smirk sharp eyes dark with pure entitlement—and pressed his mouth right over the center of her, hot breath soaking through the fabric.   

He kissed her there like he was kissing her mouth: slow deliberate tongue dragging over the silk until the material clung obscenely to her. A low appreciative hum vibrated against her.   

“Already resdy for me?” he murmured the words half-muffled. “Poor Jacob doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s missing.”   

Then he hooked his teeth into the waistband—right at the little satin bow at the front—and tugged.   

The silk whispered down her thighs catching for a second on the curve of her ass before sliding the rest of the way to her ankles.   

He left them there tangled around her feet like a trophy and leaned back just enough to admire the view.   

“Much better,” he said voice rough. His hands smoothed up the backs of her thighs spreading her open for him.   

“Now stay quiet sweetheart. Wouldn’t want dear old Jacob hearing you.”

Ransom didn’t waste another second.   

He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder opening her completely and dragged his tongue slowly up her center in one long wet stroke.   

Summer’s head fell back, a sharp gasp escaping before she could stop it.   

He hummed in satisfaction against her, the vibration making her thighs shake then licked her again—deeper this time circling her clit with the flat of his tongue.   

“Fuck… Ransom—”   

He smirked against her slick skin. “That’s right. Say my name baby.”   

His mouth closed over her clit sucking gently while two fingers slid inside her curling just right. He set a steady rhythm—tongue and fingers working together like he’d done this a hundred times and still wanted more.   

Summer’s hips bucked. Her hand flew to his hair gripping tight as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in her belly.   

A moan slipped out louder than she meant—sharp and needy in the quiet kitchen.  

Ransom’s free hand shot up instantly clamping firmly over her mouth.   

His palm muffled the next cry as he looked up at her eyes gleaming with wicked amusement even while his tongue kept working her relentlessly.

“Shhh” he cooed against her, the word vibrating right through her. “Unless you want the whole family to hear how much you prefer your boyfriend’s cousin eating your pussy.”   

He pumped his fingers faster, sucking harder on her clit, refusing to let up.   

Summer’s muffled whimpers grew frantic against his hand. Her whole body tensed legs trembling around his shoulders as the orgasm crashed over her hard and sudden.   

Ransom kept his hand pressed tight over her mouth the entire time, feeling every desperate sound she tried to make while he licked her through it, drawing it out until her knees nearly gave out.   

Only when she finally sagged panting and dazed did he ease his hand away. He pressed one last soft kiss to her clit and rose to his feet wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, that signature arrogant smirk firmly back in place.   

“That wasn’t so bad was it?” Ransom’s voice was a low rumble as he pressed his forehead against hers.

Summer was still trembling, her legs weak and her mind hazy from the intensity of her release. The kitchen seemed to spin around, her reality crashing back in waves as the pleasure ebbed.

“I shouldn't want this” she whispered, her voice hoarse from the sounds she’d been trying to contain. “What did we just—”

“Nothing we didn’t both want” Ransom said, his hand sliding to her hip, tracing lazy circles against her skin. 

Summer’s pulse thundered in her ears. The taste of him still lingered on her lips, the memory of his touch burned into her skin. Without thinking she pulled him in for another kiss—hungry, desperate, her fingers tangling in his hair as she tried to erase the space between them.

The kiss was different this time. Not tentative or questioning but demanding. She poured everything she couldn’t say into the press of her lips against his—the months of frustration with Jacob, the way she’d been slowly suffocating, the relief of finally being seen.

Ransom made a low appreciative sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding from her hips to her waist. He lifted her off the counter with effortless strength, her legs wrapping around him instinctively as he carried her away from the kitchen. She barely registered the movement too consumed by the kiss by the way he responded to her with equal intensity.

Her back hit a wall in the hallway, the impact jarring her slightly as Ransom pressed his weight against her, pinning her between his hard body and the cool wall. His lips moved from her mouth to her neck trailing hot kisses down to the sensitive spot where her shoulder met her throat. Summer panted, her head falling back against the wall giving him better access.

“You have no idea” Ransom murmured against her skin “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

His hands slid beneath her tank top calloused fingers skating across her ribs moving higher until they cupped her breasts. He rolled her nipples between his fingers drawing a sharp inhale from her as pleasure sparked through her body.

“Jacob never treats you like this does he?” His voice was rough against her ear. “Never takes the time to make you feel good.”

Summer shook her head, unable to form words as his skilled fingers continued their exploration. She was drowning in sensation, in the forbidden thrill of being with her boyfriend's cousin.

“How about I take you to my room? Hmm? Make you feel even better?”

Without second guessing herself she said. “Please…” 

Ransom’s lips curved into a wicked smile as he effortlessly hoisted Summer higher up into his arms. She exhaled her arms instinctively wrapping tighter around his neck as he turned toward the grand staircase.

“Hold on tight” he murmured against her ear, his breath hot and promising.

He carried her up the stairs with confident strides, his steps silent on the thick carpet. Summer’s heart hammered against her ribs as they passed the dark hallway where Jacob slept oblivious to what was happening just feet away. The guilt should have overwhelmed her—but instead she found herself curling closer to Ransom’s chest breathing in the warm trace of his cologne as his heartbeat thudded steadily beneath her cheek.

The top floor of the house felt suspended—quiet dim, the storm outside rattled faintly against the windows. Ransom didn’t slow. He turned down the hall with purpose, his grip steady, his jaw set with a decision already made.

He pushed open his bedroom door and carried her over the threshold.

The door clicked shut behind them—soft final sealing the world out.

Whatever came next belonged to them alone, hidden away from the storm, the house and the consequences waiting on the other side of morning.

Taglist:

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