I like it better broken

You pull into the parking garage, headlights cutting briefly across concrete before you switch them off. The engine ticks as it cools. For a moment, you just sit there, hands still on the wheel.

Then you reach up and tug the beanie down. The familiar one with C.C stitched in a small patch on the front. It’s one he bought for you so you wouldn’t get cold in the brutal D.C. winters. You pull your hood up over it, zipper drawn up high enough that it brushes your chin. You check the mirrors out of habit, even though you know better than to expect anything in this quiet hour. It’s late. It’s safe. It’s fine.

Still, you wait almost a full minute before getting out.

When you finally step out, you move like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Head down, and steps purposeful but unhurried. Keys threaded between your fingers. Phone turned down in your pocket. You don’t look toward the elevator until you’re right in front of it.

It’s second nature now. 

The elevator ride is smooth and silent, your reflection a dark blur in the mirrored wall. You barely recognize yourself like this…bundled up, tucked away, and anonymous. It doesn’t bother you the way it probably should. If anything, there’s a strange comfort in it. In knowing exactly how this goes.

When the doors open on his floor, the hallway is empty. Plush carpet, warm lighting. The faint, expensive quiet of a building where people value privacy. You walk quickly, counting doors without looking at the numbers until you reach his.

You knock softly. Once. Twice.

The door opens almost immediately, like he’s been waiting right there on the other side. Because he has.

“Hey,” he says, low and warm, relief flickering across his face before he schools it into something calmer. 

His tie is loosened, the crisp white shirt slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled up just enough that the fabric creases at his elbows. His hair, usually perfectly neat and pulled back with some sort of product, has fallen into that casual, just-out-of-the-office tousle that somehow suits him better than any polish ever could. There’s the faint trace of cologne lingering from the morning, sharp and clean, that makes your stomach flutter even though you’ve been here before.

You notice the subtle way his shoulders have dropped now that the day is done, a little less rigid than in the office, the weight of deadlines and meetings easing off in a way you only ever see when you’re here. His eyes, tired but bright, flick over you, and for a moment the lines of work, of expectation, of propriety all fall away.

The door has barely closed behind you before he’s there, hand settling at the small of your back like it’s always known where it belongs. He pulls you in without a word, the hug solid and grounding, his chin resting briefly against the top of your beanie. You breathe him in, nothing the mix of clean soap and something faintly herbal from his cologne beneath it. You feel your shoulders drop.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, more instinct than invitation.

Before you can react, his hands are at your shoulders. One hand slides down the sleeve of your coat, guiding it off, while the other presses lightly at your back, keeping you close. You let him, because you want to.

He takes your coat from you, lifts it with a practiced ease, and hangs it on the hook by the door. Even that small, domestic gesture that’s so casual and so routine feels intimate. You stand there for a heartbeat, shoulders brushing, chest nearly touching, and suddenly the air between you feels heavier, warmer.

Then he pulls you in fully. Arms wrap around you in a hug that’s neither hurried nor delicate. It’s grounding, encompassing, and familiar. His head fits into the nook of your shoulder like he’s done it a hundred times, and at this point he probably has. You feel the press of his chest against yours, the steady beat of him there, a warmth that seeps into your own skin through your clothes.

You tilt your head slightly, and his hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jawline as if memorizing the curve of your face. His lips hover against yours for a moment, close enough that you can feel his breath, warm and steady, before he leans in.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, deliberate. It’s not rushed or hidden. It’s just him. Right here. Right now. You taste faint traces of the coffee he probably had at the office, mingled with something sharper and clean like a breath mint or gum he popped in on the drive home. It’s grounding and electric all at once.

You press back instinctively, a small moan caught in your throat, and for a heartbeat the outside world…the garage, the cold, the quiet rules you live by…doesn’t exist. There’s only the weight of his hands, the warmth of his body, and the way he makes space for you in a quiet, unspoken way.

When he finally pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, he murmurs, “glad you could make it,” and it’s enough. Enough to make the cold, the hood, the careful glances fade from memory.

The condo smells like warmth and garlic, herbs drifting from the kitchen as soon as you step inside. The lights are low and soft, lamps glowing in corners, casting golden pools across the hardwood floors instead of the harsh, recessed LEDs that dominate most of the space. The TV is off, leaving the room quiet except for the soft hum of music from a record player somewhere near the living area. The song is instrumental, jazzy, something that feels like it could have belonged to him growing up.

His place is familiar now, but each visit reveals a new corner: the stack of well worn books by the window, a photograph of him and Steve tucked into a frame on the counter, the subtle scent of cologne mingling with the food. It feels lived in without being cluttered, personal without being fussy.

“I can help,” you offer, already moving toward the counter where he’s stirring something gently.

He shakes his head, flashing that small, patient smile you’ve come to recognize. “I’ve got it. Go sit down.”

You settle onto a stool at the island, tucking your legs beneath you, and watch him work. The sleeve of his shirt is pushed up, revealing a forearm that flexes with each stir. His tie, loosened after a long day, brushes against his chest with each movement, and the slight crease in his shirt makes him look less like the Congressman everyone expects and more like the man who waits for you here.

For a few minutes, the two of you exist in this easy rhythm: him cooking, you watching, a quiet hum of music and warmth filling the space between you. No words are necessary, though he hums along with the record, and you smile despite yourself. The comfort of it is disarming. The small, domestic intimacy grounding you in ways no office interaction could.

Finally, he slides the last plate toward you with a quiet flourish, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Careful, it’s hot,” he says.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and reach for your fork, still catching yourself stealing glances at him. There’s something about the way he moves in his own space that makes it impossible not to notice. Even after a few hours, the office worn edges haven’t dulled him. The slight rumpling of his shirt, the loosened tie…it all somehow suits him.

You take the first bite, and he watches, eyes flicking to your mouth like he’s memorizing the curve of your lips around the utensil.

“That okay?” He asks.

“Yeah. Perfect,” you say, and it’s the kind of honesty you don’t usually give at work. He smiles again, and it reaches his eyes this time, warm and genuine, the way it only ever does here.

You talk while you eat, about nothing and everything. He tells you about the absurdity of a meeting that went twice as long as it should have. You laugh at his dry retelling, and he leans a little closer, elbow brushing yours, the contact fleeting but grounding.

“Did you ever manage to find that report from last week?”  He asks casually, but you can tell he wants to hear about your day too.

You tell him you did, and the small nod and the brief lingering look, makes you feel seen.

The wine glasses clink quietly between sips, the kind of gentle sound that belongs here, not in the background of an office or a crowded bar. You notice the faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiles, a little crease that only shows when he’s relaxed, and you can’t help but trace it in your mind. He reaches over to refill your glass, fingers brushing yours.

Conversation drifts from work to more trivial things. What book he’s been reading. A movie he caught on Netflix last night thanks to you letting him borrow your login. But you catch the small pauses where he watches you, listens to you, and then the way he nods as if filing the information away. 

You reach for a piece of bread, and he slides the butter closer with a glance that says he knows you’ll reach for it anyway.

He leans back on his stool, hand resting casually at the small of your back, and you realize that the air between you is almost too easy, like it’s been waiting for this moment all day. No hidden glances, no rushed words, no careful planning. Just you, him, and the quiet certainty that here, you exist not as an intern, not as a shadow, not as “kid,” but as you.

For a brief, suspended moment, the world outside ceases to matter. The rules you follow everywhere else don’t exist here. And even if the night outside promises complication, even if tomorrow brings cold glances and compartmentalized lives, for now, the way he watches you, listens, and simply is makes the outside world irrelevant.

The dishes don’t get washed right away. They sit neatly stacked in the sink, while he pours the rest of the wine and you drift toward the living room. The lamps stay low, their warm light catching on the edges of furniture, the spines of books, the framed photographs you’ve learned not to look at too closely. The record has ended, replaced by the quiet hum of the city outside, distant and muted through the windows.

He lets you choose the movie, though you both know it doesn’t really matter. Something familiar, something you’ve both seen before. The kind of background comfort that doesn’t demand attention. The opening credits roll, and he settles back into the couch, one arm stretched along the back cushion in silent invitation.

You tuck yourself against him without thinking about it. At first, there’s a careful inch of space between your bodies. Then his arm curves around your shoulders, pulling you closer until your side fits against his. Your head rests against his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you. He smells like dinner and soap and something uniquely him, and you let yourself sink into it.

His thumb moves slowly against your arm, an absent minded stroke that’s more intimate than any bold gesture. You trace idle patterns on his thigh, the fabric warm beneath your fingertips. Nothing rushed. Nothing urgent. Just the quiet language the two of you have learned to speak in these moments.

The movie plays on, dialogue washing over you, mostly ignored. Your focus narrows to the small things: the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers occasionally tighten at your shoulder, the subtle press of his lips against your hair when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Here, the world feels smaller. Reduced to the soft glow of lamplight and the low murmur of sound. No schedules. No staffers. No careful distance or guarded glances. Just this room, this couch, the warmth of him beneath your cheek.

At some point, his hand drifts lower, resting at your waist. The touch is casual, unremarkable to anyone else, but it makes your breath hitch all the same. You shift slightly, fitting yourself closer, and he exhales softly.

Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head. Then another, slower this time, brushing your hair back just enough for his lips to find your temple.

You tilt your head instinctively, and that’s all the invitation he needs. His mouth traces the line just below your ear, lingering there, warm breath ghosting over your skin before his lips find your neck. The touch isn’t hurried. It never is with him. It’s deliberate and slow, like he’s memorizing the way you react.

Your fingers curl into his trousers. The movie keeps playing, forgotten, the glow from the screen flickering across the room as his hand slides from your shoulder to your waist. He gives the faintest tug, wordless, and you shift until you’re straddling his lap.

Your skirt rides up your thighs. His hands settle at your hips, firm and grounding, thumbs brushing warm arcs into your skin. He leans back slightly, giving himself room to look at you, and the expression on his face steals the breath right out of your chest.

Soft eyes. A small, almost shy smile. Like he can’t quite believe you’re here.

For a moment, you just stare at him. This man you see in court rooms, offices and headlines, who commands rooms without trying, now sitting beneath you looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted out of his century here on Earth.

You bend forward, resting your forehead against his, and he exhales, a quiet sound that feels like relief. His thumb brushes along your side, slow and familiar.

When he kisses you, it’s unhurried, deepening gradually as if he’s giving you time to pull away. You don’t. Your hands slide into his hair, the familiar texture grounding you even as everything else feels a little unsteady. He responds with a soft sound at the back of his throat, fingers tightening at your waist just enough to make your pulse spike.

The kiss lingers, breaks for air, then comes back again. Foreheads touching between each one. He presses his mouth along your jaw, back to your neck, and you tip your head back, trusting him completely.

For a fleeting, dangerous second, you let yourself imagine more. Staying. Morning light. No goodbyes whispered at the door.

Your fingers drift from his neck, reluctant to leave the warmth there, before finding the first button of his shirt. You hesitate just long enough to feel his breath catching, shoulders shifting beneath your hands before you start undoing them, one by one.

It feels strangely intimate, the simple act of it. Like you’re unwrapping something meant just for you.

His hands slide from your waist down your thighs, thumbs tracing slow lines as if he’s learning you again. When his fingers slip beneath the hem of your skirt, brushing the soft skin there, you inhale sharply, forehead dropping to his shoulder. His touch is warm, steady, grounding, never rushing, never asking for more than you’re already giving.

“Easy,” he murmurs, not a warning. A promise.

You smile against his skin and shift closer, your mouth finding his neck as you work another button loose. The faint scrape of stubble under your lips makes you shiver. You kiss along the line of his throat, slow and deliberate, feeling his pulse jump beneath your mouth.

Bucky tilts his head back, just slightly.

It’s such a small thing, but it feels enormous, the way he gives you access without a word, the way his hands still as if to say go on. For a moment, he isn’t the man who keeps things contained and careful. He’s just someone letting himself be touched.

Your kisses linger there, unmarked but meaningful, and his fingers tighten briefly at your thighs, grounding himself again. His breath fans over your hair as he exhales, low and slow.

“Fuck, doll,” he says quietly, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

You laugh softly, the sound muffled against his neck, and finish with the last button, palms flattening against his chest. His heartbeat is steady but fast, something you feel more than hear.

His mouth finds your neck the way yours found his…slow at first, almost reverent. A soft press of lips just below your ear. Another along your jaw. The scrape of stubble against your skin sends a warm shiver down your spine.

His hands slide up, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, palms warm against your waist. Not greedy. Not rough. Just feeling, mapping, like he’s memorizing you.

You tilt your head to give him better access, fingers threading into his hair. His lips trail downward, unhurried, lingering at the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. Every kiss feels deliberate. Thoughtful. Like he’s worshipping instead of taking.

His thumbs trace slow circles at your sides beneath your shirt, drifting higher inch by inch, brushing over skin that’s suddenly too sensitive. You arch instinctively into his touch, and he exhales softly at the reaction.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. There’s heat there, yes, but it’s wrapped in something softer. Something that almost feels like vulnerability. Like he’s giving you more than he means to.

His hands flatten at your back now, sliding upward, fingertips grazing your spine before settling just beneath your shoulder blades. He leans in again, pressing a slow kiss to your collarbone this time, and the sound you make is small but unguarded.

His mouth moves over your skin. Your shirt is half open now, fabric slipping from your shoulders, and his hands move in tandem with his lips.

You feel like you’re his. Not just desired. But claimed. 

And that’s what makes it dangerous. Because the way he holds you in his dimly lit living room, is nothing like the way he’ll look at you at work tomorrow morning. Right now, it’s just his breath against your skin. His hands steady at your back. The low murmur of the record still spinning somewhere behind you. Tomorrow morning it will be short responses and strictly professionalism.

His mouth is still warm against your collarbone when the thought slips out of you. There’s a new place a few blocks from his building. You passed it last week on your lunch break, soft lighting, little outdoor tables, the kind of place that looks like it belongs in a movie.

You swallow, fingers still curled loosely in his hair.

“You know, there’s this restaurant I’ve been wanting to try,” you murmur, trying to sound casual. “It’s not far from here. I was thinking we could maybe—”

His mouth is on yours before you can finish. It’s deliberate. His hand slides up into your hair, deepening the kiss just enough to blur your thoughts. His other hand tightens at your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring you to his lap like gravity itself.

His lips move skillfully, like he knows exactly how to redirect you without saying no. The kiss is warm and coaxing, a quiet shh pressed against your mouth.

“You think too much,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

He kisses you again before you can decide if that was an acceptable enough answer. This one is softer. Slower. His hands roam, reminding you of how good this feels. Of how easy it is to forget what you were asking for.

A restaurant. A table. A night where you don’t have to sneak in through a parking garage.

Your chest tightens, but you kiss him back anyway. Because it’s easier to let him distract you than to sit in the space where he might say no.

And that’s the thing. He doesn’t say no. He just doesn’t say yes either.

He scoops you up without breaking the kiss, your legs wrap around his hips. You giggle as you hold onto him just a little tighter. 

He carries you down the hallway, past the closed door of the bathroom, and to his bedroom at the end of the hall. The walls are blank, except for a single water damaged print of a Brooklyn street in the 1940s. You wonder briefly, if he’d ever let you bring in something else. A plant. A photograph. Something to make it feel more like home.

He lays you on the bed, his hands on either side of your head, and looks down at you. For a second, you think he might say something. But he just kisses you again instead. It’s gentle and desperate both at the same time.

If he wants to keep you a secret, so be it. For now, you have the taste of his mouth, the weight of him pressing you down, and the small thrill of getting him in some capacity at all.

For a second, you just lay there, taking in the weight of him pinning you to the mattress, and his hot breath against the skin of your neck. 

Then his lips find yours again. He kisses you like he wants to learn your mouth all over again. You reach up and thread your hands into his hair, fingers catching on the overgrown strands at the nape of his neck. His big, calloused hands, span your ribs and press into your hipbones until you almost arch off the comforter beneath you. His vibranium hand is cool at first, almost shockingly so, but you don’t mind.

Then he hooks his fingers into the waist of your skirt. You hear a tear as he pulls it down over your hips and you wish he’d use a zipper instead or ruining another article of clothing, but you don’t say anything. His knuckles graze your skin as he slides the skirt down your legs. 

You can’t help the way your legs fall open as he tosses your skirt to the floor. He grins, one of the rare real ones that show a hint of dimple, and leans in to press a kiss to your stomach. His tongue flicks out as the dip of your navel as he climbs back onto the bed and kneels between your legs.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, doll.” He says, almost to himself as his thumbs hook into the band of your underwear.

He tosses them to the floor with your skirt and then he kisses your inner thigh. It’s slow, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you twitch. His scruff rubs against your skin, and you clench the comforter in response.

He makes his way up, kissing the seam where your thigh and hipbone meet. Then he moves over, kissing just above your clit. You write, half from sensitivity and half from anticipation. Bucky keeps eyes contact with you as he flattens his tongue, licking you in a long unhurried stroke.

You gasp, hips jerking upward involuntarily.

“Easy, doll,” he murmurs.

He holds you down with one hand, and then resumes, this time with more pressure.

It’s obscene really, the way he uses his whole face. Not just his tongue. His lips. The bridge of his nose. Even the shadow of his chin as he rocks his head side to side, nuzzling you open. He buries his face in you like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy his hunger.

You lose track of time for the next few minutes. The sensation of the wet heat of his mouth and the relentless rhythm of his tongue. You feel the beginning of your orgasm creeping in, your hands gripping his hair so tight you think you might hurt him. He groans in response, the vibration sending sparks through your already wound up nerves.

He pauses only when you start to shudder, pulling back enough to watch your face.

“That’s it,” he whispers, running to fingers along your slit. “Look so pretty when you’re coming for me.”

You blush at the compliment. The way he almost worships you never gets old, no matter how many times you hear it.

He slips one finger inside, crooking it just so. “Gotta get you ready for me, doll. Don’t want you hurtin’. Been too long since I’ve had this sweet pussy.”

The words make your stomach flip. You moan, back arching slightly as he adds a second finger. He kisses your thigh again, then your stomach, working his way up your body. When he kisses you this time, you can taste yourself on his tongue.

He shifts then, bracing himself on one elbow as his flesh hand wraps around his length and lines his tip up to your slit. He moves slow, letting you feel every inch of him as he pushes inside. It’s a sweet discomfort that has you digging your nails into his shoulder.

He buries his face in your neck, breath hitching.

“Fuck,” he hisses as you feel him twitch inside you. “You’re so goddamn tight.”

Then he snaps his hips forward, filling you completely. You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist. He sets a rhythm that’s deep and unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world to make you fall apart for him. You feel the drag of his cock, the push and pull as he drives into you.

You feel yourself getting close again, tension building low in your belly. You try to keep quiet, and it works until he reaches between you and presses his thumb to your clit.

“C’mon, want to feel you come for me.”

And you do. It hits you in waves. Hot. Overwhelming. Almost too much. He helps you ride it out, coaxing you through every aftershow, then following you a few thrusts laster as he groans your name and fills you with his seed.

Then he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you, and buries his face in your hair. You feel the warmth of his breath, the trembling of his shoulders, and the strange and wonderful completeness of being held by him.

The room is dim now. Glow form the streetlights outside leaks in through the blinds. For a while, you just lay there, watching the soft rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. It’s domestic in a way you know you’ll probably never truly have with him.

Bucky blinks a few times, and then looks at you. He smiles a little sheepishly, and pulls you closer. His hand drifts up your back, fingers combing through your hair. You close your eyes, and let yourself melt into the feeling.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little gravelly around the edges.

“Hey yourself,” you whisper before you kiss his sternum.

You wish you could stay like this all night. But he doesn’t even look at the clock on his nightstand before you sense the shift coming. The return of what your relationship with him actually is.

Bucky’s eyes flick to the glowing red digits on the nightstand. He sighs, and you feel the change in his body language.

“I gotta go in early tomorrow,” he says apologetically. “You probably wanna head home now so you can sleep in a little.”

You nod, like this is what you want too. You sit up, letting the cold air of the room hit your skin. You pull the sheets ot your chest before you sit up on the edge of the bed.

Bucky watches you, his gaze soft and guilty. He reaches for your hand, squeezing it once. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “ Just cold.”

He nods. It’s easier for both of you to pretend that it's that simple.

You reach up and pull your hair into a messy bun before securing it with the hair tie on your wrist. You find your underwear, skirt, and the rest of your clothes in the pile he made on the floor. You dress in silence, feeling his eyes on your the whole time. You want him to say something to make it okay. But he doesn’t.

When you head toward the living room, Bucky finally stands. He follows you down the hallway and slips his arms around your waist form behind. He kisses the back of your neck, then rests his forehead there.

“Be safe, okay?” He says, and you almost laugh at the earnestness of it.

“Always am,” you say.

He walks you to the door, fingers laced with yours until the very last second. He watches as you slide your shoes on and shrug into your coat.

You turn to say goodbye, and he brushes his flesh thumb over your cheek, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Text me when you get home?”

You nod, and then you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you. You stand in the cold hallway, heartbeat thumping in your ears.

You make it to your car with hands shaking, not from cold but from something you can’t quite name. You slam the door a little harder than you mean to and fumble to get the key into the ignition. The engine stutters then roars to life, the vents blasting air out at you almost immediately.

You pull onto the street, tires crunching over the pavement. Streetlights flicker overhead. You check your phone, even though you know he won’t text you first. He never does.

You tell yourself this is fine. You tell yourself you can stop any time you want. That you can say no, draw a line, and turn this into a clean break. It’s just an arrangement. Nothing more. You both understood the rules when it began, and the boundaries laid out. You can quit him anytime you want. Just like you’ve told yourself a hundred times before, each time a little less convincing.

You try to think of anything but the way he held you, the aftertaste of his kiss, the way he whispered your name like a secret in his home. But your mind has a way of looping itself like a broken record, pulling you back through every touch, every word, every micro expression you’ve catalogued and dissected since the first time.

You remember the restaurant you wanted to try with him. You remember the stupid hope you’d had when you’d brought it up. The hope that maybe he’d want to be seen with you like you do him. That he doesn’t want you to be a passing shadow that sneaks around with him.

You could end it, you think again. You could walk into the office tomorrow and tell him that you can’t do this anymore. That you are tired of waiting for the day he’ll let you be more than this in his life.

But you know deep down you won’t.

You’ll see him in the break room or in the copy room or in the elevator, and he’ll give you that look. The one with the soft blue eyes that can melt even your toughest defenses. And he’ll ask you if you want to come over again. And you’ll say yes. Again and again. Because it’s easier to keep hoping than to face the alternative.

The radio plays some old song, the kind that makes you want to drive forever. You roll the window down an inch, letting the bitter cold air bite at your skin. It helps a little.

When you pull into your building’s lot, you sit in the car for a long time, engine still running, headlights illuminating the brick in frot of you. You want to cry, but the tears won’t come. Instead, you scroll through your messages, finding the threat with Bucky.

Home safe.

He replies almost instantly: Good.

You stare at the words for a long time, unsure whether to smile or scream. You lock your phone, lean your head back, and close your eyes. You imagine a world where you could walk into a restaurant with him, sit across a table, and laugh at nothing for hours. You imagine a world where he keeps you, not just keeps you hidden.