✶ Mecca ✶

Sam Wilson tapped the end of his pen against the counter in a steady rhythm, deep in thought, the metallic click filling the silence. Leaning over, he pressed his elbows to the cool surface and released a long, dramatic sigh. The ceaseless ting of metal hitting acrylic was beginning to irritate Bucky, but to be fair, everything about his friend seemed to irk him most days. His jaw ticked before the pen even made a sound, as if he were bracing for it now.

A barely there, unhelpful voice echoed in the back of his mind, suggesting that he reach over the table and snap the pen clean in half. Oh, it would be so satisfying. The hurt look on Sam's face, combined with the following silence after, was getting too tempting by the second. However, he thought better of making a scene, opting instead for taking a steady inhale through his nose and blowing it out through his mouth.

It really wouldn't matter if he did cause a scene. It was one of the slower days at the shop. The kind where only a couple of customers drifted in with quick replies and hurried footsteps, so they could continue on with their day. But most of today was like this—an empty room with a pressing stillness and lingering pauses. Ones that Bucky wasn't keen on filling.

"I don't know, man," Sam finally broke the silence. "The common denominator between all these relationships ending is you. Maybe you need to adjust your attitude."

"I don't need to adjust nothin'," Bucky muttered stubbornly.

Sam raised a brow. "Right. It's them. Every single one. Not the guy who's always in a mood and has a staring problem."

"'m just particular. There ain't nothin' wrong with that."

"Some might say too particular," Sam murmured under his breath. "Look, I just don't want to see your sad little face walk in here, moping around like someone punted your cat."

"Don't bring Alpine into this," Bucky's scowl deepened, his jaw twitching again. "Besides, Alpine and I are fine. Don't have time for anythin' serious anyway."

"Did you ever send a message to…what was her name?" Sam trailed off, tapping the pen against his forehead, as if that would jog his memory. "Oh, Violet."

"No. 'm not textin' your barista, just because she gives you an extra shot of espresso and happens to have a nice smile."

The man behind the counter huffed air out of his nose. "Fine, just know I'm done playing matchmaker for your sorry ass."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Never asked for your help in the first place, he thought. Then, that same instigating voice nudged him, and he gave in this time. "How's Sarah?"

Sam's posture straightened rapidly, pointing the pen at him like it was a weapon instead of a writing tool. "Don't you fucking dare, Barnes."

"What? I was just askin'," Bucky shrugged, a smirk gracing his lips.

"My sister is off limits. You know that."

"Okay, okay." Bucky held up his hands in surrender, dropping the subject completely. Still, it gave him that brief, cathartic release he had been searching for earlier, even if it was fleeting.

Glancing around, his eyes drifted out of the wide windows. The sun was a bright statement in the clear blue sky, only partially blocked by the towering 'Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair' sign outside—bold enough that it could be read by anyone speeding down the highway. The reflection of the window pane left a white cast on the tiled floor. A small black rectangle carved in the bleached reflection forced his gaze up to the flimsy paper posted by the door, its edges slightly creased. The ink fading betrayed just how long it had been hanging there.

Now hiring.

Sometimes, Bucky wondered if this place was less a job and more a coasting point for people to move through to something better. No matter who he and Sam hired, they would leave within a couple of months—the universe was never gracious enough to gift them someone for more than that. Then the cycle would start again, and he'd have to reprint the sign.

So, there it stayed—a permanent decoration on the glass until they could find someone permanent.

The rays of the sun were interrupted by a dark Rolls-Royce pulling into the lot, snagging Bucky's attention immediately. His eyes flicked over the body of the car—spotless, glistening even. Tinted windows. Freshly polished rims. Even the emblem of the tiny woman with wings appeared untouched.

He scoffed at the ridiculous sight. Obviously, this car wasn't a potential customer. This was someone who took a wrong turn along the way and needed a place to swing around, so they could head back to whatever mansion they stumbled out of.

But the car idled. Right in front of the shop. Unmoving.

The driver's door opened, revealing an older man in a pressed suit. The fabric was all clean, sharp lines—tailored perfectly for him. He even wore one of those chauffeur caps, the kind Bucky only saw in movies that Sam would force him to watch on his rare days off.

The whole get-up screamed wealth and status, as though money itself dripped off of him—none of which belonged anywhere near the likes of Bucky's shop. Yet, there he stood.

The man moved around the front of the car, adjusting his gloves and smoothing out wrinkles that weren't visible. After assessing his surroundings, he wrapped his fingers around the chrome door handle, keeping his chin high as he pulled it open.

A single pearlescent pink heel appeared first, the pointed toe hovering for a beat before carefully finding purchase on the oil‑stained pavement below. You were smart enough to avoid the puddles that could potentially ruin your expensive shoes.

You stepped out, rising to your full height. Sunlight glinted off your dark sunglasses, adding a shiny sheen to your hair. You straightened your designer coat and fixed the creases in your pale pink dress before giving your driver a practiced, polite smile.

Then, you sauntered forward, hips swaying as you adjusted the strap of your small handbag over your shoulder. Bucky could hear the loud click of your heels before you ever entered the shop.

"This oughta be good," Sam whispered behind his dark-haired friend.

As you entered, the bell above the door chimed, announcing your arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue.

You pushed your sunglasses up with two manicured fingers, resting them on your hair. Bright eyes darted around the room as you inspected it with your clear vision. You took it all in before you spoke. Walls filled with old metal signs. Counters lined with tools and little bobbles.

You breathed in the air that smelled faintly of strong coffee and even stronger motor oil, but you didn't wrinkle your nose. You looked…prepared, trained not to visibly react.

Finally, your gaze drifted to the two men who were frozen in place, as if just noticing their existence.

"Hi, I'm here to pick up my car," your voice came, velvet confidence. You introduced yourself, muttering your last name so quickly, he would've missed it if he wasn't listening. He swore he had heard that name, but immediately brushed it off like it was inconsequential.

"My father brought it in for a routine check-up, and he received a call that it was ready," you clarified.

For a moment, no one moved. Bucky didn't even blink. And even though you explained why you were here, he still thought you took a wrong turn on the way to the mall.

Eventually, Sam snapped out of it, fingers finding the computer's keyboard. "Right. The Porsche?"

Of course. He should have known that your car was the most expensive thing to ever roll through here. And if the price of the car didn't give it a way, surely the color did. Pink. The first time he saw it, he wanted it out of the garage, almost called to have it sent to another mechanic because he couldn't stand to look at the damn thing.

"That's correct," you said sweetly, causing something in Bucky's gut to sour.

It must've shown on his face because you gave him a small, courteous wave. The kind of gesture people made when they were raised to address everyone in the room, even the ones they actually didn't want to make conversation with.

Your gaze flicked briefly to his metal arm. He no longer bothered to hide it like some kind of secret. In those first few years, still adjusting to the foreign weight, he’d kept it concealed under layers of clothing—even in the heat of summer. Most days, it was less a badge from his time in the Air Force and more an inconvenience at best.

But as the years rolled by, he cared less and less about what people thought. Customers would stare at him with pity, similar to the look you were giving him now. You offered him a tight-lipped smile, and he hated the feeling it carried.

Instantly rolling his eyes, he turned away; he clearly wasn't interested in your fake-friendly facade. He knew that look all too well, and he knew that under the practiced posture and fancy clothing, you wanted to get the hell out of this place. And he wasn't going to stop you.

Noticing the slight edge of tension, Sam tapped away at the keys as he kept his eyes on the screen, feigning professionalism. He cleared his throat. "Ahh, here it is…Porsche 918 Spyder. Yeah, it looks like all you needed was an oil change and a tire rotation."

"Did you happen to take a look at the weird sound it was making? It sounded…" You paused, pursing your lips, "mechanical."

Bucky let out a dry, humorless laugh, "It's a car. Everything is mechanical."

"Right," you giggled, light and airy, and it sounded like it belonged somewhere less cramped. More open, like a rose garden, to complement the warmth of it.

Was he really comparing your laugh to fucking flowers? Maybe that perfume of yours had gone to his head and messed up his brain chemistry.

"I mean, it sounded unusual," you added after your laughter had faded.

Bucky opened his mouth to respond with something snarky, but Sam cut in immediately. "After the tire rotation, the sound went away. But if you happen to hear it again, bring it in, and we'll assess it further."

He typed out something else, then clapped his hands together as he met your eyes. "Alright, if that's all, I can bring her around."

"Thank you. I appreciate your help, Mister…?"

"Sam will do just fine," he corrected, and you offered a sharp nod in return.

Then, he disappeared into the back, heading towards the garage, leaving you and Bucky alone.

You turned to him, your expression open and approachable, as if you didn't even notice his hostility towards you. "So, you work on cars, then?"

"No, I just stand 'ere and look pretty," he grumbled sarcastically.

"Well, you're doing a great job," you teased, obviously not perturbed by his glum behavior. "Don't let me stop you from your hard work."

The tips of his ears turned red, but he recovered quickly. "'m just glad to get that pink monstrousity outta the garage," he mumbled.

"You don't like it?"

"It's…loud."

"Well, isn't it supposed to be?"

He narrowed his gaze at you, impatience flickering over his expression. "I didn't mean the engine.

"Ohh," you said with a lilt of amusement in your tone. "The color."

"It's pink," he deadpanned.

"Good observation, Sherlock," you shot back, but it lacked the bite he was expecting. Your grin stayed plastered on your face, unflinching. "Maybe you should take up detective work when you're not…y'know…standing there looking pretty."

Bucky leaned against the counter, the cool acrylic biting his heated skin. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as his eyes flicked over your appearance. "It doesn't take a detective to know that color is hideous."

You crossed your arms, but for the most part, you were keeping your cool. "Like I'm going to take fashion advice from someone who only sees the world in greys and blacks. And is appalled by the simple sight of color."

"I like color just fine."

"Really?" you questioned, arching a brow. "Let me guess, your closet is full of the same black shirt. But when winter rolls in, you'll throw on a flannel to spice it up."

Something shifted in his expression, irritation sharpening on his features. "You think you have it all figured out, huh?"

You leaned in, not backing down from the challenge in his words. "Don't you? You seemed to have made up your mind about me as soon as I walked in the door, without knowing a single thing about me."

"Oh, I know exactly who you are," he smirked, amused. "Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do. You just get behind that wheel because Daddy bought it. He even spiffed it up for you. Ain't that right, princess?"

The words hit hard, and it showed on your face. Your expression changed in an instant. Before he could even blink, your smile twisted into a grimace, as if you’d just tasted something bitter.

This time, you didn't brush off his words. Instead, you took a step closer, not backing down. "Here's the thing, I don't expect you to like my car, or the color, or even me." Your voice never wavered, bold and composed. "But don't mistake my kindness for ignorance."

And with that, you made your rushed exit—the echo of your heels lingering long after you disappeared from view.

A moment later, your car zoomed past in a pink blur, merging onto the busy streets of Brooklyn. He wished the image of the hurt etched on your face would have faded, along with the smoke from your exhaust dissipating. But it stayed, lodged between his ribs like a thorn in his side.

Sam stepped into the room a minute too soon, and Bucky could already hear the criticism forming on his tongue. "What the fuck was that? What the hell did you say to her?"

"Nothin'."

"Bullshit. She hopped into that car like she was fatally wounded and needed emergency assistance."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not." Sam shook his head, eyes to the ceiling as if he was praying for strength. "Do you know who her father is?"

"No."

"You don't want to. At least not personally. He's…intense," Sam sucked air through his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ever heard of Apex Motors?"

Bucky promptly nodded; he was very familiar with the brand. Apex Motors was everywhere. Their parts were the gold standard. Their engines were the kind mechanics whispered about—if you hadn't seen them, you wouldn't believe they truly existed. Their logo showed up at every car show, every charity race, every community event that was always over-advertised.

"Of course, I know Apex. Who doesn't?" Bucky scoffed.

"Yeah, well, her father owns it, dumbass," Sam barked. "He doesn't just own it. He is Apex Motors. The founder. He's the one who elects to sponsor all those races we're lucky enough to attend. The one whose logo is clearly plastered on all the major drivers' cars and even bigger on the fucking banners outside those events."

Bucky's stomach dropped. "Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck is right." Sam dragged a hand down his face. "That man has enough influence in Brooklyn—hell, New York—that he could get us shut down. And forget about getting a job after that. Our names would be on everyone's blacklist."

"I didn't know."

"That's the problem, Bucky. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Not everything needs your input," Sam griped, then his voice softened. "Just pray she doesn't tell her dad, before you apologize."

Bucky's eyebrows knitted together in protest, but Sam raised a hand to stop him. "It's not up for discussion. Act like the adult you are, and apologize to the poor girl."

Poor girl.

Bucky couldn't help but notice the irony in his words; her purse likely cost more than his monthly house payments. However, he decided that it probably wasn’t the best time to laugh at the joke he had thought of, let alone say it out loud.

He spent the rest of the day mulling over his stupid mistake, and the constant side-eye from his friend didn't help.

The ballroom was grand, but at the same time, it was too congested. The weight of everyone’s piercing stares made it hard to breathe. You felt less like yourself and more like an accessory on your dad’s arm at these pointless, flashy events.

The marble floors seemed to glitter under the tasteful chandeliers above. Everything accented with gold looked like embers from a fire in this light. The Champagne flutes were polished to perfection, sparkling on the silver platters that waiters carried with ramrod-straight spines. Banners were strewn around the room, reading 30 years of Apex Motors.

You should be used to this scene by now. Used to the less-than-heartfelt speeches, the handshakes, the forced smiles, the way you tilted your chin just right to make it look like you were interested when you were anything but.

Tonight, that cracked mask felt heavier, and it was slipping.

You weren't sure if it was the series of fake grins and unwanted conversations, but it was overwhelming.

Your father must be so proud.

You look so much like him in this lighting.

Are you thinking about following in his footsteps and running Apex someday?

One too-polite statement after the next, and the pain of it began to ebb at you. The sting burrowed beneath your thick skin like an incessant sliver that refused to go unnoticed.

Or maybe tonight was different because of the feeling of being profiled. Again. You really should be used to that, too. But it never got easier. Living in your dad's shadow meant you were constantly being measured against him.

To your face, they might say that you'll fill his shoes perfectly. But behind your back, they whispered that you'll never be him. You'll never be as smart as him. You'll never amount to his achievements.

Because a girl in a pink skirt could never command a whole room.

Truthfully, it always rolled right off your shoulders. You didn't want to be your father anyway, so those words never struck you.

But now, those words tangled with a deeper voice.

It had been a week. A full week since you visited the auto shop, yet his words were just as loud in your head as the day he said them to your face, without guilt.

Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do.

Princess.

The words punctured deep, but what hurt worse was his expression. The certainty in his eyes, the way he looked at you like he’d already solved you. Like you were a simple equation he’d seen a thousand times before.

The thought of your walls—the ones you had so expertly built—crumbling under his penetrating gaze was baffling. How could a stranger know you?

You told yourself he didn't. That you weren't like half the people drifting through this ballroom. You were different. You had to be. Even if it was a thinly veiled lie, you were adamant in believing it.

Click, click, click.

Three snaps of a camera sliced through your train of thought. You glanced up, focusing on the photographer and the scene he was capturing. Your father was chuckling at something one of his business friends said, booming laughter traveling across all corners of the building. It made your jaw twitch; you hadn't heard him laugh like that in years. At least not when you were around.

He spotted you, laughter dying on his tongue as quickly as it bloomed. He muttered something to the man beside him that you couldn't make out, then he excused himself.

He crossed the room like royalty—small groups parted, and guests dipped their chins in acknowledgment. When he made it to you, he paused like he didn't know what to do. He eventually settled for an awkward side hug, the kind that felt void of affection. Hollow. Forced.

When he pulled back, he scanned you as if he hadn't seen you in a while. And frankly, he hadn't. The last time he saw you was when he picked up your car for its routine check-up.

Your regular mechanic had closed up shop and moved across the state, so you asked for recommendations on a new auto shop. He said he'd handle it.

His assistant handled it.

"You came," your father trilled.

"Wouldn't miss it," you said too hastily; it sounded like a lie. It was.

His eyes narrowed, searching for the deception in your words. He always noticed the cracks in your mask before anyone else did, but he didn't comment on it. Too many investors to please and cameras to smile at to break the facade that this was a happy pair—a dad and his daughter simply catching up.

Instead of voicing the slip in your guise aloud, he adjusted the sheer pink shawl over your shoulder. It could've been viewed as a tender gesture to any onlookers, but you knew it was a silent correction to fix your mask.

"Good. I wanted you here for the big speech," he started casually. "I was hoping you could take some notes on what points you'll need to touch on when you're up there."

You opened your mouth to object, but he was waving someone over a second later. "John," he called. "Come here a minute. I'd like you to meet my daughter."

A dirty-blonde, tall man broke away from a nearby conversation. It clearly wasn't as important as your father's needs because he was eagerly striding towards the two of you. He was refined—crisp suit and a nice smile, revealing his pearly white teeth. Exactly the type of man your father wanted for you.

Great.

John gave your father a firm handshake, exchanging pleasantries, then turned to you. You offered your hand, and he took it with a gentle touch as if you were fragile and couldn't risk breaking you. Leaning down, his lips brushed your knuckles. Something in you recoiled at the contact, but you kept your composure.

"I've heard so much about you," he said by way of greeting.

The grin you gave him didn't quite reach your eyes, but he didn't notice. Guys like him didn't notice much. He was too busy gliding his thumb over the back of your hand, like he was trying to convey something unspoken. You reclaimed your hand, gingerly prying it from his grasp.

Noticing the tension in your posture, your father interjected, “This is one of the drivers competing in the NASCAR Cup Series.”

Apex Motors had been sponsoring one of the NASCAR Cup races consistently for the past ten years. You started memorizing the competitors by name around the fourth year you attended. But you were out of touch with the more recent drivers.

This year, Pocono Raceway was hosting. Your father had invited you a month in advance; you still hadn't gotten back to him about whether you'd be joining him.

John nodded, adding, “Yeah, your father hooked all the drivers up with head-to-toe Apex gear and spruced up our rides.”

You forced down the bile rising in your throat. "That’s him all right. He's always been the generous type."

But you knew it wasn't generosity that drove him. It was selfish. Strategic. Anything for the good of the company. More advertisements meant more customers, which always led to more people talking about him. If it didn't benefit him or his company, it wasn't worth his time and energy.

"Maybe you could swing by and watch him drive sometime. You know, to get a feel for the kind of things Apex invests in," your father suggested. He reached toward John, gripping his shoulder tenderly—the son he always wanted. "He's very talented on the track."

"You honor me, sir," John murmured coyly, though the confident smirk on his face betrayed exactly how highly he thought of himself.

The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept that same easy smile on your face. You leaned towards your father, lowering your voice. "Can I speak with you in private?"

Your gaze flicked to John, who instantly took a step back with a quick nod. "Of course."

You led your father a few steps aside, far enough that no one could overhear, but not so far as to draw attention. Your tone stayed light and casual, the kind you’d practiced and perfected, ensuring nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"We talked about this," you said softly. "I don't want anything to do with Apex. At least not right now."

Something shifted in his expression, anger carving out the edges of his features. "Then, what are you going to do with your life?"

"I don't know," you muttered brokenly.

"Well, that's not an option."

You inhaled slowly through your nose, keeping your cool. "I'm just not ready to figure it out quite yet."

"You said that after your mother died," he replied, tone clipped. "I'm going to need a different excuse this time."

He rarely brought up your mother these days, so the words landed like a punch to the gut. It wasn't like he didn't include her in your conversations because her death still stung. No. Instead, it seemed like he didn't talk about her because it was better to ignore that she existed altogether.

"No daughter of mine is going to be unemployed the rest of her life," he added, voice rising. "The world doesn't wait for you just because you ask it to. At some point, you're going to have to catch up, and I can't stand here and hold your hand forever."

You didn't recall a time when he ever held your hand.

"I've given you ample time to screw around and grieve," he continued bitterly. "But you need to grow up and reevaluate your life."

You flinched, the words hitting like venom rather than offering sympathy to a daughter who was still mourning. Your breathing stuttered, and you tried to push down the tears welling in your vision.

He sighed, his voice going soft. "We can talk about this later."

Or never would be the better option, you thought.

"Go have fun. Mingle." Then, he hauled you into another uncomfortable hug, kissing the crown of your head.

This time, when he pulled away, he didn't look at you. He didn't notice the tension in your shoulders or the way your fingers curled into your palm, your nails leaving tiny crescent-moon shapes in your flesh.

He simply turned and walked back towards the guests, only to be instantly swallowed by the crowd.

You stood there, feet firmly planted on the ground. Frozen in time, while everything around you seemed to speed up. Maybe your father was right; you couldn't just will the world to slow down.

But there was also no reason for you to stick around here.

You slipped into the crowd, brushing elbows with investors and bumping shoulders with drivers who were probably begging for a sliver of your father's time. None of which made room for you to get through. A photographer said your name as you passed, but you ignored them and kept moving toward your exit.

When you finally made it to the front, you pushed open the door. You didn't even wait for the gentleman stationed there to hold it for you.

The city was calling for you to do something reckless, and that, you couldn't ignore.

The blaring music and strobbing lights inside the bar were enough to give someone a severe migraine or a trip to the emergency room. Thankfully, the former was what Bucky was dealing with as he stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. The noisy contents of the bar spilled out of the door as soon as he opened it, and somehow it sounded exactly the same beyond the walls. He swore it even sounded louder, if that was possible.

He patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten his wallet in his rushed exit. Once he found the familiar square outline tucked safely in his leather jacket, he reached for his keys and started toward his truck.

He made it about four long strides before he stopped dead in his tracks. Loud, off-key singing. With the combination of drunken shouting and the thumping bass echoing behind him, he hadn't noticed the noise until he was face-to-face with the image of a very hammered girl.

Streetlights flickered above the woman as she threw her head back, belting out the lyrics to a song Bucky recognized. Yet, the way she was singing, made it feel as if he were hearing it for the first time. Her voice cracked on a high note, and it caused him to wince in response.

"Only the young can saaaaay," she screeched, tripping over her own heels.

His lips twitched upward before he could stop it. She was wasted, no doubt about it, but there was something…blissful about her. Completely carefree. Untouched by the world around her. Chaos incarnate.

She twirled, the night air getting caught beneath her silk dress and lifting at the hem slightly. Her legs twisted, her arms flinging out awkwardly, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest prematurely.

"They're free to fly away," she bellowed, a melody only she could hear.

Then, she teetered dangerously close to the curb, her heels wobbling. Snapping out of his trance, he stretched out his arms, lunging to her aid. He caught her right before she landed face-first into the asphalt.

"Careful," he rasped, firmly holding her arms as he guided her back to safety.

Her back hit his chest, and she giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Craning her neck back, her head rested on his shoulder, leaning into his warmth. Soft hair brushed over his cheek as she shifted in his hold.

Too late, it hit him. He recognized that laugh. How could he not?

He gently turned her as she used him for balance. And his worst nightmare materialized in front of him.

You.

His smile instantly dropped.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

You were still struggling to focus, your eyes locked on the letters of his shirt. Blinking, your gaze flicked up as your laughter faded into the wind. You tilted your head, squinting your eyes as you attempted to steady your vision.

"Hey, I know youuuu," you squealed, like he was a long-lost friend you hadn't seen in years, though it had only been a week. "I don't think I caught your name, pretty boy."

"'s Bucky," he sighed, already annoyed. "And don't call me that."

"You're the one who said you get paid to look pretty," you slurred, raising a manicured finger to poke his nose.

You broke away from his grasp, raising your arms to the sky while you stumbled backward. "You're just in time," you cheered, your voice carrying a block down the street. The thin shawl draped over your shoulders slipped during your celebration. Bucky scooped it up as he steadied you again, his metal fingers gliding across your warm skin.

"Stay still. You're gonna break your ankles and fall flat on your ass."

"Are you thinking about my ass, Bucky?" you teased, ending your question with a wink. "Is that part of your very serious itinerary? Does it usually fall in the afternoon, somewhere between your third cup of coffee and your ritual complaint about the sun being too bright?"

"I am not— I don't—" he stammered, pink creeping up his neck and blooming across his cheeks.

"Aw, you're all flustered," you cooed, sweeping a knuckle across the flush.

There was a gentleness to your touch and a sparkle in your eyes, as if you were just discovering the beauty of this world, and nothing could dim your joy. It made his expression soften faintly, and something in his chest twisted unbidden. He hated it. He hated that it took you so little to make his entire demeanor shift.

He grabbed your wrist, carefully dragging it away from his face. "Quit."

"Sorry, mister grumpy pants," you said, scrunching your nose.

"Anywayyyy," you sing-songed. "Aren't you going to ask me what you're in time for?"

"My own demise, hopefully," he whispered.

"What?"

"Nothin'. What am I just in time for, princess?"

"The," you paused, drumming two fingers on his chest. "Concert. It'll be the performance of a lifetime."

Bucky snorted, "Yeah, I caught the tail end of Journey before I saved your a—" He was not about to make the mistake of talking about your ass again. He restarted, "Before I saved you…The performance itself needs some work. You were a bit pitchy."

Feigning offense, you lightly smacked his chest, a frown finding a way onto your lips. "Asshole. If you're done mocking me, do you have a song request?"

He gazed up at the twinkling stars above thoughtfully. "How 'bout 'go home, you're drunk?'"

"Huh? I don't know that one."

His fingers lifted to his forehead, massaging in slow circles on either side of his temples. "No, 'm tellin' ya to go home."

You blinked up at him, swaying slightly. "Ohhh," you drawled, his true meaning finally clicking through the haze in your skull. "You meant that literally. How boring. The concert just started."

"This isn't a concert," he said bluntly.

"I'll have you know, this is a sold-out show. Very exclusive." You crossed your arms with a very serious expression, lifting your chin. It was…adorable. "You're lucky I haven't kicked your ass to the curb."

He leveled his gaze at you, a smirk lifting his lips. "We're literally standing on the curb."

You glanced down, as if this was your first time noticing. "And? Haven't you heard? Curbs are all the rage now. Very underrated venue. The acoustics are top tier."

A laugh slipped between Bucky's lips before he could catch it. It was a real, genuine one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the hard lines of his face.

Momentarily surprised by the sudden sound, you dropped your theatrics. You stared at him, unblinking.

"What was that?" you asked.

He forced the grin off his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," you insisted cheekily. "You laughed. You actually laughed."

"That's not what happened."

"I just made Bucky laugh," you screamed from the top of your lungs, like you just won the lottery.

His eyes widened in panic. "Shh…" He slapped his flesh hand over your mouth, scanning his surroundings. "Are you crazy? You're gonna wake up the whole city."

You mumbled something against his palm, vibrating his hand. The expression on your face could only be described as smug, mischief glittering in your eyes.

His eyes narrowed, pointing a single finger at you. "If you bite me, I swear—"

Peeling his hand away, you furrowed your brow. "I'm not a biter," you promised. He lowered his hand once he realized it was safe to do so.

"…Not unless you want me to be," you added flirtatiously.

Bucky shook his head in disbelief. "What am I gonna do with you, princess?"

Your smile softened into something warm and inviting, and he didn't mind the feeling that stirred in his chest. Maybe he really did misjudge you that day in the shop; you were nothing as he imagined.

You shivered, an imperceptible shimmy of your shoulders, but he noticed.

"Cold?" he asked, concern laced in his tone.

"A little," you replied, wrapping your shawl tighter around you. It did less than nothing to warm you, goosebumps spreading across your skin regardless of how well it covered you.

"Here." He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and slid out of his leather jacket. He gave you a look, silently asking for permission to touch. It felt appropriate, even though he touched you only moments ago.

You offered him a subtle nod, and he stepped closer, draping the jacket over your shoulders. His touch was light as he adjusted it over your arms, sliding his hands up the zipper. As he tweaked the collar around your neck, his fingers brushed over your bare skin. You shuddered again, but this time, he knew it wasn't from the chill in the air.

Locking eyes with you, he noticed your pupils dilate. He tried to rationalize it, thinking you might be drunk, or it was darker on this part of the sidewalk.

But rationalizing it didn't change the fact that the air around him felt thicker, and he could taste electricity on the tip of his tongue, as if he had just licked a nine-volt battery. An energy seemed to be swirling around the pair of you, drawing him in.

Bucky's fingerpads grazed over your pulse point, testing. He could feel the rapid thrum of your heart beneath his touch, and it made his breath catch. Because that right there was confirmation that he wasn't the only one feeling this.

Pulling away abruptly, he put some much-needed distance between you. You were still wasted, and he…obviously wasn't thinking clearly.

He cleared his throat after a beat.

"Listen, you're gonna forget all this 'n the mornin'," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. You gazed up at him, beaming, your eyes were a little squinty, and you were still very drunk. Oh, you definitely weren't going to remember this. "I wanted to apologize…for before."

Waving him off, you shook your head. "All is forgiven."

"But," he objected. "I was a complete dick to you."

"Yeah, you were," you admitted. "But I've dealt with worse."

Bucky pulled his eyebrows together, something washing over his face—guilt, or maybe irritation. "That doesn't make it okay."

You shrugged, indifferent. "I didn't say it did."

"I shouldn't've said what I did. I didn't know anythin' 'bout you."

"No," you agreed. "You thought I was some spoiled brat who had exactly two functioning brain cells." You giggled, mostly to yourself. "Which might be true as of right now." hiccup. "But I also made assumptions about you." You pointed a wobbly finger at him.

"Oh yeah?" he questioned, intrigued. "What were your assumptions, princess?"

"Grumpy."

"Fair."

"You hate fun."

"Hey, now—" he started, but you interrupted before he could say more.

"And you were only an asshole to me because you thought I'd bite first," you whispered, almost like you were afraid of calling him out. "If you bite first, you're less likely to get hurt, right?"

Bucky gulped, a little taken aback by your boldness. Racking his brain, he wondered how you obtained that information. He hadn't ever told anyone that. Not even Sam. Was he just that easy to read?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tilted his head, not in annoyance but interest.

"I do that, too," you confessed. "Or, at least, I used to. I've gotten better about keeping my cool."

He didn't respond; he didn't know how to. Instead, he just looked at you—really looked—like he needed a second to take in this version of you he hadn’t expected.

"Well, 'm sorry," he repeated because he felt it was necessary.

"It's okay."

"Y'know," he choked on a half-laugh. "I didn't even know who your dad was until Sam said somethin'."

You sobered at that immediately. "Oh."

"He's intense, huh?" he asked, wiggling his hands into his front pockets casually.

"Um…yeah, you could say that," you mumbled, your expression suddenly blank. Your whole disposition had changed in an instant. "Is that why you apologized?"

His eyebrows twitched, confused. "No," he blurted out too quickly.

"It's okay if you did," you assured, but he could hear the tension in your voice.

"No," he restated, firmer this time. "'m genuinely sorry."

You studied him, looking for the lie you swore was hidden somewhere. "Let me guess, Sam said something like 'my father could shut down your shop.'"

Bucky's eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his face. The silence that followed was only confirmation.

You let out a bitter laugh, forcing a smile that didn't quite fit your face. "Right. Well…don't worry. Your shop isn't in jeopardy."

The hurt engraved on your face made his heart squeeze painfully beneath his rib cage because he hadn't meant to hurt you. And he truly didn't know how to fix it. Any response that came to mind didn't seem quite right. So, he just stood there, awkward and foolish.

"You were right," your voice cracked on those three simple words. "I should go home. It's getting late."

You reached for the collar of his jacket, attempting to shrug it off, but he stopped you. "No, keep it. You're cold."

"Thanks," you said stiffly.

The quiet that settled after was agonizing. He stared at you, and you stared right back. Bucky felt exactly how you looked—numb. And for some reason, this felt final.

Two chances. That's what he was so graciously given with you, and he squandered both of them.

You eventually turned on your heels and strode away without another word. You got as far as the crosswalk before he realized where you were headed. Your car.

"You're not thinkin' of drivin', are ya?" he called out, worry evident in his words.

Glancing over your shoulder, your expression was even more pained than before. "I would never," you scoffed, then you restarted, softer. "…I'm calling my driver."

Nodding in understanding, he gave you a tight-lipped grin.

When you reached your pink monstrousity, as he once not-so-lovingly called it, you yanked the door open and vanished behind it as it slammed shut.

And he was sure that was the last time he'd see you.

It wasn't.

Bucky saw you everywhere. Not you physically, but your presence was always there. The color pink. You. Anytime he smelled vanilla. You. A laugh on the wind while he was driving. You. Even the flowers near the checkout at the grocery store. You.

You were a ghost, haunting his every move.

A couple of days after the sidewalk incident, you sent your driver to return his leather jacket, dry-cleaned. It was still in the plastic covering, and the ticket dangled off the neck of the hanger. And even though it had been cleaned to perfection, he could still smell the faint trace of vanilla and grapefruit, as if you were now woven into the fabric.

He wasn't even embarrassed by how many times he pressed the material to his nose, breathing in your scent.

He didn't know how to shake you. He tried throwing himself into work, operating on the vehicles in the shop well into the night—elbow-deep in engines. He worked until his hand ached. Until the only thing on his mind was the soreness in his muscles.

That is, until Sam threatened to leave and lock the door behind him.

It was affecting his work. The way he interacted with customers was unusual; he was short, barely listening to a single word of their monologue of problems with their car. They rattled on about noises their vehicle wasn't meant to make—clunking, or sputtering, maybe both. He nodded at the right times, professional on the surface, but his mind was constantly far off.

It got so bad that on one tow job, he installed the tow hook on the front bumper the wrong way and nearly tore the whole thing off. The one task he used to nail with practiced skill, he botched completely.

The shop lost money that day. Sam gave him shit for it.

Maybe he wasn't the best at human interaction, or he didn't fully comprehend their minds—too difficult a puzzle to put together. But he knew cars. Cars were simple, predictable. He could do a full diagnostic of any vehicle just by hearing the engine purr. He understood them as if they were a second language, and he was an expert in communicating exactly what was being said.

And that was precisely why he royally messed up with you.

You weren’t a problem to diagnose or an engine to operate on. You weren’t some equation he could solve if he just stared at it long enough. But he kept treating you like one. Kept trying to force you into a mold—a predictable one. One he could understand.

And he couldn't get that through his thick skull.

So, no matter how loud the voice in his head got—the one telling him to just call and fix whatever he broke, he didn't give in. Not when he'd pull up a customer's information on the shop's computer, and your name would appear in the system, tucked neatly beneath your father's. Those ten digits sat there, blinking at him like a glaring reminder. Or…temptation.

But he gave you your space. Distancing himself was the best option for both of you…right?

Yet, it was as if the universe kept teasing him with you, like an owner waving a treat in front of a hungry pet. And a man can only be so strong.

It was late that night, legs stretched out on the couch with the blanket half-covering him. He didn't even know why his thumb was hovering over the app, but he found himself pressing it. He barely even used the damn thing, but Sam insisted it would be good for business. It wasn't. He never actually posted anything, except for a single picture of a car mid-repair, and another of Alpine perched by the window, with the sun warming her fur.

He had accidentally clicked the discover page—the little magnifying glass at the bottom of his screen. Twelve posts came into view, blinding him. Blinking, he adjusted to the brightness. He eventually started swiping through the posts. One after the other, depicting images and videos of cars and engines, all curated specifically for him.

Then.

You.

He sat up straight.

How you appeared on his Instagram, he had no clue. Before he could think better of it, he was tapping on the image. You were smiling, green straw between your teeth, and your eyes full of amusement. The arms of a pink sweater were tied around your neck, sunglasses resting on your head as you posed for your photo op.

He couldn't help himself; he pressed on your username. Pretty.in.pink. It suited you.

And, damn, did you have followers. 597.2k hovered between the number of posts you had and who you were following.

Scrolling through your feed, he glanced over your photos. Some showed you flaunting an outfit, pink checkered skirts, and white heels. You were adjusting the strap around your ankle in one. In the next image, you were holding a bouquet of daisies, pressed tightly to your chest, as you gazed up at the sky.

And he definitely didn't zoom in on your cleavage, hidden amongst the petals of the flowers.

You captured images of New York: skyscrapers, billboards, and the Brooklyn Bridge with the sunset as the backdrop. He noted some of the cafes and restaurants you visited, and the reviews that came with them. You had a very clear aesthetic that carried through your posts.

He kept scrolling. A mirror selfie. Pink makeup products on a white marble table. Mid-step off a sidewalk.

He felt like a stalker, looking at you like this. Like he was seeing something personal he wasn't supposed to. But he had convinced himself that this was for public viewing, and it wasn't like he was doing anything nefarious.

Well, that is, until he scrolled too far and saw your series of summer shots.

Sure, some were innocent, harmless. A cute one-piece swimsuit, hugging your curves. You had your hands on your hips, giggling. Or another with your legs dangling off the pier, bare feet kissing the surface of the water.

But most were tastefully suggestive. A floral bikini, barely covering your tits. You were toying with the strings of your bottoms, as if silently conveying that if you tugged just right, you'd be half-naked.

He wished he had stopped there. Because the next one he landed on filled his mind with every impure thought. "Fuck," he whispered under his breath.

You were on your stomach, legs folded behind you, crossing at the ankle with your feet in the air. His gaze dragged down the slope of your back to the curve of your plump ass.

He let out a low growl, his hand already finding the growing erection, pushing against his shorts. A feeling of depravity entered his body, even as he kept stroking himself through the fabric.

Scanning over your body, he noted the sparkle in your eyes as you looked over your shoulder playfully. The soft tilt of your lips. Your silky skin, and how it would feel beneath his fingers. The glimpse of your side boob, spilling out of the cup of the bikini top.

He stroked faster, biting his lip as the pressure built.

He told himself to stop. That this was wrong.

He didn't.

"You see what you do to me, princess," he groaned at the picture. "Y'know what you were doin' when you posted this, huh? Such a 'lil tease, aren't ya?"

Mind drifting, he imagined those same eyes looking up at him, a pout on your lips as he tapped the head of his cock on them. And the way those lips would feel wrapped around—

Hips jerking upward, he let out another low, broken curse. He was close. He could feel it in the way the vein on his neck stuck out, and his thighs tensed. Pressing the palm of his hand harder against his bulge, his breath stuttered.

He realized too late the predicament he was in. There he was, sprawled out on the couch, one hand curled around his phone, the other rubbing his dick through his pants. He came, his release blooming in his boxers and darkening the front of his shorts as your name fell from his lips.

Immediately after, he hissed, his eyes blown wide. Because he just came in his pants. Like a horny fucking teenager. Guilt and disgust flooded his body. He dropped his phone, as if it had burned him, sprinting to the bathroom.

He passed Alpine on his way there, and he swore she looked disappointed as she sat in the middle of the hallway, licking her paw. "Don't you dare," he scolded, but he knew he deserved it.

He banned himself from ever going on that stupid app. Because that couldn't happen. Not again.

After that, things settled. He still thought about you, of course, but he didn't have any more incidents. And the urge to call you faded.

It wasn't until he saw your face in the local newspaper that he almost broke that unspoken rule he had created, and finally called you.

It was dawn, and the sun had barely risen, just peeking over the horizon. The sky was a vibrant orange, and the clouds had a wispy quality that reminded him of the cotton candy he got as a kid on trips to Coney Island.

He was on his second cup of coffee as he reached for the newspaper that was thrown on the counter. Flicking out the paper with one hand, he attempted to right it as he raised his ceramic mug to his lips. The steaming dark liquid hit the tip of his tongue just as he saw you.

Setting down his cup with a sharp click, his eyes fixed on the image just above the article. It was a feature titled, "Upcoming Race in the NASCAR Cup Series: Apex Motors 500."

Your father was clearly the main focus, but that hardly mattered to Bucky. You were positioned behind him, and even slightly blurred, he could see those bright eyes of yours clear as day.

The photo seemed to be taken at some gala—a place he wouldn't be caught dead at. Too fancy and polished for his taste. He doesn't even recall the last time he wore a suit, let alone why he would've worn one.

Flipping the page, he was met with three more photos. Mostly with your father and his team. But there you were again. Another gala shot, but this one you were standing beside a tall man who was leaning in to kiss your hand. The caption read: John Walker, Two-time Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series Winner and NASCAR Cup Series Competitor, Seen Getting Cozy With a Potential Girlfriend?

The coffee settling in Bucky's stomach curdled.

John honestly looked perfect for you. Someone you could bring home to Daddy, and he'd have all the correct answers and say all the right things. Someone who fit flawlessly into the world you came from. And, of course, it helped that he was a NASCAR competitor, and in a race your father sponsored.

The smile you gave John wasn't genuine, though. He'd seen a real smile from you; it lit up your entire face. This one looked forced and uncomfortable.

"Buck?"

He jerked his head up, meeting Sam's narrowed gaze, the kind that said he'd called for Bucky more than once. Sam rounded the counter, peering over Bucky's shoulder to see what had so easily captured his attention.

"Man," Sam sighed. "You gotta talk to her."

After one too many of Sam’s knowing looks, the whole story spilled out. Everything that had happened between you and him. Sam had truly listened that day, without judgment or offering any unsolicited advice.

And if Bucky didn't want to talk about it, Sam changed the subject. But now Sam was fed up with it.

"'s…complicated," Bucky replied.

"From where I'm standing, it's pretty clean cut."

"Look at her," he pointed to your picture in the paper. "We come from opposite ends of the world."

"Do you really think she's so superficial that she wouldn't give you the time of day just because you have a different status?"

Bucky's face dropped. "That's not what I meant."

"No?" Sam shot back. "Then stop treating her like that. Stop assuming things you know nothing about." He didn't even wait for a response, just vanished into the garage and got to work.

A few days passed.

Bucky threw himself back into work, a wrench firmly in his fist as he tightened a bolt on an engine. Sam burst into the garage with a wild look in his eyes, panic written all over his face.

Somehow, Bucky already knew without hearing a word. Dropping the wrench, he wiped his hands on the nearest rag. Then, sprang to his feet, snatching his keys off the hook.

“Where is she?” he demanded, already moving.

The difference between the pouring rain and the tears blurring in your vision was indistinguishable. The tears were coming down your cheeks, hot and quick, before you could stop them. It didn't matter how many times you blinked or wiped the wet from your cheeks; they kept coming.

Why did this have to happen? Why today of all days?

The accident happened before you could prevent it. You swore that the family of raccoons came out of nowhere. One minute you were driving, the next you were slamming on your brakes as you yanked your wheel in the opposite direction. Your heart leaped to your throat, gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles had gone white. Swerving on a slick road like that one was always going to be a losing battle. With the combination of braking and swerving too hastily, your wheels locked, and you lost control. That was why the front of your car was curved around a telephone pole.

Now, you sat there with your hands trembling on the steering wheel as the rain pelted your windshield. Your breath was coming out heavy and uneven, fogging up the glass.

You weren't hurt, not really anyway. Your nose hit the top of the wheel from the impact, leaving a warm trickle of blood pooling above your lip. Your ribs ached from the brief constriction of your seatbelt across your chest—a whispering promise of bruising come morning. But you were fine.

After it happened, your hand was already curled around your phone, before you could properly register what you were doing. Anxious fingers flew across your keyboard, typing in the first person that came to mind. Your eyes were locked on ten digits, Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair hovering directly above them.

It wasn't the first time you had been in this predicament. You always talked yourself out of it before. Because you were embarrassed by the display you showed Bucky after he brought up your father. Because you couldn't muster the courage to talk to him.

But this time, as you stared at the phone number, you realized you really didn't know who else to call.

Luckily, Sam picked up the phone instead, so you still had ample time to think about what you were going to say to Bucky. Yet, your mind felt blank.

Weeks had passed, and you didn't even know if that spark you'd felt that night under the stars with too much liquor in your system was still there. Or if it even existed in the first place. You were so drunk that you could've imagined it. Did the laugh that echoed in your dreams ever even happen, or was that something you hallucinated as well? All a trick of the light.

Headlights flared in your rear-view mirror, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. You squinted against the brightness until the beams dimmed. The truck eased forward, turning around before backing up toward you until there were only inches between your bumpers.

You rubbed the blood from your nose, and you swiped the tears from under your eyes. Adjusting your sweater and running a hand over your hair, you tried to look as presentable as possible.

The driver's side opened, and out stepped Bucky. All six feet of him strode towards your car, white tank top getting soaked as he got closer. You could see the definition in his abs through the thin material, and the flex of his muscles as he…knocked on the glass.

Shit. You'd been gawking as he waited for you to roll down your window.

You were so fucked.

Bucky rapped on the glass one more time as you stared up at him, blinking. Your shimmering eyes eventually met his, lashes fluttering. Fuck, he missed seeing those in person. Your fingers reached for the switch, lowering the window with a mechanical hum. The steady rush of rain began to enter your car, raindrops dotting the interior of the door.

You almost appeared frazzled now that the glass wasn't interrupting his vision. Were you still in shock?

Bucky propped his elbow on the roof, leaning into the opening. "Hey," he greeted. "You still with me, princess?"

"Y-yeah," you stammered.

Now he could see the streaks of dried tears across your cheeks and the smear of crimson right below your nose. His chest clenched, and his skin suddenly felt too tight around his rib cage.

He cleared his throat. "Sam said you assured him you didn't need medical attention…you gonna fight me on that, too?"

"I'm really okay. Just a minor nosebleed. Nothing serious." You offered him a stiff smile that didn't reach your eyes.

He didn't know how to push down the worry stirring in his chest, so he responded with humor instead. "We gotta stop meetin' like this."

"Like what?"

"You're drunk," he teased.

Straightening your spine, you knitted your brows together in offense. "I'm not."

"Just a joke. Bad joke," he admitted, grabbing the back of his neck. "How'd you get in this mess anyway?"

"It's raining," you said, shrugging, as if that alone was an answer.

"I see that, Sherlock," he deadpanned. "But I got 'ere just fine."

"There was a little family of raccoons. Just a momma and her babies crossing the street, and I didn't see them right away. And…well…this happened."

"Adorable." The word slipped before he could stop it. He stared at you, eyes wide, hoping you didn't hear him.

"What?"

"I bet the raccoons were adorable," he offered, too quickly. "And I bet they're thankin' you for sparin' their lives."

Nodding, you sighed. "I just wish I hadn't sacrificed my pink monstrosity in the process."

He softened at the nickname he gave your car. "Uh…before I pull ya out," Bucky started, tapping on the roof of your car. "I'd like to apologize…again. It was never my intention to hurt you, and 'm sorry it came across that way. Your father had nothin' to do with the apology."

You stilled, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Then, you still didn't move, and the two of you continued to face off in a little staring contest.

But he was getting anxious waiting for a reply, so he kept going. "Listen, I could wait out in the rain all day, beggin' for forgiveness. 'm not afraid to drop to my knees 'n the mud f' you. In fact—"

Doing just as he said, he lowered himself, dropping to his knees. His knees sank into the mud, no doubt darkening his jeans with the sludge. The droplets were streaming onto his face now, hair getting soaked in the process. But he didn't care.

"'m not goin' anywhere 'til you know I mean it," he promised. "'m deeply sorry."

You peeked out of the open window, watching him with your eyes blown wide. "Are you crazy?"

"A 'lil."

"Get up before you ruin your jeans," you order, slightly flustered.

He could ruin a lot more than his jeans on his knees for you. But this was not the time, nor the place.

Realizing he looked like an idiot, he rose with an awful sucking sound as he attempted to free his knees from the mud.

"You did nothing wrong, so there's nothing to forgive," you admitted, gazing up at him as he leaned against your vehicle. "I have some issues to work through, and that's not your problem."

"It could be."

He hadn't even realized he said it out loud, but there the words hung in the air between you like a confession. Lips separating, you released a soft breath, but you appeared too stunned to say anything.

Promptly moving on, he asked, "Did you call anyone to pick you up?"

"Just you."

Bucky hummed. "I know you don't wanna hear this, but maybe you should call your dad."

You instantly looked panicked. "Are you kidding? He'll kill me."

"Okay," he drawled. "How 'bout a friend?"

Grimacing, you shook your head.

"Well, I don't want you to be alone tonight," he mumbled, then thought of the most ridiculous solution. "You can stay with me tonight. You take my bed, and I'll—"

"Yes," you interrupted.

He was taken aback by your immediate response, but nodded. "My house it is," he confirmed. "Now, how 'bout I get you outta this rain, princess?"

The car ride to Bucky's shop was mostly quiet, save for the occasional clinking of the wheel lift that was supporting the weight of your car as it dragged behind his truck. You kept glancing over your shoulder, a nervous tic, though he assured you multiple times that it was secured. It was also an excuse to catch his biceps in your periphery.

You were sitting on a bench seat, so the close proximity was something you hadn't expected. But you weren't complaining. But you didn't know what to do with yourself either. You started by fixating on two separate raindrops on the windshield to distract yourself. In your head, those two clear dots were having a race, and the one you were rooting for slowed as the other one began streaming quicker down the glass, as if it knew.

When that didn't fully shift your attention, you decided to just sit stiffly beside him. You folded your hands neatly in your lap as you tried not to let the faint scent of his cologne mess with your head…again.

You had a hard time sending his leather jacket back after he let you borrow it. Sure, it had undertones of grease and motor oil, but the most prominent scent was a mix of sandalwood and cardamom. You blamed that damn jacket for the reason why you couldn't get him out of your head.

After that night outside of the bar, you had come home and immediately flopped into bed, the jacket still wrapped snuggly around your shoulders. The next morning was torture. You'd draped it over one of your kitchen chairs as you made some coffee and swallowed down some Tylenol to help with your lingering hangover. You stared at the jacket over the rim of your mug until you couldn't take it anymore and started wearing it around the house. It was because of the draft circulating the house, you had told yourself.

And you swore the time your fingers traveled between your aching thighs as you breathed in his scent was only because the alcohol was still in your system. You weren't thinking clearly when you slipped your fingers inside yourself, and you certainly weren't thinking when you came on your palm, his jacket pressed to your nose as your mind drifted to what Bucky's head would look like between your legs.

That familiar scent was flooding your senses as you scanned his profile, following the sharp line of his jaw to the slow bob of his Adam's apple. Your gaze kept dipping to his saturated tank top and the way it clung to his chest. Your lip continued to find its way between your teeth. Because who the hell looks that good fresh from a day's work and a shower in the rain?

His human arm was casually resting over the back of the seat, his fingers kissing the nape of your neck. You hadn't figured out if he was doing it on purpose yet, but it caused a chill to travel down your spine, all the same.

When you reached his shop, it was an easy enough drop-off. He got your car into the garage without any problems, efficient and professional, everything your brain wasn't. The rain was still a wild downpour, and any time he'd had to dry off on the drive over was wasted. He was sopping-wet as he jogged back to the truck.

When he slammed the door shut, his breath was coming out in gasps, his chest heaving as he threw his head back against the seat. The water dripped steadily off his dark hair, and his tank top was plastered to his chest—practically sheer at that point. You couldn't take your eyes off of him, and with the noises he was making from the exertion, you were having a hard time not letting your mind drift to sinful things. If you just crawled over and straddled his lap…would he make the same noises?

Glancing over at you, a slow grin spread across his lips. "You'd think it'd slow down at some point, but 's only coming down harder out there. 'm soaked," he panted.

"Yeah, me too," you sighed before your brain caught up, then your eyes widened, blinking. "I mean— my clothes are still wet. From the rain."

His smile stretched, easy and knowing. You could see the spark in his eyes, but he didn't say anything about your slip-up. Dragging a hand through his hair, he let out a slow exhale. Before you knew what was happening, he was shaking his head frantically, like a dog straight out of the bath. Water went everywhere: the dashboard, the windows, and you.

You gasped, turning your face the other direction as he splashed you with water droplets. "Bucky," you screeched.

"What?" he laughed, a sound that rattled deep in his chest. "I was just helpin' you catch up."

You lightly shoved his shoulder. "You're a menace."

Before you could pull your hand back, he caught your wrist—playfully and unmistakably up to something. His eyes lit with mischief, and that alone should’ve been your warning to scramble away.

"Come 'ere," he teased.

His metal hand dropped to your waist, guiding you toward him into a soaking-wet hug. You squeaked, planting your free hand on his chest in a desperate attempt to get some distance. It was too late, though. His arm tightened on the dip of your waist as his opposite hand curled around the back of your neck, angling you exactly where he wanted you. Like an overgrown golden retriever, he rubbed his face across your cheeks.

The cold droplets smeared across your skin, making you shriek louder. "Bucky! Come on, you're—"

"Drenched?" he finished for you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Hadn't noticed."

You wiggled in his hold, swatting his chest. "Okay, okay. I surrender."

He eventually released you, leaning back. His laughter faded into a gentle smirk, looking way too smug for his own good. Rolling your eyes, you wiped the water off your face with the back of your hand. You thought about scooting away, keeping that distance you so desperately wished for before. But now, as you watched him, the amusement softening his features, you remembered there were worse things than having your skin a little wet.

The ride back to Bucky's house was a stark contrast to the one to his shop. Words were easier. The conversation flowed. It simultaneously felt like no time had passed, and like you'd known him for years and were just catching up.

The pair of you shared soft stories, the kind that made you giggle and made the tension in his shoulders loosen. He shared the time that Sam dragged him to meditation in the park, and it went so poorly that the instructor kicked him out. You shared that time your dress accidentally got thrown in with your father's wash, and it turned all his white dress shirts pink; he had to wear them for a week before they were replaced.

After almost an hour of driving, he turned onto a gravel path surrounded by tall, lively trees. You hadn't seen this part of Brooklyn before. The cityscape slowly diminished, giving way to lush greenery. He passed a sign that read: Green Meadows Farm.

You briefly wondered what your life would've been like if your father had taken you somewhere like this in your youth. If he had just slowed down enough to give you the attention you deserved. Without the buffer of your mother, who was the glue that kept your family stable. But that was too much to ask.

The truck dipped over the rockier sections, but Bucky avoided any major holes. Until he ran over a bump in the road, and despite the seatbelt, you nearly flew out of your seat. But he was quicker, swinging his arm out to catch you and secure you against the bench. He whispered, "I gotcha, princess," then shifted his gaze to the road as if nothing had happened.

Though you were safely back in your seat, his arm lingered, bicep pressed firmly to your chest. When he finally moved it, his hand found purchase on your thigh, calloused fingers bending around your bare flesh. Not gripping, just holding, like he had a right to. Like it was natural.

Eventually, the trees down the path cleared, and his house came into view. The only reason you knew it was his was that it was very…him. There was no other way to describe it. A quaint cabin with a wraparound porch that overlooked the river.

The truck rolled to a stop as he shifted it into park. With the rain softening to an even patter, you could finally hear how quiet it was here. The rustle and bustle of the city felt like a distant memory. Nature was the only soundtrack here, the gentle rush of the river, and you could just make out the faint noises of an owl, high up in the branches of a nearby tree.

Bucky didn't waste any time. He leaped down from the truck, then helped you, offering you a hand. As you hopped down, the heels of your shoes vanished into the mud with a subtle squelch. He sighed dramatically beside you before leaning down and sliding his hands around your waist. With barely any effort on his part, he lifted and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You let out a startled wheeze. "I do have two legs."

"Can't have your precious heels gettin' ruined," he cooed in an almost mocking tone. Trudging toward the door, he placed a protective hand over your ass as he smoothed out your skirt.

"I can walk," you ordered, but he was dead set on ignoring your protests. "I'm serious, put me down." You lightly pounded your fists into the dip of his back, but he only huffed a laugh in response. Flopping forward, you figured it best not to waste your energy arguing with a brick wall. Your arms dangled out in front of you as he carried you up the steps, the wood squeaking under the weight of his boots.

He gently set you down with a light click of your heels, reaching for the keys in his back pocket. "Better?"

You crossed your arms, tilting your head. "Thank you," you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but failing miserably.

"Anythin' for you," he replied coolly. And even if he said the words as a joke, they made the corner of your lip lift.

Unlocking the door, he pushed in. He flicked on the light, bathing the interior in warm light, and you followed him in. You were immediately hit with the scent of cedar, and him. The inside was exactly what you expect—minimal decor, yet it had a lived-in feel. A worn leather couch in the living room with a black jacket draped over the arm. A wall of photos with unusual frames. A small fireplace. Everything was practical, but charming.

"It ain't much," he said, exhaling slowly with his hands on his hips. "But make yourself at home." He kicked off his heavy work boots, then disappeared down a dark hallway. A light flicked on as he entered a room, which you could only guess was his room. He closed it most of the way, but kept it open a crack.

You slipped off your heels, and they hit the floor with a gentle thud. You did a rough sweep of the room, then padded over to the wall of frames. You scanned the photos, some from his childhood, some of his shop, some of him and Sam.

But your eyes lingered on two, hanging beside each other. A navy blue uniform, neatly buttoned with a matching cap. Bucky and Sam stood side by side with perfect posture, saluting the camera. Metal arm. The other image was a solo shot, clad in an army green jumpsuit. No metal arm.

A set of dog tags dangled off the corner of the frame, twinkling under the light. They clinked as you twisted them in your palm. James Buchanan Barnes. You tested the name, mouthing it softly.

You peeked around the corner, ready to tell him what you uncovered. Instead, you were met with carved back muscles just as he was tugging up his sweatpants. You nearly choked on your own saliva, your cheeks warming from guilt of seeing something you weren't supposed to. He turned, pulling a dark shirt over his head, and flattened out the wrinkles in the fabric. His arm glinted, drawing your attention downward, and then your eyes drifted lower. And lower.

You caught the patch of hair above the waistband before disappearing beneath his grey sweatpants. You followed the trail. Fuck. Nothing could drag your gaze away from the subtle bulge against the material of his sweats. No matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself that this was wrong, that you were openly objectifying him, you continued to gawk.

"You can ask about it," Bucky said, walking towards you with a plush towel in his hands.

Shit.

You hadn't even noticed him step out of his room, and now you were caught with no possible way out of this one. But was he really giving you permission to ask about his dick size? Wait, maybe he wanted you to ask about the shape.

No, that's ridiculous…just…play dumb? Yeah. Some guys love that, right?

You've been staring for too long with no other excuse to use. Fuck it.

Play dumb. Play dumb. Play dumb.

You swallowed thickly. "What?"

"I keep catchin' you lookin' at my arm. If you're curious, you can ask. 'm an open book."

"Right, I've been wondering about your arm," you drawled. You mentally thanked yourself because, yes, sometimes playing dumb has gotten you out of some sticky situations. "How'd you get it?"

He motioned for you to turn around, and you scrunched your brows, but did it anyway. His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding your sweater down your arms, then hanging it on a hook by the door. Unfolding the towel, he glided it over your upper back, the nape of your neck, and anywhere else that was out of your reach.

"Sam and I were in the Air Force together. It feels like a lifetime ago," he began as he handed over the towel.

You took it, still a little stunned by how naturally he moved around you. As if he'd done it a thousand times. He guided you over to the couch, hand cupping your elbow. He nodded for you to sit as you started to pat down your hair, squeezing the dampness from the strands. Grabbing the plaid blanket from the back of the sofa, he covered your lower half, tucking the edges in. And he did it all without you ever needing to say a word.

Why did everything feel so natural with him? Why did it feel like he was reading your every thought before you even asked?

Lifting the blanket, he slipped under it, scooting closer until your legs brushed. His arm fell to the back of the couch, turning his full body toward you as he spoke. "That's how we met, actually. We served multiple tours overseas together. Got close in the process. Honestly, don't think I'd be 'ere without him."

The vulnerability in his tone cut you deeper than you expected. His gaze drifted, and he had this faraway look in his eyes that told you to let the silence breathe. So, you waited. You didn't force the conversation, just let him take his time.

He cleared his throat. "We had some aerial trainin' the day it happened. The other soldiers in the aircraft strapped on their parachutes. I was the last one to grab mine."

Bucky went quiet again, finding his words. "Y'know, everyone puts their trust in the manufacturers. You kinda have to have a 'lil blind faith that the equipment's been tested and retested. That they're suitable for jumps of high altitudes, or that 's even capable of carrying a large amount. That's why, when I jumped, I didn't even think twice. Just did it."

Your stomach dropped because you already knew the outcome of this story. You looked at him—really looked at him. It wasn't a look of pity, but understanding.

His eyebrows twitched. "I had a faulty parachute. It wouldn't deploy no matter how hard I pulled. Thankfully, I landed in a tree before I fully hit the ground, so the branches lessened the blow."

You felt your heart crack wide open, raw and exposed. Unfamiliar with this side of grief, you didn't know the procedure. You didn't know whether to reach for him or if he even wanted to be touched. You settled for a whispered apology instead. "I know this doesn't help, but I'm sorry."

Sighing, he offered you a small smile. "From you…it does."

You mirrored his smile, but he didn't dwell on the emotion for much longer. Correcting his posture, he coughed. "After that, I settled back in Brooklyn. Needed a job. Figured I've always been good at fixin' things, so I opened my own shop. Sam gave me a call not too long after, and we've been in business together ever since."

His expression softened, as if he were reminiscing. "Though some days I regret that decision," he jokingly added.

You hummed in amusement, easing into the couch as you shifted to face him. "You love him."

"I tolerate him. There's a difference," he said stubbornly.

"Right."

He rolled his eyes, but you knew there was truth to your words. "So, what's your story?" he asked, shifting the spotlight off himself.

You shrugged. "I don't have one."

Arching a brow, he bumped you with his knee. "Come on. Gimme somethin'. How 'bout why you were cryin' in the car?"

You stilled; you hadn't realized he saw that. "Just overwhelmed," you half-answered. Blinking slowly, he leveled you with a glare. Your head dropped back, puffing air through your nose.

"Fine," you murmured. "I was on the way to visit my mother's grave."

Bucky leaned in, not dramatically, but just enough to let you know he was listening.

"It's the anniversary of her death," you continued, quieter. "Which…ironically was because of a car accident." You nearly laughed, though nothing felt humorous about it. But you hadn't really reflected on the similarities until right now.

Your fingers tightened around the blanket, attempting to ground yourself. "Every year, my father and I make plans to honor her, and every year, he cancels. I guess I got sick of it. No, I am sick of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who feels the weight of her death."

Your voice wavered slightly, but you pushed on. "I know everyone grieves differently. But I expected…something. Glimpses of pain, maybe? But nothing. He ignores her very existence. And the one time I ask him to acknowledge her, even that's too hard."

Silence settled again, and under the blanket, his hand found your thigh—a grounding pressure you needed. As if to say, I'm here.

You exhaled slowly. "It was a drunk driver that killed her…That's why I got upset when you asked. That night, when I was singing on the sidewalk, was a rarity for me. I don't drink. And I especially don't drink and drive. It's irresponsible and stupid…and—"

Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to keep the tears at bay. "I lost the most important person in my life because someone couldn't pick up the damn phone and call a taxi."

For a moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain against the roof and the gentle wind whistling just beyond the windows. Just as you did for him, Bucky didn't fill the silence. He didn't try to fix it. He just offered a light squeeze to your thigh in comfort.

Releasing a shaky breath, you blinked back the threat of tears. "Sorry," you said brokenly. "I didn't mean to dump all that on you."

Reaching up with his metal hand, he tucked a stray hair behind your ear. "You never need to apologize for feelin' things, princess."

His gaze flicked over your features, as if he didn't know where to look. "I know it doesn't help, but 'm sorry," he echoed your earlier words.

You couldn't help the smile that grew on your lips. "From you, it does help," you repeated his earlier words.

The cool metal of his fingers dragged down your jaw, relaxed and measured, as his gaze drifted down to your lips. He inched a little closer, firmly taking your jaw in his hand. Lips parting, he hovered in your space. You felt that same electric energy from all those nights ago. Still present. Still charged.

Your eyes fluttered closed, certainty driving your actions.

Then.

You felt a sudden weight on your lap, causing your eyes to fly open. Backing away, you gasped. A white fluff ball with a pink nose and twitching ears sat on your knees, staring at you with its wide blue eyes. The cat tilted its head, assessing you.

Bucky rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. "I guess someone wanted an introduction." His flesh hand loosened on your thigh to scratch under the cat's chin. "Meet Alpine. She's…particular."

Alpine shut her eyes, purring as her owner gave her the attention she'd been missing. "She almost clawed Sam's face off the first time they met. So don't be offended if she isn't the biggest fan of you right—"

He cut himself off as Alpine moved out of the way of his hand. She crept up towards you, her front paws finding purchase on your chest as she lifted her head towards your face. Turning her head, she rubbed the side of her face against your jaw. She let out a long, low purr as she nuzzled into you. Lifting your hand tentatively, you carded your fingers through her thick fur.

"Hey there, pretty girl," you giggled. "I think he's painting you to be some kind of scary monster. You're not, are you?"

"Huh," he said, slightly baffled by the sight. "I don't know what I was worried 'bout. She doesn't usually click with anyone that quickly."

"Aw, just like her daddy," you cooed, winking at him.

Swallowing hard, his cheeks flushed faintly. The tips of his ears turned red, just like that day in the shop. He brushed it off, shaking his head as his hand found your thigh again.

Alpine blinked up at him, then you. Retreating from you, you swore she gave a subtle nod as if to say that she approved. Then she scurried off your lap just as quickly as she came, her tail flicking as she disappeared down the hallway.

A grin still plastered on your face, you let out a soft breath. "She's sweet."

"Don't let her fool you," he mumbled, gingerly rubbing your thigh. "She's opinionated."

The air shifted once more, warmth pooling in your stomach as he touched you. While his earlier grip had been innocent, this felt different. This was eagerness, as if he couldn’t wait another moment longer. The hunger in his eyes was undeniable, silently urging to resume where you’d left off before the interruption.

You forced your thighs together, your heart racing with desire.

"You're a flirty drunk. Did you know that?" he asked arrogantly, his hand still firmly pressed to your thigh, inching higher and higher in intervals so you wouldn't notice. But you noticed. Your body noticed. The space between your legs noticed, which only made you squeeze your thighs together tighter.

"G-guess that's another reason I don't drink very often," you stuttered.

"I dunno, I thought it was pretty cute. You said somethin' 'bout wantin' to bite me at one point?"

"I did not," you objected. "I said if you wanted me to, I would.

"So, hypothetically," he rasped. "If I said I wanted you to right now, you would."

"Bucky," you squealed, lightly slapping his metal arm, which probably hurt you more than him. "I was wasted."

"Yeah, but y'know what they say, drunk words are sober thoughts."

"Are you saying I thought about biting you the first day we met? Because that's as far as my sober thoughts about you went after our little conflict in your shop," you harmlessly teased.

Bucky sucked air through his teeth. "Oof, you wound me, princess." He placed his metal hand over his heart, feigning offense. "But yes, you looked like you wanted to bite my head off that day, so I wouldn't be surprised."

Then, he did something you least expected; he leaned closer. You figured this was all just teasing. That this back and forth was just innocent flirtation. But his lips brushed your ear as he whispered against the shell of it. "Bet that pretty 'lil head of yours is thinkin' real hard 'bout it now."

"Only because you won't shut up about it," you shot back breathlessly, lacking the bite you were intending.

"Ooh, she's got teeth," he chuckled, his warm breath fanning across your neck. He attempted to wedge his fingers between your thighs. A heat washed over your body, your cheeks warm with lust, and your head swimming with thoughts that were anything but pure.

The stubble of his beard grazed your jaw, and your breath caught. "So, when are we gonna stop dancin' around the fact that I've been tryin' to get between these thighs of yours?" he pressed boldly. "Are you ignorin' me? Because we know how well that worked out last time."

"I never ignored you," you said. "In fact, I couldn't get rid of you. You were like a pesky fly that was always there."

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and you could feel his smirk against your skin. "You missed me then?"

"Yes," you blurted too quickly. "Yes, I missed you."

"I missed you, too," he muttered softly, and you could hear the truth in his words. The way his voice dipped into something gentle and earnest made your chest feel suddenly tight. Then, his tone dipped lower, deep and starving as he nudged your leg. "Lemme in, princess. Wanna show you just how much I missed you."

As if you were under his spell, your thighs parted. His fingers curled around your thigh, squeezing twice in quick succession. "There ya go. Keep 'em spread f'me."

Fingers danced up the inner part of your thigh until they disappeared beneath the hem of your skirt. They kissed the edge of your panties, his touch light as he circled your clothed clit. You sighed at the contact, your chin tipping back blissfully.

"Good girl," he praised, lips scorching the underside of your jaw. "Just relax."

Your breath stuttered at the combination of his lips trailing down your neck and the tantalizing patterns he was tracing over the dark patch on the seam of your panties. Metal-plated digits unexpectedly grazed the heated flesh of your shoulder, causing a shiver to ripple through you.

Bucky leaned back slightly, still keeping his close proximity to you, but needing to see your expression. "This still okay?" he asked, eyes flicking between yours, searching for any indication that you wanted to stop.

You nodded frantically. "Yeah. Please, keep going."

The smirk that graced his lips could only be described as downright smug. He moved your spaghetti strap over your shoulder, dragging it down your arm achingly slow. His mouth followed directly after, lips skimming over your collarbone.

All at once, he began nipping at the protruding bone as his fingers on your clit added more pressure. You moaned loudly—a long, elated noise that made him pause his ministrations.

The realization of how desperate it sounded hit like a force, and you could hear your heartbeat thudding in your ears, louder than before. "Oh gosh," you whispered, shame flooding your face. You raised your arm, concealing the embarrassment etched into your features.

"Ah-ah, don't hide from me, baby," he gently scolded as he pried your arm away. Bringing your wrist to his lips, he pressed them to your fluttering pulse. "Why're you all shy on me now?"

You didn't answer, your eyes sealed shut as the pang of humiliation echoed in your skull.

"What're you doin'?" he asked, planting another kiss on your palm.

"If I squeeze my eyes as tightly as humanly possible, I think I might disappear."

He chuckled, and even with your eyes closed, you knew he was showing off the creases beside his eyes. "No, you can't disappear on me this time. Y'know how long I've been waitin' to hear that?"

Cracking open your eye, you peeked up at him. "Why'd you stop then?"

"'Cause now 'm so hard, 's painful," he confessed, a little breathy. "I would fuck you 'til the ache went away, but 'm not done playin' with you."

You shivered, completely turned on by this bold version of him. If you were wet before, now you were soaked from his dirty mouth alone.

"You gonna lemme keep goin'?" he asked.

Nodding, you silently gave him permission. His hand traveled back between your thighs, running his fingers up the front of your underwear. Your hips jerked as his began rubbing in slow, captivating circles again.

His metal fingers grazed the side of your neck, curling around the nape as he pulled you closer. Leaning forward, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, then the other. He pulled back a hair, studying your face. "Can I kiss you, baby?"

"Please do," you said, as if it were the most obvious answer.

His mouth was on yours in a second, your bottom lip getting caught between his. You sighed against his mouth, your hand coming up to cup his jaw and draw him even closer. The kiss was a lazy analysis of one another's mouths at first. Each slow graze of his lips elicited sparks coursing through your veins, like tiny fireworks exploding beneath your skin.

The urgency to fully taste you prompted him to force your chin up, his tongue delving into your mouth. He moaned against your mouth, eyebrows twitching as he found your tongue. Tongues swirled, teeth clashed, and your hold tightened on him. You felt light-headed from the kiss, breathing hard into his mouth.

The fingers on your clit picked up the pace as his lips began to move hastily against yours, as if he already couldn't get enough. You whined, your other hand finding his shoulder as your nails dug in. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, then pulled back.

His mouth met your neck again as you struggled to catch your breath, lips dragging lower and lower. Tongue darting out, he licked along the top of your tank top. He tugged on the material, exposing more of your skin until your tit spilled free. His non-human hand reached up, cupping the underside of your breast.

Heated lips closed around your nipple, pulling a whimper from you. You wiggled under his attention. The dual pleasure was making your head spin and your heart pound. His tongue licked around the sensitive bud, then flicked it before sucking it into his mouth. Gazing up at you, he softly rolled your nipple between his teeth. You sucked air through your teeth, hissing. He switched back to trailing kisses across your skin in deep devotion, leaving no space untouched.

"Have you thought 'bout this as much as I have?" he rasped against your flesh.

"Yes," you mewled shamelessly.

Inclining back, he retracted his hand with a cocky grin. "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me what you did when you thought 'bout it."

Momentarily shocked, you stared dumbly at him. He lightly pinched your thigh, grabbing your attention. "Come on, princess. Wanna hear all those pretty noises you made when you were all alone," he pressed. Scooting to the edge of the couch, he dropped to his knees before you. "Lemme help you."

Spreading your legs further apart, his hands—one icy and the other warm—drifted up your thighs. His thumbs hooked in the band of your underwear, yanking them towards him. The blush pink panties slid down your legs without much resistance. Tossing them aside, his hands snaked under your thighs, sliding you down the couch. He lifted the hem of your skirt, resting it across your stomach, revealing your bare pussy to the chilled air.

"Fuck." Bucky's tongue grazed his lower lip, ravenous. "She's so pretty."

Bending down, he kissed the inner part of your knee. "Put on a show f'me," he urged gently.

Your hands trembled lightly at your sides, nerves curling at the edges of your mind. You’d never had anyone witness something so personal before. But with a deep breath, you steadied yourself, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, being with him felt strangely comforting.

Your fingers met the skin of your thigh, tracing patterns before they moved closer to the place he couldn't keep his eyes off of. Two fingers pushed between your slick folds, gathering wetness as they skimmed through. They found your clit, mirroring the same pressure and pace as he did.

"Just like that. Nice 'n slow," he instructed. "You're doin' so good f'me, baby."

Exhaling roughly, your mouth opened in a soft 'o' as your fingers swirled around the swollen bud. Your eyes stayed locked on him, and the way he was gazing up at you, his chin gently propped on your knee with a longing in his eyes, nearly made you come on the spot.

"Spread her f'me," he whispered gravelly.

Doing as you were told, you straightened your fingers, delicately spreading the lips of your cunt. With your fingers already damp with your arousal, they glistened right alongside your pussy in this lighting. His eyes darkened, his lip getting caught between his teeth as he diligently watched you.

Your fingers dipped, sliding down the length of your pussy, and toying with your entrance. Two fingers slipped right in from how soaked you were. The noise your cunt made in response had you and Bucky groaning in unison. Your fingers sped up, caressing and curling against your plushy walls. Your free hand lifted, covering your breast and massaging it.

"Do you like to watch, Bucky?" You don't know where your boldness came from. Maybe it was being in control of your own body, or the way he looked at you like you hung the stars. Either way, the question hung between you.

"Yeah, fuck," he murmured pathetically. "Yeah, I like to watch."

The obscene sounds of your fingers going in and out of your already weeping pussy filled the air, along with the moans you just couldn't hold back.

"Listen to her talk to me," he growled, his eyelids drooping as he followed the sight of your disappearing fingers. "She sounds so fuckin' good."

Eventually, his hand snatched your wrist, and he brought the saturated pair to his lips. They enveloped your fingers, sucking them clean. He hummed at the contact of your juices on his tongue, eyelashes fluttering. He released them with a soft smack of his lips.

"Tastes so fuckin' good," he said, licking the tips of his fingers, like he just consumed his favorite meal. "Think I need more."

His hands closed around the back of your knees, pulling you until only a portion of your ass remained on the sofa. Scooping your legs up, he settled them over his shoulders, immediately diving in. His tongue flattened, licking a long stripe up your center. You gasped, your fingers carding through his hair and holding firm.

Tongue flicking over your clit, he leaned down and tenderly kissed it. He pressed his face flush with your cunt, sucking the bud hard before descending upon your clenching hole. The tip of his tongue traced around your entrance until it plunged deep into your cunt.

He pushed his face further into you, practically submerging himself in you. As he devoured you, fucking you with his tongue, his nose steadily nudged your clit. Your grip on his dark strands tightened, your thighs squeezing tighter around his head. His eyes flicked up—a predator feasting on its prey.

"Yeah, fuckin' drown me, baby," he hummed against you, patting your thigh.

Then, that same hand vanished beneath you as his mouth returned to your clit. Two fingers pushed into your pussy without warning as he slurped on your swollen bud. You squirmed above him, your hips wiggling this way and that. Metal-plated fingers reached around your thigh, his palm flattening over your lower stomach.

"I know, I know. You're close, aren't ya? Just stay still, sweet girl," he ordered gently, tapping his fingers over your belly button.

His flesh fingers curled as his tongue spiraled, leaving you a whimpering mess. The tension in your gut coiled. Your free hand bent around the edge of the couch as your hips canted. Vision flaring white, the coil snapped. You came with a cry of his name, gasping as your cunt fluttered around his thick fingers. With trembling thighs and your eyes flashing open, you let the climax wash over you.

Prolonging your orgasm, he guided you through it. He softened his ministrations to a stop when you went limp above him. He planted a lingering kiss on your inner thigh, then removed your legs from his shoulders. They flopped against the floor, boneless.

"You don't realize how beautiful you are, do you?" he asked, awestruck. "Did you know your eyes get even brighter when you cum? I didn't know that was even possible."

Attempting to get you to meet his eyes again, he shook your leg. "You still with me, princess."

You kept your gaze to the ceiling, tracing the wood panels with your vision as you slowed your breathing. "I think I went to heaven," you panted, dazed.

Bucky chuckled, rising to his full height. Interrupting your view, he hovered over you, stabilizing himself against the back of the couch. His biceps bulged on either side of his head, muscles locking as he gazed down at your blissed-out expression.

"Yup, I bartered with the angels to bring you back," he teased.

A small grin tugged at your lips, eyes glinting. "And? What did it take to bring me back?"

"Everythin'," he whispered. "But it was so fuckin' worth it."

Your breath caught, butterflies erupting in your stomach that had nothing to do with the aftereffects of your climax. He leaned down lower, snaking his arm under the curve of your spine, and lifted you.

"You gonna lemme fuck you now, baby?" he questioned carefully, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist.

Resting your arms on his shoulders, your lips brushed his, voice coming out in a sultry purr. "Fuck me, Bucky. I need it."

Eager lips pressed against his, prompting him to let out an animalistic growl. He moved, blindly feeling around his living room. As your lips parted, your teeth sank into his bottom lip, lightly tugging on it. His knee bumped the corner of the couch, stumbling forward. Luckily, his instincts kicked in. Metal arm locking, he caught himself against the wall before it caused you any harm.

You giggled into his mouth, "Careful, pretty boy."

"Are you tryin' to kill me and get yourself killed in the process?" he scoffed, righting himself before continuing the short journey to his bedroom.

"What?" you said, feigning innocence. "You said you wanted me to bite you."

"You're lucky you're cute."

He tossed you onto the bed, the mattress squeaking subtly. The softness of the blankets briefly swallowed you before you propped yourself up on your elbows. Reaching behind his back, Bucky tugged at the collar of his shirt until it was off.

This time, when you looked at his muscles, you didn't feel any guilt. Openly, you traced the lines of his battle-worn body. Every scar that the years in the Air Force granted him, or the cuts that he received from long shifts at the shop, was thoroughly admired by you.

"You're perfect," you praised.

As if he'd never heard such a compliment, he tilted his head in fondness. Then, his thumbs hooked into his sweats, yanking them down. As he pulled the cuffs from his feet, you watched his cock bob gently against his stomach.

"Holy fuck," you breathed, eyes wide and mouth agape.

He was thick. Huge. Your little exploration in the hallway as he changed didn't do him justice. You followed the veins along his cock that led to his angry, red tip. A bead of precum dripped from the slit of his dick.

Crawling to you, he settled over you. You were still staring as he positioned himself between your legs. Gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he forced your gaze up.

"My eyes are up here, princess," he mocked lightly, then his tone softened. "I'll go slow, I promise. You're safe with me."

You nodded, but your mouth still felt desert-dry. "I have a confession to make."

"But 's not even Sunday," he jokingly replied.

"I wasn't looking at your arm earlier."

He hummed, amusement etching into his expression. "I also have a confession." His head dipped, mouth hovering beside your ear. "I knew."

Fingers curving around his cock, he pressed the head to your entrance, teasing it. You grasped his metal bicep, firmly planted by your head. You couldn't slow your breathing, your heartbeat galloping like a racehorse from nerves.

"Shh…" Bucky soothed. "Breathe with me. In 'n out. Yeah, that's perfect," he rambled as you matched his breathing.

The tip pushed through your folds, the thick head invading your pussy. The stretch was intense, stealing the air from your lungs. Even through his grunts of pleasure, he continued to guide you, talking you through the dull sting of his dick spreading you open.

"That's my good girl. Take it all," he groaned.

You whined brokenly as he bottomed out inside you; you'd never felt so full. Leaning back, he brushed a few damp strands out of your eyes. He pressed tender kisses to your slightly bruised nose—you were honestly so distracted by his presence that you hadn't thought about it since the accident. But he hadn't forgotten.

The attention he was giving your nose distracted you enough that by the time you had remembered the pain of him stretching you out, it had already faded. He pressed his forehead to yours, sighing in contentment.

With your pussy well-adjusted, he began rocking steadily into you. His metal hand found purchase on your hip as his other hand drifted up your arm that held the back of his neck. Securing your wrist, he drew it away, flattening your arm against the mattress. His hand glided up until he was intertwining your fingers with his. The intimacy of the gesture made it suddenly hard to swallow.

"I gotcha," he promised, squeezing your hand.

His hips picked up their pace, snapping up to meet yours. Setting a rhythmic pace, he gripped your hip with a more solid hold. Rapid breaths mingled in the space between you as the sound of skin slapping echoed around you.

The world around you fell away, and all you could see was him. He was invading your senses, leaving you completely connected to him. The worries of your personal life, everything that caused you pain, all dimmed in that moment. Because you were no longer letting those thoughts and feelings run your life.

Slamming into you, he groaned, his chin tipping back. "Baby, you feel so good. You're just perfect, aren't ya? Made just f'me."

You let out a loud, throaty moan as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. The head of his cock bullied into your G-spot over and over until you were breathless. You arched into him, spine bowing.

Then, his hands slipped under you, lifting you. Your legs twisted as he adjusted you over top of him, straddling his thighs. Knees digging into the mattress, he thrusted up into you. Arms lifting to his shoulders, you held him. You moved with him, riding him at the pace he set. Your hips rolled, grinding against that spot that had you reeling.

A protective arm wrapped around the small of your back, fingers sprawled over your warm skin. His flesh palm rested over the back of your head as you buried your face in his shoulder. The next time he bucked up into you, your pussy clamped down hard around him. Like the force of a rising tide, you felt your climax ascend.

"'m right there," Bucky grunted. "I can feel her squeezin' me. That mean your close too, sweet girl?"

You nodded against him. "Come with me, please. I need it."

Moving in unison, the room filled with your combined sounds of pleasure. The wave came crashing down, your cunt pulsating around him. Your teeth punctured the skin of his shoulder as your second orgasm rippled through you. Hissing, his thrusts turned sloppy. Warmth spread through you, his release coating your walls as he spilled into you.

Slumping forward, your head rolling to the side. Breathing in tandem, his chest rose as yours sank. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your scent, and kissing the crown of your head.

You caught the teeth marks in his flesh, a flicker of concern overwhelming you. The emotion softened upon realizing you liked the sight of it. With a finger, you traced over each ridge.

"I know I said I'm not a biter," you slurred, still high on the experience. "But I have to say, it looks really good."

Bucky let out a gentle puff of air against your hair. "Oh yeah? I could get used to being marked up by you. As long as I can give you a matching one."

Lying you back on the bed, he moved over you and pressed his lips to your collarbone before sinking his teeth into the skin above it.

And though you knew there was not a soul around, you could have sworn your laugh carried for miles.

The sun appeared brighter this morning when you woke. You were drifting through Bucky's house with a pep in your step. The coffee was brewed, Alpine was fed, and you did it all while Bucky snored in the next room over.

But now with the sun sitting just above the treeline, everything felt dimmer than before. Frowning, you placed your phone on the kitchen counter. The white fluff ball, nudging at your hand, noticed your attitude change, as if she could smell it amongst the boldness of the coffee.

Your fingers carded through her fur, grounding yourself.

Warm arms enveloped you from behind, squeezing your midsection gingerly. "Mornin', princess."

"Morning," you parroted, but quieter.

Bucky stiffened behind you. "Hey, is everythin' alright?"

"I just got off the phone with my father."

"Oh," he muttered, turning you around so he could see your expression. "Judgin' by your face, 'm guessin' that didn't go well."

"No," you confirmed. "He said he was glad that I'm okay, but…" You trailed off, glancing at something over his shoulder. "He's not paying for the damages. Not unless I work for him. His wish for me to inherit his stupid company is finally coming true. I don't know why I even tried to resist it. He always wins anyway."

His brows knitted together in confusion, or maybe agitation. "Don't worry 'bout it," he said, framing your face with his massive hands. "I'll pay for it."

You scoffed, shaking him off. "No, I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not askin', 'm offerin'."

"No," you repeated more firmly. "I appreciate it, but I don't want that."

"Don't let him win," he muttered, eyes flicking between yours, searching.

"I'm trying not to," you insisted. "I guess I'll figure it out. I'll get a job, hopefully one I like, and I'll pay it off."

Bucky's lip lifted at the corner, giving you a look that could only mean trouble. "I know a place that's hirin'."

"Really?" You tilted your head, then it dawned on you what he meant. "No. Absolutely not. You were right, I don't know anything about cars. I can't work for you."

"I'll teach you," he said simply. "You don't gotta know everythin' right away. We can start slow. You can work at the front. Take calls. Schedule appointments. Take people's money…" His tone dipped into something teasing. "I know you won't have a problem with that one."

"Asshole," you chirped, slapping his chest. Then, your expression shifted into something warm. "I'll think about it."

"That's a yes," he murmured, as if he already knew.

"No, I said I'll think about it."

"Yeah, but your eyes said yes."

"You're ridiculous," you shot back, but you were grinning like an idiot.

He backed you into the counter, caging you in. "And you love it." Before you could even react, his lips were on yours, warm and inviting.

Five Months Later

The neon sign stood proudly outside Bucky's shop. It was a bright crimson that could be seen for miles, snagging just about anyone's attention. You suggested it. Because, of course, you did. You knew what customers liked, and you were right. The shop had an influx of people coming and going.

Your original suggestion was rejected. You wanted pink. He wanted blue. After bickering for half an hour, you both settled on red.

Sometimes he just had to stand there, leaning against his truck, taking it all in. The sign. The shop. His life…with you.

Eventually, he found his way to the front. His eyes scanned the poster hanging on the glass door, where the 'now hiring' sign had once lived. It read, 'Wrong Turn'—a foundation you were investing in. It was an organization specializing in drunk-driving awareness. Proud didn't even cover how he felt about it. About you, finding something that you were so passionate about. That you had poured your heart into.

Opening the door, the bell rang above him, announcing his arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue. He immediately heard the familiar sound of you singing. It was a little off-key, but unapologetically you.

Following the sound, he slipped into the garage, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He watched you silently, a warm smile gracing his lips. You were tightening a bolt on an engine with a pink—yes, pink—wrench. In fact, your entire toolbox and tools were pink.

You finally glanced up from your task, offering him a small wave with oil-slicked fingers. "Hi, handsome," you greeted. Grabbing the rag hanging from the vehicle, you wiped the grease from your fingers.

Closing the distance, his hands found your hips, pressing a kiss to your nose. "Hey, princess." He glanced down and frowned. "What're you wearin'?"

"A shirt."

"I see that. Why is it like that?" he asked, scanning the shirt that had his logo on the front of it…but in blush pink.

"They just came in today. Isn't it cute?"

"No. Nope. I didn't agree to this."

"Buck," you drawled, a lilt to your voice. "Sam is wearing one. I have one ready for Joaquin when he comes in for work tomorrow. I even have one set aside for Alpine."

"After the pink bow incident, 'm not lettin' you put anythin' on her."

"She loved it, and she looked adorable in it. Just admit it," you muttered, poking him in the ribs.

She really did look cute in it, but he wasn't about to tell you that.

Sam stepped in then, wearing his new pink shirt, and the moment his eyes fell on the two of you, he started backing up. "Wilson, get your ass back in 'ere," Bucky called. Sam froze mid-step, turning with a guilty look on his face.

"Were you in on this?" Bucky inquired, pointing at your shirt.

"Will you dock my pay if I say yes?" Sam asked tentatively.

Bucky rubbed his forehead, groaning. "'m gettin' run out of my own shop."

"You love it," you cooed, and he only glared in return. You tried for a different approach, offering him a full, toothy smile as your eyelashes fluttered. "You love me?"

"You're lucky I love you," he corrected. "Alright, the shirts can stay."

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s all it took? All she had to do was bat her lashes, and you're just fine? I’ve been trying to get you to approve new uniforms for years.”

Bucky shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”

You just beamed, triumphant. "Thanks, baby," you cheered, pushing up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, smearing some of your glittery lip gloss on his skin.

But he didn't mind. Because for the last five months, he was happy. Content. And it was all because he'd fallen for the rich girl, who strutted into his shop with pink heels and a smile. The one who turned his world upside down with one glimpse of those bright eyes. The one who caused him to prefer chaos to his normal quiet.

And he thanked the universe every day for dropping you into his lap.

me posting this because holy shit...this took a lot out of me:

💌 general taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wherewinterblooms @wildflowersandvibranium @phoenix-in-writing @overwintering-soldier @wint3rbarnes @paankhaleyaaar @mysteriousmysticc @sergeantsebastian @canyon-moon-carly @ornateglass @sheriff-bodecker

The call came late in the shift. The kind that settled into your bones without asking permission.

Everything that came after moved too quickly and not fast enough at the same time, muscle memory carrying you both through while something essential lagged behind. By the time you were at the ER — voices loud and assertive, arms still carrying the sting and scrape of metal, plastic and sweat — the adrenaline burned at the edges, a hum on the edge of your skin, a live wire through your fingertips, and left a cavity where certainty used to lie.

The paperwork was finished. The rig was cleaned and the building smelt like sickly-sweet antiseptic and medical supplies. A sterile zing, one you had gotten used to after a few days now burns through your insides, as if to rid you of what occurred just minutes ago. And the city outside went on, undisturbed, breathing.

It was well past evening when you finished, the sun barely had time to say goodbye, as you walked out into the parking-lot with both hands cradling your midsection, head down, hoodie up and the warm presence of Bucky beside you.

His hair was a mess from his fingers combing through incessantly. Eyes dark, jaw set and clenched with words unsaid and memories replaying, but his hand set low on your back, a radiator almost, rubbing up and down each ridge as if he was trying to remind himself that despite everything, you're still here.

"I spoke to Natasha," he spoke low, voice crackled from the tightness and silence. "She said it's best I take you home."

You stayed silent, not thinking, your brain stayed silent ever since you passed your case along, watched them try and try and try, until it was too late and now you're both stuck with a ballpoint pen that keeps skipping and fingers that wont stop twitching. Your writing was borderline unintelligible, and the pads of your palms still burn from how hard you gripped the gurney bars.

"I feel like I should be stronger than this," you huff, a mimic of a laugh that comes out tired, impatient. "I feel pathetic."

"You're not pathetic. You don't need to be strong. Not here, not right now." he responds, never letting your words hit the ground and holds his hand out. "C'mon, gets go home."

By the way his words come, the warmth that curls around them, and you, how he spoke with sureness, quickly and strong, never giving your own doubts time to release fully before they were fought back with praise, comfort. Hope squeezed your lungs together like the tightest embrace, and never let go.

Red light streaked through the windshield, spilling on the tarmac in velvet tresses, covering your faces. Bucky's car stood still with only the whirring hum of the engine to soundtrack your awkward silences. It felt full, too thick.

You sat too still, knees knocked together, hands in your lap, picking at the skin around your nails. No radio tonight. Even with an empty car, the two of you couldn't stomach some shitty three minute commercialised industry plant. Your combined sighs and incessant picking of skin will have to do.

Bucky's right hand gripped the wheel at two, thumb impatiently drumming against the fabric, and his left hand held up his head, elbow on the door.

Scraping his palm over his salt and pepper beard, he sighs.

"You did good," he says. "Really good."

Though your chest burns with the need to speak, you don't reply. You just let the soft fire creep up your sternum and lungs.

"Everything you did today was on point, no mistakes, no mishaps," He shrugs with his hand, two fingers tap on the leather. "You were perfect. You should be proud of yourself, I know I am."

A breath hitches its way from your nose, harsh and quick, a sob that stuck and makes itself known vehemently, and you grimace at the way it sounded humoured. Bucky turns his head at the sound.

"I'm sorry." Rubbing your eyes of the sleep and dirt and stress that accumulated in the corners with a deep sigh. He places his hand on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture, peeling you back from your mind and into the passenger seat of his car.

He hums, "what for."

"Everything," you whisper. Letting the word lie, you expect him to find a way to reply, to reassure and find a solution to your desolate mood. But you find yourself sitting on in the silence you made. "I did everything right. But it didn't work."

This time the silence hangs clearer. Not man-made in an attempt at gaining soft words to pillow the fall, this time it stays still and works. Both of your brains sitting in on the rapt of earlier. Resolution wasn't what either of you needed, but it comes anyway. Only this time it's jumbled and frosted, and coming from the mouth of your best friend.

"As much as I hate to say shit like this, I'm gonna have to, so — I'm sorry if i cant find the right words," Bucky rasps, calloused palm scraping against his scruff, licking his lips, and he exhales. Deep and slow, letting it all out, and you cant help the tiny voice in the back of your head from murmuring 'ah, shit, not a speech'.

"Sometimes… things don't go the way we plan. We see a solution, we see the light at the end of the dark tunnel, but suddenly theres an obstacle we didn't see, a detour kinda…" he inhales, finding his footing, and it wheezes slightly in the back of his neck. "… and sometimes… sometimes that obstacle slows you down. Or sometimes, in this case, it wraps around your legs until you can't do anything but stay."

He winces slightly, appalled by his wording, how slow it comes, how his head tingles from trying to find synonyms and meanings. A grin points the edge of your lips. "What I'm trying to say is, the outcome is never what we expect it to be. Sometimes we have this image in our head of the perfect project, but along the line your tastes change, you hate a colour, so you choose a different one. Or sometimes, you scrap the project altogether. Your angry, sad, distraught, you should feel that way, you're human. But life has it's way of putting you through shit you didn't see comin'."

Staring out onto the street, you take in his words. Clumsy as they can be, over the years of your friendship with Bucky you've gotten used to his disorder and understand how to rearrange them into something slightly comprehensible.

"I liked the second one better." You hummed, eyes still glued to the watercolour of black, white and red against the dark street.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Nodding slowly, you turned to face him, smile still stuck to your lips. "And then you kinda referred to them as a 'project'. Very tasteful, Barnes."

He smirked lazily at your animated retort. Your words come humourless, sarcasm laced and sleepy, but they still had that sharpness you carried — that he loved. A scoffed chuckle fills the car and paints his face with smile lines and a colour, despite the red of the traffic light spilling overhead. It's contagious, and you cant fight the ache of your cheeks.

Once the light turns green, the attitude shifts. The laughter still ebbed around you both, but it felt like it was suddenly swatted away with a wave of remembrance, like you both had this need to stay composed and professional.

"I'll walk you in." He decides, shaking his head with the remnants of wit.

You run your palm over your cheek, feeling the warmth. Your eyes suddenly feel heavier, skin tighter yet so lose against your muscles you're not sure how to feel.

"You really don't have to." Slips out, lower than usual, you barely recognise your voice.

Everything feels… different. Yet the world keeps turning, his car keeps driving, streetlights still spilling against his arms, and the indicator keeps blinking with every turn.

"Please," he pleads firmly, edged with a wobble. A sound that tells you he needs this, maybe even more than you do. "Just… Please."

And you cant fight. Not him.

Not when a dull ache has been ruminating inside of your chest since the call, only to deepen and cultivate through the night.

He helps you inside. Takes your keys for you after he caught the tremor in your fingers, lets you rest against him when your knees felt too weak to hold — arm wrapped tight and securely around your shoulder, letting the hum of your buildings elevator ruminate as he presses a soft kiss against your head, whispering soft praises into your scalp, as if willing them to sink into your brain and keep.

Doing so well for me.

It's okay.

You're okay.

His hand squeezes the meat of your shoulder, a pattern of kneads against taut muscle and soft slides of his thumb against your hot collarbone. It makes you shiver in a way it never had before.

Your breath expels harshly, twitches of your lungs that quiver your ribs in his hold.

"Hey," you hear him say, hand clasping ever so slightly harder, "hey, look at me."

When you don't at first, he inhales your scent once more before he moves. Gently sliding his hand to your other shoulder, pushing you to look into his eyes as he tilts his head, his free hand finding your neck, your pulse, and caressing.

"Breathe in for me, sweetheart." He requests. You try, but the air gets trapped and sputters out. Your hands go up to push his own away, but instead they weakly circle around his wrists.

"C'mon, you got it, like this," Bucky inhales. The hand that rest on your neck finds its way to your jaw, then to your cheek, a mindless move to pull your sight from his shoes and into his eyes.

And you inhale. And exhale.

"There we go, just like that." The praise, though soft, hits you in every inch of your skin like tiny pin-pricks in each follicle. The warmth of his hand, his breath, his words, it all pulls over you like a wool blanket, like that one winter he made sure to use his break-time to check up on on you while you were sick, making sure you were warm, fed and relaxed, practically forcing a spoon into your face to get you hydrated and full of the proper nutrients, to get your eyes a little wider and joins less achy for tomorrows shift.

You both almost miss the ding when you get to your floor.

The walk to your apartment is quiet. Full. You can feel it all spill out at the edges once you shut the door and suddenly it all tips over. Contents gone, messy and everywhere.

Wires seem to get mixed up. Touches linger. Voices hush lower into murmurs and whispers.

Tension snaps like a taut rubber band, and comfort is the only thing the two of you need in that moment.

Years of friendship balling up into an combination of bodies — sweat, skin, tears, whispers and closeness you didn't realise could exist. Not with Bucky anyway.

Of course you had your fair share of quick crushes and epiphanies while he was by your side, but they all quietly dissipated with each new fling or relationship he brought into the mix. Nothing indicated reciprocation. So why stay at this bus stop when it had departed long, long ago.

Being needed felt so good.

You forgot to shut the curtains last night.

Bright morning sun filters through the panes, soaking your sleep ridden body in a glow that renders Bucky dumb. From the moment he woke up, warm from your body at his front, his arm tightly wrapped around your middle, face pressed into your hair that smelled like salt and sex, with the lingering scent of your vanilla shampoo.

Guilt hits like a sucker punch straight to the stomach, rattling up his chest, and blowing his knees, even while he was laying down. Getting up immediately, retracting himself as softly and quietly as possible, letting you bask unconsciously in whatever last night was. Whatever it became.

Putting his clothes back on his body, making sure to gather your own, throw them in your laundry basket and fold some fresher clothes for the new day at the end of your bed, he sat with a heavy feeling of remorse.

Last night was a mistake.

It shouldn't have happened. Not like that, anyway.

Too inebriated with adrenaline and 'too big' emotions; the both of you needed a vice to let it all out, and it just so happened to be each other — but Bucky can't, and won't, let himself believe that.

He insisted on walking you in.

He helped you with your keys.

He draped his arm over your shoulder, tucked you in close and whispered and pecked sweet nothings into your hair like it was just another day.

The coffee machine in your kitchen hummed as it filled your favourite mug. Bucky stared at the dark liquid as it filled the ceramic. Distant.

Silently praying the whirring wont wake you up, his brain replayed the way you looked underneath him. The way your lips felt, how you felt. Hands roaming with no destination, mapping new skin like this wasn't a fresh, quick adventure, but a finale, a place to call home, a place to familiarise.

His muscles tightened as they tingled with remembrance.

It was good. It all felt right, correct in a way nothing else he had ever felt before. But it had to have been because it was you.

Good old you, and your sullen, tired eyes that reddened around the edges with unshed tears. Back and shoulders arched into yourself, only to slowly uncover at his touch and voice. You, who always beamed each morning when your names were paired, as if it wasn't a regular, everyday occurrence, as if he didn't make sure to double — triple — check the sheet just in case he didn't read the name wrong. But how could he?

It's you.

Which is precisely why he gently makes your coffee exactly how you like it. Hands moving by their own accord, muscle memory working overtime while his brain tries to wrack around last night.

How you held onto him like you needed this, needed him. The soft whispers of his name mixed with sleepy praises breathed against his neck, shoulder and collarbone. Your hands roaming his body almost as if you knew it would end with detachment, like you wanted his skin pierced into your palms forever. How you asked him, so gently, voice laced with sleep and something so much deeper than he ever thought he'd hear from you, if he could stay, not move from his position on top of you, slowly twitching while you paced yourself back into reality with pulses that traced through his skin.

You wanted him to stay.

His warmth you craved, his weight atop of you, his skin, his presence, his body inside of you. You wanted it all.

And that's precisely why he places the mug on your bedside with a clink, careful enough not to wake you. Took one last, long look at your sleeping form. Unknowing of his internal dilemma.

And left.

The emptiness that comes after you wake up didn't deter you. You expected it, kind of.

Bucky has always been the type of person who gets into work bright and early, gets everything in check, memorise, recount, retain, as if he hasn't been doing this almost every morning for years. The routine helps him, and you know that.

The coffee was still warm, steam curling while your eyes adjusted to the creamy morning sun peeking through the window, and the first conscious thought of the morning is, 'i hope it didn't wake him'.

Friday busses are always busy, especially in the morning, but this time two of your usuals skidded past without a care of your hand waving out for them. Pure coincidence? Maybe they didn't see your hand, or maybe they're full and forgot to show it on the destination sigh.

Eventually, after your card failed once, twice, before finally going through with a huff from the driver. The road was bumpier, there were kids on their way to school way too energised this early in the day. And turns out you forgot to charge your headphones the night before.

Of course you did.

You clocked in mechanically, bones already awaiting the hours waiting to be endured. Flexing your head in a circle, ridding it of a readying strain, the building felt… off. It wasn't the kind that was spotted immediately, it was a feeling, an energy that laid itself on your shoulders like a perfectly content cat already cozying up while your back started to ache and it's claws poked.

At your locker, the hallway felt emptier, the room itself was only full with the incessant humming of the ventilation and pipes in the walls — a tune half unknown to you with the accustomed noise of yours and Bucky's lazy conversations, his body facing yours, leaning against the locker beside by his shoulder, arms and legs crossed, tired grin on his face while you ramble on about anything to keep your brain awake.

The thought crystallised. The routine, the meticulous rules he ran himself by all day, everyday, simply vanishing after twenty-four hours.

You didn't put it past him though. Last night was a lot. Mentally, physically.

As if to rid you of your doubts, you shook your head, taking a deep inhale of antiseptic and a floral zip of a Dollar Tree air freshener, masking the smell around with hopes and dreams.

The rest of the team greeted you like normal. Short waves, tight-lipped smiles, though this time, some had added a soft pat on the shoulder — a gesture you should find endearing, but it only just digs its fingers deeper into the wound.

Walker was the first to talk to you. Sat at the break table, legs up, fiddling with his watch. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps.

"Hey," He said, light like usual but it dipped like a question — interrogating — looking at you quizzically. "Aren't you supposed to be with Barnes?"

Stopping in your tracks, your boots squeaked against the linoleum. "Uh," you shake your head quickly in confusion, sputtering. "I don't know, am I?"

He scoffs amusedly, "I dunno, you two are like," he gestures, hands spread wide, interlocking his fingers once, then twice, before dropping them down onto his lap. "Y'know? So."

The sentence hangs, his voice echos quietly through the dead halls, bouncing off the walls while he waits for you to speak. But you don't. You just stand there, head tilting to the side as an open invite for more context.

So he adds in a mumble, staring back down at his watch. "Think he left already though."

"What?" The words slip out before you could try to catch them, and you flinch back minutely.

John catches on, tickled by your automatic obtrusion. He settles back with a sigh, bluffing, putting on a show of carelessness. "Left like a half hour ago—"

This time you don't even try to stop yourself from asking. "With who?"

Glancing back up, he grins, shrugging his hands up. "Check the sheet. You can even find your new partner."

Your stomach churned with the words — 'new partner'. Yet, still, anticipation flowed through your veins, and you couldn't keep moping like a puppy at the door.

"Huh."

Your head flinched back slightly, tilting to the side. Thumbing at your lip automatically, scraping across the skin in an attempt to rest yourself from picking at it.

He was on call. With Yelena.

"You okay?" a voice snapped you back. Eyes clenching shut for a moment before turning your head around to face Ava.

"Hm?" You squeak, "oh, right. No, yeah, I'm fine. Great."

Brows creasing, she crosses her arms lazily, leaning back on one foot, scanning you up and down.

You scowl. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" She asks, voice pitched innocently as a teasing smile cloaks her lips.

With a tut you turn back to the sheet, finger brushing against the paper. "That scanning thing you do with your eyes, like you can read my mind."

She pouts, hands over her heart. "So you do notice the little things, huh?"

Without looking away, you kick at her shin, chuckling softly.

She takes a peek at the sheet from beside your shoulder, humming in contemplation. "No Bucky today, huh?"

Your face pulls, "seems like it."

"Hey, it's okay," tapping your bicep with her knuckles, she tips her head back. "You're with me anyways."

Your chest eased at that. Ava was better than John. But then again, anyone is better than John. And Ava had this 'no nonsense' energy you absolutely adored and found intimidating in one giant cluster, and it sent your body tingling with readiness to get the day started.

But there was no familiarity. No comforting jabs, no inside jokes, no off-hand bets you'd always gasp at in disbelief (a smile always finding its way on your face), yet add a twenty to the pool.

"Come on," Ava clicks her tongue twice. "Better to get this started sooner than later. Let's shut that brain off, shall we?"

Shut your brain off it did. In the opposite way you had hoped.

The hours you had spent working alongside Ava, speeding down streets, rushing to a patients side, checking, working, calculating, pumping the heels of your hands against chests until your wrists ached. But along the line, once the coast was clear and the area seemed to let your body rest, you sat in the passenger seat silently, thinking.

It seemed to you like the majority of those back at the bay believed you were still shaken — rightfully so — and that little assumption had your chest scarcely easing.

You couldn't fault Bucky for leaving early, that was his routine, even during hangouts that turned into impromptu sleepovers, he'd wake up earlier than you to get ready for the day ahead, leaving you a text and a coffee in his wake.

That's what was missing. A text.

Heart picking up, thumping softly against your sternum, brows furrowed, you go for your phone and scroll through your notifications. Empty, apart from the occasional passive-aggressive instruction from the work group chat and a Facebook post from your mom (you'll get back to her later), it all seemed to be crickets from Bucky's side.

Sighing louder than you anticipated, you scroll to manually check your conversation itself.

You [7:16am]: See u at work B. You [7:16am]: Bringing u some coffee btw. Deserveddd.

Yesterday morning seemed so far away. Reading back with a feeling of nostalgia that laid tainted and blackhole-like in your stomach, staring specifically at the little pink heart he had sent back as a reaction. The last sign of reciprocation through pixels before the day would inevitably wash you both up to shore, an island where only the two of you inhabit, and made nature take it's course.

Sure you weren't bright-eyed and bushy tailed, having seen the worst of the worst in your first few years, memories and shifts you buried in your brain so deep, you couldn't even remember them if you tried. But for some reason, yesterday stuck. The patient, the technique, the van ride, the whispered prayers of loved ones while you worked in the back, moving as steadily and quickly as you could with the rocking of the cab. The aftermath. The numbers that passed through your lips like a ghost itself, and the goddamn aftermath.

Cutting the thoughts off immediately with a jolt back, and you found yourself in the back of the van. Working on autopilot, hands moving with muscle memory, the tingles of used equipment still tingling on your palms.

You cursed under your breath, how long has it been? Did you dissociate that whole time? Flexing your fingers and patting down your hips, you realise your phone is still in your pocket, thanking the universe that the patient onboard the gurney was passed out, looked after well and seemingly looked like they were making a mends after you went and triple checked them over. The minor panic subsided and was immediately by the opening of the tailgate doors, listing off every bit of information and detail your unconscious mind miraculously retained, wheeling them down and out and into the anarchy that is the ER.

Instantaneously, as you moved about the bustle of bodies, Nat's eyes caught yours from the nurses' station. Standing up, she was leant forward, her weight on her palms that stuck to the desk, focused on lab results or a patient's medical history. It was as if her body was attuned to your whereabouts, finally waking up once you rushed through.

By the time the case was handed off, finding yourself strolling back through where you had entered, the scene ahead was practically unchanged. Only now, Ava seeped into the image. Cool as can be, her body slanted with her elbow to the desk that sheltered the computers while her free hand sat confidently on her hip, attention set on the redhead in front. She had a smile on her face, one that only came when gossip was shared, mouth slightly agape, eyes rocking up and down Nat's face.

Strolling past with a rigid exhale, a breath you hadn't realised you've been holding in for how long now, a hand curls it's way around your bicep. Voice, low and velvety, speaks before you could turn.

"You know, you could power an entire state with the amount of energy you're giving off."

With a playful tut and a smile, you tilt your head to the side and cross your arms. "Hello, good afternoon to you too, Natasha and Ava."

Returning your demeanour, she speaks with a classy intonation. "Hello and good afternoon, grumps," she smirked. "Now whats up with you."

You turn and nod to Ava, eyes squinting at her laid back manner. "What did you tell her."

"I had absolutely nothing to do with this," her eyes hold defence, nodding her head back in Nat's direction, "she can just read people. And to be honest you do have this energy."

"I do not."

"Yeah you do," Nat chimes back in, now holding you still with both hands on each bicep, scanning, analysing, brows taut, eyes wandering. "Was it the shift? You did look more shaken up than usual."

Without much of a pause, your lungs inhaling deep with frustration, eyes moving to the ceiling. Ready to deflect, to push away, build a wall higher than any skyscraper in Manhattan, complete with steel walls, bulletproof and all, but it all crumbles apart as Ava hums, tracing nonexistent patterns in the corian surface.

"Barnes did switch partners this morning."

As quick as her murmur came, Nat whipped her head to face her, only to start looking back and forth between the two of you, the hold of her hands becoming tighter and tighter. "Deliberately?"

"Ava—" You warn, praying the way you speak — tired and gritted — will help camouflage it into something softer than it actually is. Only it falls on deaf ears.

She hums again, a hint of amusement in her voice, song-like. "He's with your sister today."

As much as you want to let the topic go, let it lie and mend itself with the passage of time, the casualness of your two friends still pokes and jabs at your ribs like tiny pin pricks. Each easy slide of their tones, their quips, their treating your internal dilemma as nonchalant gossip, it's just another tough poke to the side that'll most likely bruise, and you'll have to endure the growing pain in fear of being a coward.

"Lena? Really?" As Nat's attitude morphs into something akin to scepticism, you try to push the pain aside. Her voice growing higher with curiousness, a scowl curling her lip even when she tries to hold it down.

Tiredness blankets you like a storm cloud, only just about half finished with your shift, and you realise now, with the new unauthorised information shared, this shift will last a lifetime. You can already feel it in your bones, and the way you barely try to debate. "We seriously don't have to talk about this."

And it was then, every ounce of you, you had left, completely left the building.

"Talk about what?" Sam's voice felt like a strike to the already blossoming purples and yellows from Nat and Ava. You love him, honestly, he's the first person you go to when you find some good, hot gossip that's burning on the tip of your tongue, begging to be free.

And that's exactly why, to the trio's hilarity, you groan obnoxiously loud, turning away, only to turn back to your spot.

"Bucky changed his partner this morning." Nat replied, low and conspiratorial, already plotting ways to talk to her sister off he clock with unsuspecting questions that Yelena will very much see through.

With a huff, Sam leans forward, palms braced on the counters edge, "And why would he do that?"

"Okay," Ava cut through, turning herself to you, closer, hands together, pointed. "Just walk us through yesterday evening."

A sigh wracked through your body, dragging a hand down your face. "He drive me home, like you told him to," glancing at Nat, who nodded attentively, silently asking for more, "he walked me in, and I didn't wanna be alone so he stayed the night."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah, basically," you suck in a breath, "he didn't text me this morning though."

"Huh…" Nat paced in her spot, "but did you text him at all?"

The silence was enough to answer.

"Sweetheart—"

"Listen I'll do it later," stepping back to address them all, you edge closer to Ava. "I'll update you or something, it's probably just because yesterday was a lot. I'll see you guys later, come on Ava."

The room moved without disturbance. Still breathed with frenzied bodies walking, jogging, hands moving without thought. Yet Nat and Sam just watch on next to each other as you and Ava scurry out through the doors.

"I bet twenty she and Barnes fucked."

Wheezing, Sam bowed his head, shaking it. "They just walked out the damn doors. You're cold, Romanoff."

"What can i say," she smiles and saunters backwards, "I like to play dirty."

"Hey, save that shit for Steve, he's not gonna be happy when you have to add another five to the jar." He called out to her as she turned, but she didn't look back. Red hair a beacon among the pack around them, her voice picks up.

"I'll make it up to him!"

After a couple days, you let it slide. Perhaps memories, emotions, muscle aches got the better of him and he needed some quiet. But his name seemed to find another, every single goddamn shift, while yours was stuck paired with Ava (not that you minded), and your days overlapped more-so than usual. Trying to find him around the station felt worse than trying to scout a glimpse of Bigfoot. His presence felt ghostlike, almost like a memory taunting you with the scuff of boots on linoleum, a hint of his aftershave in the locker room, all sharp and clean, sending your brain miles and miles away, back to your bedroom and the pillow that still carried his air like it was made for him. His voice sometimes echoes, only murmurs, nothing intelligible, your brain cannot process the words while they grasp onto his gruffness, right where it spilled onto your neck and the hinge of your jaw, just on the soft skin where it dips into your tendons.

You can still feel the warmth of it lingering. Especially after shifts that burned in your muscles and your head unfortunately laid too deep into your side, excreting his scent like the skin of an orange, reminding you that you did, in fact, text him after the shift. But his replies after felt vacant and unenthusiastic, so again, you chalked it up to him wanting to be alone.

But you tried not to let three words from forming after that thought. 'Away from you'.

He wanted to be alone, away from you.

Late nights seemed the most vacant over those silent hours. Your apartment, a place once full of joint laughter, a warmth that permeated even when his presence lacked amongst the soft pillows and handmade throws, and soft yellow lamps, it all seemed… empty. Your phone dared to buzz against your bedside table, even though you turned it onto 'do not disturb', too nervous to hear that ding of a notification. What if it's someone else? And it always is.

Natasha, ever the observer, caught wind of this sudden change between you and Bucky too quick for your liking, and understood how deep it truly was after the first day without him — something totally not lightly mentioned by Steve over takeout. Nat had a way of sniffing things out, too smart for her own good, and throughout the years (much to your chagrin) she's just gotten better at reading you. Even when it's through short two minute glances across the ER as you wheel in a patient, body running on stale gas-station coffee and burgeoning resentment. Try as you might to keep stats clear and hands steady, your eyebrows apparently have this minuscule taut the redhead can pull twenty different meanings from, just across the bay, and they're all correct.

And then there's Sam. Who wouldn't leave her alone until she spilled something. Even when he got most of the story beforehand, the man just didn't let up until someone broke, and even then you both knew he'd just take one glance at Bucky's tight jaw and immediately guess correctly, or corner Steve when he brings Nat her lunch and he'd spill. So there was really no winning. And in the ER, your business is everyone's business.

The mawkish scent of the bay hit's your gut even before you arrive.

"Incoming!" Speaking before your body could catch up, your entire nervous system, muscles, worked while you were put on standby, praying everything that came out of your mouth was eligible. "GCS 12 and dropping, heart rate 130, BP 90 over 60. twenty four year old male, MVA at 18:27, approximately twenty minutes ago. Blunt force trauma to the chest with a suspected flail segment… obvious compound fracture of the right femur. Diminished breath sounds on the left, and cool, clammy skin. Showing signs of compensated shock."

As if sensing your apprehension, Ava cut in, composed and ready. "Two large bore IVs started with a litre of saline running, and a needle decompression performed on the left side for tension pneumothorax." She nodded, eyes sharp on your own. You reciprocated, quick and tightlipped.

Once your presence was quickly filled by staff on hand — Ava moving to take a call outside — you found yourself leaning with your back against the brick wall at the side of the building. Head tipping back with a dull thunk, exhaling, you close your eyes at the feel of the early evening breeze. Light hues of yellows and oranged curtained the sky, and you let yourself bask in it for as many seconds as you possibly could.

Gravel crunched underfoot, pace quick, but not distressed, just determined. Tilting your head to the side, the bright flash of red coming closer to you settled a weight on you, yet you couldn't help the lazy smile that grew on your face.

She hummed before you could counteract, eyeing you like a cat, up and down, with a pleased smirk on her face, the kind that reads 'I know everything just by the way you're carrying yourself'.

"Still trouble in paradise?"

Taking one quick glance at her, you suck in a breath. The tiredness of the shifts, of the silence, of the week — even though it's only been a few days — hits you in a wave through your body. "I'm fine."

A singular, amused laugh claps back, "He still hasn't texted you back?"

"Who?"

"Don't 'who' me, you owl," she takes a small step forward, leaning beside you, voice lowering just enough to be heard through the hums and whirrs of traffic. "Steve mentioned earlier that Buck's been all weird and you look one second away from snapping your molars. And stop chewing the insides of your cheeks."

You swat her hand away with a groan as she tries to squish your cheeks.

"It's nothing," you sigh, hands folding over your chest, looking away from her gaze. "You know how he gets sometimes."

"Yeah, but he's never gets like this with you,"

Rolling your neck back, you shoot her an unimpressed, flat look to say 'that didn't help one bit'.

Sucking her teeth, she tapped your shoulder with the back of her hand, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

"Listen. Whatever happened — actually happened — big or small, I'm always here. So is Steve, and unfortunately by default, so's Sam," the soft attempt at humour works. Breathing out sharply through your nose, a tight, but real, smile stretches across your lips. Finally looking at Nat in the eyes, her own smile is warm. Cosy in the way that something familiar is, the way something tainted in autumnal orange and gentle grazes can be. "Just give it a little more time, yeah? He'll come around."

You sniffle, something you instantly regret with a shake of your head and murmur, but push through anyway. "Thanks Nat."

"Anytime," she replies, "Now back to work, you've got a long day ahead of you."

The next time you're back at the ER, Steve's there. A sight you rarely ever see during work hours, only if timed perfectly — which, when you're no longer next to his best friend, is scarce. His presence, though you saw him the week before, felt like a comet sighting. An eclipse in a way.

Only now, you weren't filled with delight at the sight of the blond. Not with him talking up close in hushed murmurs with Natasha and Sam.

Before you could walk up and greet the group, the redhead spotted you, and without a word, expression, or a goodbye to the guys, she was on you. Manicured hand pulling you by the bicep, down crowded hallways, weaving through bodies like it was an Olympic sport. Her face was stern, set in stone, and no matter your half-assed protests, and jokes of "it's nice to see you too!", she made no indicator of stopping, nor giving you any warmth back.

It was like third grade all over again. When your favourite teacher suddenly got stern with you one lesson, and all resolve would come tumbling down, and from then on til you left school, they were now just a teacher, and nothing else. But Nat is your friend. Albeit, terrifying sometimes, especially when you close off back into your shell and try to work shit out yourself, even when you both know that's not how you work. But she is still your friend.

Rounding a corner, your body flung slightly off circuit, boots squeaking the linoleum, scuffing the light blue with a dark grey smudge.

The closet clicked shut. Flicking the lock shut, more for theatrics than for any real purpose, Nat stared with taut brows and a confused glower. Hands snake their way to cross over her chest, she leaned back against the door with a cool ease you can, and will never get used to.

"I love you way too much and you know that. Sam is tired of you and Bucky's silences, and that's saying something. Steve won't stop talking about how tired he looks, and his default face is unimpressed and bothered. Keeps saying he's sighing like an old dog, snapping at people, hell, he's smoking more!"

Your chest does something torturous. Caves in on itself with a sound you never thought you could make. Your body sinks into the wall opposite her, spine curved, arms crossed, a mimic of Nat's powerful stance, only for it to fall weak and wet, as you turn your head to stare at the floor while your nose tingles.

Anger, frustration and anxiety start to creep up your spine. It wouldn't have gotten so bad if you both just… talked.

"I'm worried. You two were so inseparable, and now it feels like all of us are living with two ghosts who refuse to move onto the afterlife even though you both hate the house you haunt. Steve and Sam can't get a goddamn lick out'a him, and you're here," she motions you up and down with a lazy hand, "I don't even know what you're doing. 'I'm fine', 'don't worry'… Fuck, i know i said to give him time, but at this point Sam and I are so close to pushing you both into a closet, locking the door and making you sort it out."

Silence spreads in the closed off space. The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears. Guilt spread through your veins like poison, and your stomach rolled.

"I love you. So does Steve and Sam even though they never say so. But they, we, also love Buck. And we care so much about you both, and your friendship, and we don't want this to split anything up — especially if it's over some childish bullshit, you know?" She lets her words sit for a few seconds before continuing. "So please. Spill."

The throb up your nose worsened, ascending up to an ache in the inner corners of your eyes, darkening the skin around your cheeks.

"That Thursday… a week ago or something, you know," you mumble, voice croaky and whiny, your gut clenched with how embarrassed you felt. Childish. Barely able to take your eyes off the floor, and through the blur of unshed tears you see her nod for you to continue. "It was stressful. It—I, we—"

Hands cradled your shoulders, albeit cold through your shirt, but the temperature helped to mix with your warming cheeks and flushing body, as with her soft voice when it came.

"Breathe with me, hun," she exaggerates her inhales, eyes widening until you follow shakily. "In and out, that's it. Take your time, we can work this out together."

You tried. Staggering the first few breaths, breathing too quick and short, but Natasha stayed still and quiet, letting you gather yourself in your own time. After sputtering, covering your face with the back of your hand, trying to hide yourself behind tightly shut eyelids, you finally find your footing. Humming to find your voice, whispering the first utter of the situation you've been cruelly holding tight to your chest.

"Bucky gave me a ride home," you swallow, jaw clamping shut, you breathe a couple more times, feeling the next few words in your mouth before setting them free. "… and we had sex."

"Halle-fuckin-lujah."

The confession was still fresh. Warm in the confines of the tight four walls you both occupy, but the redheads bluntness swatted the squishy texture until it rid and became something hard and natural, and something… normal. You hated it.

"Nat."

The look on her face was an accumulation of happiness, irritation, and impatience. She scoffed, almost scorned by the casualness of this secret.

"What? We've been praying for this since you two were rookies, and Sam owes me twenty," She jabs, trying to fill the tiny supply closet with a lighthearted joke, but it falls a little stiff.

She sighs, "look, I know this may seem like the end of the world, but Bucky's just," she waves her hands trying to find the words, "stupid. He's doing this shit to process his feelings and this new dynamic you two created — also, this started, what? The call on Sixth?" Her voice lowers, tentative and almost motherly.

Nat's hands stay firmly on your shoulders, not in a vice grip, soft enough to say 'you can leave if you want' but tight enough to let you know this means business and you'll want to hear what she says. Her head dips, trying to hold eye contact.

"From everything the boy's have been huffing about, he most likely feels conflicted. That was… a night," she exhales harshly, "I saw the way he looked at you while you were handling paperwork. He cares. Maybe a little too much, but fuck, he really cares."

When you look up, all you see is comfort.

"I'm not saying the way he's handling this is correct or healthy, or even remotely okay, but… It's just what he does, and it's so aggravatingly him and it's dumb."

The edge of your lip points. "He is dumb"

"The dumbest," squeezing your shoulders, she shakes you softly. "Listen, Steve and I are going out after tomorrow's shift to that bar on First — shit, what's it called… the one with the karaoke?"

You chime in, voice still croaky, whispering unevenly, "The Plum Tree?"

"That's the one," her smile broadens. "Come with us. Sam'll be there, Lena and Ava too —"

"And Bucky?"

She chuckles lightly, fidgeting, but she stays collected, like this is just a tiny bump in the road and she has all the tools to fix it. "Steve's already on it. Placed a few mentions of the name here and there, said 'beer' one too many times—"

"Are you… using subliminal messaging?"

"Potato Potahto," she dismisses with a flick of her wrist, already edging backwards to the door. "In no time it's all gonna seem like it was his idea to go out."

"Wait but what will I —"

"My love, I'm begging, do not worry," flicking the latch, she opens the door and the flood of chatter and beeps is back to dull your senses. "Everything you need and want to ask will come. Don't dwell on it, even though i know you will, but Steve and I've got it. We're smart."

"Sure you are."

"Oh, was that a little sarcasm?"

"Shut up"

The bar is livelier than you expected, even though it was a Friday and it's just started to drizzle. You arrived alone and on foot, hoping to get at least a little bit of alcohol in your system just to pump yourself up and get your confidence boosting. You opted for comfort too, a casual long-sleeve and jeans combo, though the weather called for a jacket despite the nearing warmth of the sun whenever it peaked midday. The chill never ceases to bite once her company has gone. And you have an intimation something else might sink their teeth into you later.

Warmth evaded your senses, heat from bodies; familiarity in almost every corner of the place, groups of fours or more occupied booths, whereas couples stayed put by the bar. Amber lights basked on their skin, washing everything in a dark orange that felt more intimate than it needed to be, mellow and harmonious. It felt like a joke made at your own expense.

Slipping your way through, you locked onto Sam who sat at a booth. Wooden table stained with rings of condensation and carvings from years of use, half drunk glasses and cups sat atop, ice melting, dripping onto the surface and you have half the mind to collect a bundle of coasters. The acrylic sheets of maroon that coated the seats looked worn in, and well loved.

It wasn't until you neared closer to the man you saw that beside him was Ava, and in front sat Yelena.

"And here she is."

Sam's bright voice followed through the music overhead, tickled, his smile carried through. You grin despite yourself, and took the empty spot next to Yelena as she scooted to give you room.

Scanning the table with squinted eyes, you sigh. "So was this all a ruse to get Bucky and I locked in the same room?"

Hushed mutters and mumbles of 'maybe's and 'perchance's hum across the table, and Sam completely diminishes your smug with a push of an untouched bottle. "Just drink your drink."

You have no choice but to huff out a chuckle mixed with disbelief and something akin to feeling impressed.

Taking a well needed sip, letting the coldness, the fizz, the alcohol do it's work. "Where's Nat and Steve?"

Chiming in, speech slurred slightly — not from alcohol, but from drowsiness — Yelena grumped out a sound with an elbow to the table, closed fist against cheek. "Back alley with the perpetrator. Probably on his fourth pack of the day."

You wince ephemerally, catching the slight turn of your face, but the blonde is quick to catch it and try to backtrack.

"I'm sorry. He's just been so — God, shit, I don't even know —"

Ava watches on amused, and meanwhile Sam just sips this beer, looking out behind you, like it's a regular night.

"Lena here, thinks you hate her."

The sly lilt of Ava's teasing has you perking up in your seat. Tilting your head in question, eyes widening. Your hand mindlessly moving an inch closer to her as if to comfort. "Lena, please, I don't hate you."

"Good! Because really, I had no say in the matter," she mumbled into her cup, taking a gulp. "It was like babysitting an thirteen-year-old emo kid who had his first heartbreak. Sad. Made my arms hurt."

"Poor boys been sulking for a week."

You hum unamused at Ava, sarcasm dripping from your lips as you take another sip. "I wonder who's fault that might be."

"Oh, he knows." Sam quips, sarcasm filled the words he spoke, but the truth remained clear and deep. Glancing back and forth between you and the space over your shoulder, he straightens. Nodding to himself, to you, with a tight smile, trying to make light but you saw the hardness inside of it.

Taking another sip, a hand slides over your shoulder, making you lock up, only for a voice, ever so familiar and velvety, to murmur beside your ear like this was a stakeout. Clandestinely working with the grace of a spy. "He's outside. Talk to him."

You wince into your drink, groaning into the spout as you swallow. "Nat, come on—"

"Talk to him," she declares. Eyes widening, voice dropping with seriousness you only ever heard when she was on the clock, "or I swear I will drag you outside myself."

You scrunch your face with a huff, pushing yourself out of your seat with a squeak. "I hate you."

Without as much as a glance back, hearing the softness in your words despite the bite, she slips into your spot. "You so love me," she smiles. "And you'll love me more after this!"

The smoking area smells like old ash and rain. Bucky’s leaning against the farthest wall, covered by the smallest of awnings, watching the rain fall with his arms crossed, legs stretched out with a kind of composure that jabs you in the chest.

There's a warm light above him, a curved fixture that spotlights over him, making him like some kind of divine presence. The smoke he exhales trails off above him, dancing around his head and it makes you think of a halo.

You should hate him.

Your chests grows tighter as you just stand and watch him, all casual, all him with no audience. After not seeing him after a week, it felt torturous how your body immediately reacted. Emotions ended up manifesting to physical aches, tightening in your biceps and gut. Besides that, the worst part, it seems the little dog in your brain — the one that latches onto familiarity like a chew toy, holding it in your locked jaw, growling at anyone who dares to take — remembers that night like it was yesterday.

The tightening in your gut coincided with another feeling. It coiled and dragged, too sensitive and delicate, your breath hitched when you felt the first wave wash down and spill in your underwear.

A cigarette hangs from his lips barely halfway done before he sees you, silhouetted by the light of the frosted windows and outdoor lights, and holds it in his fingers.

“Nuh-uh, nope,” he mumbles the second he notices you. “I'm not doing this right now.”

A sigh slips out, small and steadying. You could already feel your eyelids drooping from tiredness.

From knowing how this will go. From being in his presence again. From the week you've had. You couldn't count all the possibilities on one hand, so you push it down and decide to make Nat and the group at least a little bit proud, and rip the bandage off.

"Too late," you draw out, inching closer slowly, testing the waters. The playful hint you always kept for him slipping out, but you catch it quickly before you could finish. "We have to, or all of them back there are handcuffing us together for the next week."

Silence.

You don't expect him to talk immediately, but there's something about this particular stillness that makes your gut tense more.

You let the rain, moved from a drizzle to a downpour, orchestrate the moment.

"Bucky, why didn't you just talk to me."

The quiet stays, though now you understand he wants to fill it. It pulls harder and hits thicker after you speak. And you can see his chest move inwards on a breath.

With a ruffle of his jacket as he shrugs briefly, a scratch of the back of his neck, an awkward, a smoke, and breathy chuckle he does when he doesn't quite know what to say. So you let him stew, like how he did to you before, only this time a minute of your withdrawal feels like years to him.

"I'm a coward."

"Not good enough."

You almost flinch at the harshness of your voice. Almost cower in on yourself and apologise, but you stand down. You stopped just in front of him, close enough that he can see the tiny movements of your face, the tightness of your jaw, and the stare of your eyes, how the honey coloured lamp above him colours your irises, but far enough that theres an obvious space between the two of you — there is now a distance, and he should notice and want to fix.

"Okay," he sighs, minutely amused, "but it's the truth."

"Okay, so, I'll reword," shuffling in your spot, your arms tighten over your chest like a physical barrier. An added wall to the stretch, and you can just about see his restraint start to fray. "Why did you shut me out for an entire week without a word?"

He chuckles again, breath and smoke swirling in front of him as he flicks the cigarette out into the rain.

"Sweetheart—"

“See, because from where I’m standing, you fucked me and then decided I was too fragile to deal with the aftermath.”

You don't shout, but the truth comes louder than expected and you're both glad no one else occupies the space with you.

"No," he straightens, jaw clicking, “I took advantage of you.”

This time you chuckle, “that's bullshit, and you know it.”

“You were shaking.” He replies, voice unshaken and fair.

“So were you!" You counteract louder and frustrated. As you lick your lips you check yourself, lowering your voice back to something that holds structure. But Bucky knows you, knows you completely and, as of recently, wholly. The watches the space between your brows crinkle and the way your right cheek hollows as you scrape your teeth against it. "We'd just worked a long shift, Bucky, and a really shitty one at that. That doesn’t make us incapable of… of consent. Of wanting something.”

“You weren’t thinking clearly.”

A groan almost slides up your throat. Tipping your head back with your eyes closed, drawing in a breath that tastes too much like warm rain and earth, and the fatally addictive scent of his aftershave and cigarettes that sunk into the fabric of his clothes and skin.

“You don’t get to say that,” you mutter, stepping closer. “You don’t get to strip me of my agency because it makes you feel better about bailing.”

"I didn't bail," His hands curl into fists at his sides, only for him to hold them up, palms out. Another barrier. “I’m trying to not be the kind of guy who—”

“Who what?” you interrupt. “Who fucks his coworker and, what? Regrets it?”

"Oh?" His eyes flash, widening a fraction and he just about stutters on his words. “Oh, 'coworker' now? Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” He steps closer, never minding the space, the makeshift restrictions you both created wordlessly, his eyes dark, voice low. “You’re the one who keeps saying it like that word didn’t mean something different two weeks ago.”

“That is not what I meant." You could laugh. Annunciating each word carefully, feet planted to your spot, tipping your head like it was the only part of you that wanted to be closer to him.

“Sure sounds like it.” His jaw tightens again, ready to bite. “Funny how it’s ‘coworker’ when you’re mad, but — oh, when you were pulling me in by the shirt—”

"You're fucking mean." You swallow, eyebrows furrowing deep as anger flares hotter.

“Yeah?” He asks, stepping closer, voice rising, rough around the edges. “Say it again. If that’s all I am to you, say it to my face.”

Your pulse thunders, anger buzzing so loud it makes your hands shake. “You’re such an asshole.”

His eyes flick to your mouth, dark and heated. “Then why are you standing right here?”

You scoff incredulously, still unwilling to move, standing ground like a stubborn horse.

"Get in my face."

Something in you snaps. Tiny, but it snaps nonetheless. You tip your head back, hand wiping down from your eyes to your neck, anger sparking hot, you almost shout. "Oh, Jesus Christ —"

"Just me, sweetheart, and I'm serious," he steps closer than ever, repeating the same line again like a mantra, a demand for something, a plea of sorts, but you don't want to dig too deep into it. "Get in my face."

So you do. One step forward, boots knocking on his own, chest to chest, air exhaled becomes his, and suddenly you feel warm and clammy.

Your eyebrows tighten as you look up to him. His perfect eyebrows, the harsh crinkle of crows feet beside his eyes, those azureous pools that maliciously make your stomach flip even know. They warmed in the golden lamplight, almost a sea foam green.

His pupils flickered then, and it all snapped.

His hand fists in your jacket and he hauls you in, mouth crashing against yours with zero finesse and all intent. It’s rough and hungry, all teeth and pressure and pent-up frustration finally given somewhere to go. His kiss tastes like tobacco and anger and it ached underneath.

You make a sound you don’t recognize and grab him back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor him there, merely to plant onto his neck. Bucky kisses you deeper, sloppier, like he’s furious at the distance he created that ever existed at all.

His teeth scrape your lip. You bite back, breathless and unyielding.

"You," you murmur against his lips breathlessly, "you are so mean."

But he doesn't stop. The hands that had crumpled into your clothes rummaged up to your face, cupping your cheeks with a soft reverence that spread molten through your entire body, forcing another noise from you that he swallowed entirely. They tangled into your hair, keeping you in, holding you steady.

"I know, I know," he whispered back, lips never letting up, hands cradling you gently, one back to your cheek while his other held you by the nape of your neck. "I'm the fuckin' worst."

Nodding in agreement, you hum, your own hands finding purchase back on his shoulders and down his front, smoothing down his chest.

His soft lips mapped with earnest obedience, slipping away without a notice or protest from you. Pecking the edge of your lips, to your cheeks and temple, before moving downwards, slow and steady, memorising the way you feel, sound and taste as he licks, nips and sucks at the skin of your jaw and neck.

"Awful… just," a broken, breathless sigh leaves your mouth as he grazes the soft spot just beneath the hinge of your jaw, making you ball your fists into his front. "God, the worst."

Bucky grunts, feeling a heat accumulate where you both begin to ache, and he finds himself already in too deep to care, and his lips find yours again, bruising.

The brick crumbles and catches against your back as you both writhe, hands with no destination cling onto any surface and inch of clothing, your fists clench around his shirt, creasing the fabric, trying to pull him closer into you as possible.

Without preamble, Bucky's knee knocks into your own, hastily pushing them apart with a grunt into your mouth to which you steal gratefully, the vibration lingers on your lips and tongue. This dance the two of you follow, a new creation of the nights lingering need and unabashed desire, all made up on the go, seems to fall together so perfectly, even the clumsy shoves and hums and touches hard enough to leave tiny yellowed bruises seem so purposeful.

His fingers trail down your body and through your belt loops, keeping you secure in his palms as he pushes you down, just a slight crook to your knees atop of his thigh with a groan. Splitting from your lips, his breath strokes your ear.

"C'mon, that's it," he praises as your hips grind, denim on denim, "take it out on me, right here."

Your fists ball tighter, and a whimper falls from your slacked jaw from a strong mix of arousal, annoyance, forgiveness and punishment.

It's not him. Well not fully. It's his thigh, his thigh that's covered by denim, against you, who's also covered. The barriers of thick cloth makes your head thunk back onto the wall, but your hips never stop their movements, nor can they stop with Bucky's strong grip guiding them to and fro. The warmth of them tightens your chest, and your hands fall to them, holding his forearms, his wrists — to keep you steady, grounded, or to just touch some semblance of his skin.

You watch his eyes through heavy lids, staring down at where you frot, how you arch into him instinctively, how your nails dig into his skin without remorse.

"You're such… an asshole." You pant shakily, and he finally looks up. When he does so his grip tightens, making you grind into him, hips to hips, harder, slower, than before, and you can feel the obvious hardness of his cock tented beneath his zipper against your hip.

"I know."

You scoff weakly, "I didn't even wanna be out here."

"Understandable."

"I hate you." You bite. It's sleepy under the haze of lingering nicotine and liquid courage, but the nip is there, nonetheless. And the worst thing is, he smiles. Something that makes your heart flip inside of your chest, cracking beneath your ribs, thumping so hard, you lick your lips and clench your jaw.

"That's good to know, sweetheart," he huffs, smirk wobbling for half a second before correcting itself. "Fuck, say it again."

"I fucking hate you," you repeat, harsher than before, cutting to his chest but it feels good all the same. His arms move faster, bucking his knee up as he whispers approval in the heady air around you and against your sticky skin.

You move your hips in time, missing the short but momentous touch of his clothed cock against your hip. The note of you doing something to him, making him turned on — this turned on — brings a whole new wave of wetness to pool in your panties and ache to your already stimulated clit.

"The worst person ever… leaving me like that." You're half-gone and just about ready to cum. Thighs trembling around his own, hands shaking against his shirt, and your teeth chatter from the excess adrenaline.

Completely forgetting where you were.

As his name whispered past your lips, escaped by a sharp exhale against his neck, your movements were suddenly halted. Bucky's hands had moved you up, just enough for you to miss the friction, to drive you to the edge, and have it tingle and linger.

"Buck," you started, a hiss between your teeth as your nails dug into his skin. "Bucky, what the fuck?"

He sighs, unmoving from your temple. "You deserve better,"

"Jesus Christ, Barnes."

"I'm serious," one hand moves from your belt loop, tangling itself within your hair, keeping you close — scared of you running, of watching him undo himself in front of you. You feel him exhale shakily. "Not… Not in your jeans in the middle of some alley. I want you to cum on my cock again."

With a wobbly, breathless chuckle, you shake your head. Disbelief washing through you. "Bucky."

"Please sweetheart," his tone lingers on whiny, pleading, a complete contrast of his earlier disposition. His hands held tighter, fingertips digging deep enough for your ribs to stutter. "Please, I wanna feel you again."

The trembling of his breath, his body softly reeling against yours with leftover adrenaline, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt against your chest. For what, you have no clue — it's stupid, really — so you shove it down, exactly like you have for the last few days.

His gentle pleas lodged deep inside of you, pinging a new ache in your abdomen, making you feel cruel and hot.

"With the week you've put me through, I deserve this shit," pushing your hips back down, you're so glad Bucky had the gall to move one of his hands away, giving you less strength to fight against, less weight to push, and you find yourself stationed back against the thick plain of his thigh. "You started it, right here, so you finish it, Bucky," a strangled choke breaks from his lips, the hand that stayed stationed to your hip readying.

"Make me cum in this alley, and you can finish where we left off last week," you whisper. Meanwhile, Bucky stays still like your words lodged him into place, sifting through his brain, so you give him a little nudge with your own knee against his tent. Just a split second of boiling bliss, before you moved it away. "Deal?"

He wheezes. An unfortunate sound, sweet yet sharp and it reminds you of all the cigarettes he smokes, and the ones you'd share on nights where shifts hung tight and heavy on your shoulders, where you would lose track of how many beers you drank and laugh a little too loud on the fire escape. And though it's only been about a week, you missed it ever so badly.

But in that moment, the pious hums were gone, and left was the Bucky Barnes you'd only ever imagined when he'd invite the latest girl he was seeing on a night out with you and your friends — the Bucky who liked to chase and challenge, the one who had the kind of hunger in his eye that would glint insurgently. Even when the attitude wasn't directed at you at those times, it still sparked a light up your spine. And it was wholeheartedly and perfectly worse now it was for you, and only you.

Smirking, he glanced away for a split second. Back to the door where anyone could walk in to see your position, and he shrugged. "Deal."

The drags, starting slow, almost teasing with how measured and deliberate they were, drawing out the pleasure in long stretches, quickly accumulated into short bursts of need and attention.

Pulls turned to grinds. Tiny jolts of your hips on his lap, moving yourself in his hold as much as you could as he pushed.

Slick puddled, wet and sloppy between your thighs and words felt like water in your hands. Slipping from the crevices that was your lips in quick, unintelligible mumbles and whispers. Your eyes glossed over, unfocused, rolling up to look at the sky as if you were ready to ascend straight to heaven.

Your hold tightens, nails leaving deep, dark red punctures in his arms while you work yourself over the edge. Gasping, grinding slower with the help of Bucky, his breath glues to your neck with praise so sweet it just about prolongs the feeling of ecstasy.

"That's it, good girl," he draws out, holding you down, letting your senses fire up as pleasure ebbs into overstimulation. "So beautiful. So good for me, God, you're beautiful."

He whispers against you, around you, letting the breeze of the night carry them against your flushed cheeks as you come to. Bottom lip pulled between your teeth, eyes slacked but they stared unto his face as he slowed down to a stop.

You looked wrecked.

You were wrecked.

"You…" catching your breath, your mouth opened, never wandering your gaze from his face that now looked down on you with wonder. "You brought your car… right?"

He nods. Lips parting, only to close, wet and red.

"Deals a deal," You tap on his wrist twice with a smile, one too sweet for the moment shines on your face and fills your cheeks, eyes glinting with leftover pleasure. "Let's go to my place. "

The drive home felt like déjà vu. Quiet and loaded all the same, now its filled with a different kind of adrenaline. It wasn't a mystery this time, the universe wasn't pulling cards with a hand over its eyes, now it was clearer.

Anticipation thrummed through the vibrations of the engine. Words seemed too much and not enough, both of you too worried about scaring off the other, even though you both knew that this was it. Permanently and irrevocably.

The elevator ride wasn't filled with soft spoken words and comfort, this time it felt telepathic. Leaning against the handrail on the further wall, watching the red light counting floors flicker by, while in the corner of your eye you could see him looking. Watching you feign casualness with a soft smile on his face. You wanted to slap it off him, and kiss it better all at once.

Once you got to your floor, to your door, all reserve fell through the cracks in the floor boards.

Lips finding yours in a breathless mess, moving you blindly until your back hit the wall, holding your head in his hands like something precious, because to him you are, and he's not making any mistakes ever again. Humming into the touch, he takes the opportunity to run his tongue across your lip, before deciding to jump the gun. One hand moved backwards, finding the same position from back in the alleyway. The hand that rest on your cheek stroked with a loving calmness that contrasted to the way his mouth had you, and how his other hand — now threaded through your hair — pulled, causing your mouth to open with a gasped moan. He dove in.

His hands move with a sharp purpose. Sliding through the opening of your jacket, it slipped and hit the ground with a clink of the zipper, his own following, and his palms smoothed over your face once more before grazing down. Curling lightly over your neck, squeezing at the sides just enough to have you feeling light and desperate.

You tugged him closer, moving back into your home while you both became a messy bundle of hands. Touching and groping with fervour.

Bucky didn't let you get so far, pushing you back by your hips and pulling your shirt up and over your head, leaving you in just your bra and jeans.

"I missed you." He muttered as he kissed up your cheek and down your jaw. A sentiment slipped out before he could stop and inspect it. As if to divert your attention, he cups your breasts, nipping and licking at your neck.

You arch your back at the feeling. His jaw scraping raw against you, the heat of his mouth, the marks you'll see in the morning. The way he squeezes your chest just right, pinching your nipples over the fabric, making you arch into his hold.

Coasting your hands down to his jeans, you cup his crotch, palming leisurely as you feel it twitch under the thick denim.

"Fuck, don't do that," Bucky groans loudly as his hips jerk into your touch. "Please, baby."

"But you look so pretty." You whisper back, dragging your palm over him once more before holding his hips.

"You're trouble."

His hands don't let up their grip, holding, massaging, until he sneaks a hand behind you and unclips your bra with precision you file into the back of your mind for later. You push his shirt up. He helps you, tugging it off, while you slip out of your bra and quickly unbutton your jeans.

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Bucky pauses for a moment, caught in a trance, watching you unzip your fly and slip out of your pants and underwear. Watching your breasts, the way your hair covers your face messily, all before snapping out of it when your arms extend outwards to unbutton his jeans.

You giggle softly under your breath at his exclamation, and how his fingers start to fumble over yours as you both try to get his pants off.

"You okay, Buck?" You tease, staring up at him, pushing his pants down his thighs. Its then you find yourself on your knees, helping him untangle his feet from the legs.

Lips parted in harsh breaths, ears tinted pink, chest wobbling as he tries to steady himself. Bucky is conflicted between two scenarios: Watching you take him in your mouth, have you choke so beautifully around his cock, see how you look with your eyes and nose all red while you swallow around him, taking all his load. Or take you to bed.

As much as he wants to, even when people find he's such a selfless man. Bucky often finds himself in moments of weakness, a reminder that he is a part of the male species. But this time, he chooses the latter. "Sweetheart, c'mere."

With hands finding your face again, he doesn't miss the gentle confusion that washes your features. Your hands stuck on each of his thighs as he tries to hold you up, shushing your protests quickly.

"I wanna fuck you, on your bed," he clarifies, stroking your face, "I would take you on the floor, right here, but I don't think you're neighbours would appreciate that. And I wanna do this proper." He chuckles lightly with a wonky smile, thumbs tracking over the apples of your cheeks again as you whine but comply.

Once you stand at full height, he runs his big hands down your body. Cupping your breasts once again, thumbs circling your nipples as your breathing picks up, watching them harden, before giving them a lazy pinch as he trails lower and lower, down your waist, circling to your back, and finally resting at your ass. He massaged playfully, pulling you closer to his chest.

You sigh theatrically, "You're such a mean man, Bucky."

"Am I?" Tilting his head, he pouts, "talk to me, sweetheart. How am I mean?"

"First of all, you — Oh!" With one last squeeze of your ass, his hands lowered, and gripped onto the backs of your legs to hoist you up. Without a word he moved down the hall, leaving your clothes to wrinkle on the hardwood floor beside your front door. "Bucky!"

"C'mon, tell me," with his hands still on your ass, he bounced you up, making you both fall into soft laughter and sighs with a minute relief as you both grazed each other. His voice dipped breathy and low, "I'm curious, baby, don't leave me like this."

His brows dipped dramatically, smiling wide as he glanced into your eyes, trying to find your room without looking (as if he doesn't know the floor plan like the back of his hand).

"For one," you start, fingers tugging on the fuzz at the nape of his neck, making his cheeks blush, teeth to bite into his bottom lip and dick stir against you. "Leaving me all by my lonesome, all goddamn week."

Turning you both around, he pushes the door open with his back, and kicks it to with his foot.

"Lonesome," he repeated, hiding his face in your neck and scraping his teeth, "you poor, poor thing."

Your room, a disastrous mess of you. Sleep clothes stay screwed up on the floor, bottles of perfume and makeup you wear on the rare occasion you get to go out, or on random nights when you want to try something new, laid haphazardly on your desk with colourful puffs of dust coating the surface like watercolour. Your bed, Bucky's destination, was cleaned ever so quickly with a tug of your duvet and quick turn and press of your pillows just to pretend and make yourself believe you have your shit together.

"I am a poor, poor thing, Bucky," you grin, carding through his hair and pulling him back with a moan, "so you better make it up to me."

"Oh, I think I will."

Kneeling against the edge of the mattress, his knee dips, settling you down against the pillows. He follows, blanketing your torso, licking kisses down to your collarbone, easing his body down until his tongue reaches the expanse of your sternum.

"Keep talkin', sweetheart, I'm not gonna stop until I don't understand a single word that come out'a your mouth," one of his hands holds your chin, making you stare into his eyes. The blue, once vast and freeing, were now swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, leaving a ring as dark as the ocean, deep and tenacious. "Got it?"

You nod quickly, adamantly, and before you could register, Bucky licked up the middle of your chest in a broad stripe. He moves, sucking kisses around the top of your left breast, nipping into the skin, leaving soft bruises and red marks, a trail running around until he finally circles your nipple with the wet tip of his tongue.

Whispering a curse, your legs open wider and hips buck up trying to find any way to release the tension throbbing against the gusset of your panties. As he suckles, he breathes out moans, sounds that release like sighs to your wet skin, making you shiver. His free hand moves to copy on your neglected nipple, pinching, rolling between his thumb and forefinger, tugging off, before repeating.

"Teasing me, an-and," your jaw slacks as he switches sides, slipping his thumb over your wet, bullied nipple while he sucks and grunts on your other, sending vibrations through your body. "Fuck, you — oh…"

With his body over yours, his hips met your own, still covered, now in ruined, wet cloth. He lurched his hips against yours, looking for some semblance of relief as he nipped your breasts.

Unlatching with a soft pop, he pushes the mounds together, squeezing them in his grip as his hips dragged at their own rhythm. Shaky, messy, twitching at every flick down and against your sopping core. "What was that?"

"Fuck you." You bite, hands coming up to push into your eyes.

"Soon, sweetheart," he hums, dragging his tongue out to lick from one tit to the other, dragging lazily while he squished them together, leaving a sloppy trail of spit. "Patience."

A singular laugh pierces out with a shake to your chest. Your hand runs up the front of Bucky's hair, and you pull his face up.

"Patience?" You probe, staring into his watery eyes like that one pull of his hair undid his mask in just one second. His lips spit stained, kissed red and full, a string of dribble still connected him to your slick breasts.

When he stayed silent, gulped heavily, and ground his hips into yours, pushing his luck, you let go of his head and pushed his body back by his shoulders.

He stayed sat upright on his haunches, trying to catch any crumb of power, but you kept pushing until his back hit the mattress, head whipping down making the frame creak, and he watched you straddle his lap with a light grin.

You moved quickly, as if at any moment a spell would break and you'd wake up in this exact bed, only for it to be empty and cold. Fingers curling over the waistband of his boxers, silently admiring the mess he made of the front and the silhouette of his thick cock straining. Tugging without preamble. Once they got to his thighs, down to his knees, Bucky launched.

"Fuck!" You squeaked at the surprise attack, barely enough time to fully appreciate the heavy smack he made against his abdomen, or the veins that trailed down his shaft to his balls, the aching red tip that peeked out under blushing skin, wet and sticky, so needy.

Because his hands worked faster. He was always better than you at work, even though whenever you'd tell him, he'd either wave his hand and grumble or put it over your mouth and tell you to 'shut up'. But his hands always worked faster. He memorised, took notes, and when in a new environment, he made sure to understand, appreciate and work.

Understand, appreciate and work was absolutely what he did.

Your underwear was gone with a rip of the waistband, surprised they even lasted this long, sticking to your slit from cum and arousal.

Warm on your waist, pulling you forward, Bucky began to direct your body. The other snakes to your back, right between your shoulder blades where he could hold you close. His eyes bore into yours while sliding from your torso, to the curve of your hip, until it fists and kneads down your ass again. The pulsing of his fingers pushes your hips forward and into the slick heat of his cock.

"Still mean, aren't I?" Pulling from your ass with a quick, stinging slap, he holds his weeping cock in his fist, sighing with relief as he slides his hands up and down the shaft, slicking it up with his own pre, right in front of your cunt. "Tell me I'm such an asshole. Tell me you hate me for fucking you so good."

Your walls clamp around nothing, aching uncomfortably with emptiness as you whine and shift your hips closer. Your head tips forward, holding your arms around his neck and hiding your face into his collar as he slowly, achingly makes love to his hand.

"Say that you hate me and I'll let you have him," he whispers so quietly, so softly it makes your bones feel like jelly. The saliva pooling in his mouth clicks around the words, something you've always hated on others but in this moment you cant help but feel the burning desire to lick it all from his tongue and swallow it for yourself.

He nudges your head up with his shoulder, making you look up at him with a tired gaze, sleepy with need so thick it hurts, eyes dark and settling into the skin underneath. God, he hasn't seen anything so beautiful in his life.

To wake you up further, he sets his hips so the tip grazes over your clit. The shock is immediate, burning, vicious, it almost feels delirious. How your entire body jolts in short shakes, how your hands tighten around his neck, how you coat him. The sounds you both create, syrupy and sweet, mixed with the ever light taps his tip makes as he drags himself through your mess. And your chorus of moans and sighs, all while he keeps composure — tries to.

"C'mon, baby, say it," he jerks up, slipping between your lips. Hardly hiding his neediness and desperation. "Tell me, God, please just fuckin' tell me."

You have half the mind to leave him like this. Wet, shaking, pleading at his knees for you like a man praying for forgiveness, like you hold a sword to his shoulders. He deserves to wait, to beg, and whimper — needing to hear your words, hear you reprimand and berate him for what he did.

But there's a quiet voice in your head that asks: what's a week next to years of friendship?

Your hips tip up, catching the head of his cock in your entrance, and the words on your lips feel odd and quiet.

You mean them.

"I love you,"

The burn reaches every corner of your body as you slip. Taking him all. All of him. Of Bucky. Your coworker, your partner, your best friend. Inside of you, held snug and tight in your walls, twitching against your cervix, as your body greets him again.

Your breaths mingle as you share gasps and skin.

"I love you so much, that I hate…" you strain, inhaling deep and hard, swallowing back the feeling of anxiety and his length all the way in the back of your throat. "I hate that you left me, and made me guess, and — and made everyone stress the fuck out."

You don't feel the tears until he starts wiping them away from your face, cooing gently, kissing away the salty tracks.

"I'm sorry."

You sniffle, causing your walls to clamp messily around his erection. He groans under his breath, holding your hip while moving your hair away from your eyes.

The feeling of his thickness and the attention on your face and emotions has your hips canting in his hold. Grinding down and against him, clit grazing the hair of his abdomen, making sure your body remembers him completely. "Never do it again."

"Never," he shakes his head, still wiping away the tiny trails welling in the corners of your eyes, kissing your lids, breathing in your scent. He holds onto your hips tighter, following your lead, your rhythm as you find it, and starts to shift his own to your beat.

"Not — never in a million years," his head cranes back on a grunt in his throat, and he lets go of your hip, moving his arm behind him, holding your sheets, and himself from behind. He lets you move. "Make me pay for it… for the rest of our lives, and I'd — fuck, baby — I'll thank you, forever."

As your hips grinded, Bucky's eyes never faltered off yours (as badly as he wanted to watch the way your pussy swallows his cock). His hand stayed on the side of your face, moving down, just enough to cup your jaw when he felt your gaze slipping away.

Grinding, the slick sounds of your exertion got louder, your walls aching around him, his breath coming out in tight, long pants, you slowly started easing into confidence. Tipping your hips up every time you eased forward, short inches at first, letting him know you're ready to take him, until you start to ride.

Hips rocking off his, bouncing on his lap, taking his length over and over again. You could feel him deep in your belly, making himself home. And through your frosty eyes, you saw him gaze on you like you were another being.

As you locked sights, his hips pushed up into yours at every touch down, chasing you. To retaliate, you moved your head to the side and took his thumb into your mouth, humming around the digit.

He scoffed, huffed a laugh out, and pressed it to your tongue.

"You feel so good baby," he breathed, pressing up into you, chasing a speed you cant get. "Takin' me so good. Missed this pussy so bad, sweetheart. She miss me, too?"

Of course she did. You wanted to scream at him, strangle him for asking such a dumb question. But the only thing you could do was nod, moan and suck around his finger.

"Is my girl getting tired?"

Despite your previous words, you do hate him. All these nicknames, now with a little addition. An ownership.

His.

You hate him in the way that he know exactly how to push your buttons and get you going in the same order, even after just one play, because your cunt traitorously clamps around him.

Moaning, his eyebrows dip, and his hips drive up again and again.

"Yeah? Sleepy thing, aren't you?" it's with that, he leans forward. Hand back on your ass, as you're being laid down onto your back.

You want to fight back, to push him back down and take and take until your body burn and tears flood your face. But you can barely hold on.

Legs dropping open around his hips, cock still sheathed inside. And he's still so goddamn attentive, even when he speaks with sarcasm.

"I hate you," you shake your head and grumble, "fuckin' asshole."

His cock stuttered inside you, and you could've sworn you felt his balls tighten. But all was lost once his hips started moving. Smacking against yours, wet trails of fluids dripping and splatting on skin, it was all too perfect.

His girth leaving and entering in quick succession, leaving your whole body tightening, right on the edge of hysteria — unable to breathe or know if you want to laugh, cry, or both.

"You wanna cum so bad, sweetheart, i can feel it," he clasped at your hips, digging into you while he held you down and close, keeping you still while he works. "Speak."

"Fuck, yes! Fuck," You wailed into the sheets below you. Your cunt clamping down so tight, it hurt. "Bucky, please."

He didn't let up.

"Please what?" He panted, fingers tight on your skin.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, coming out breathy. "Please touch me. Please, please."

There was no need for spit. With the amount of cum you had created, from the exact moment you saw him in the alley at the bar to now, spit wasn't needed at all. But the thought of more of him being close to your pretty pussy, the fact he didn't get to know what you tasted like tonight, couldn't see how his saliva mixed into you so pretty. He had to drop a fat string of spit from where he sat, still fucking into you deep and hard, and chase the dribble with his thumb.

Wiping circles over your neglected bundle with the accumulated stickiness, watching how it frothed and bubbled, how a ring of cream settled at the base of his cock as you brace.

Jaw slacking with pants and whines, body fastening as every second closer to finishing comes. Bucky notices how you seem to quiet down, how you start focusing on the pleasure at hand. The drilling of his cock, his thumb bullying your clit so perfectly, it only toppled over, finally, to the sweet release when his body folded over yours, breathing sweet nothings into the corners of your mouth, where he kissed and sighed and grunted, until you shook in his embrace.

Molten, white hot, and wet. He took you in his arms, easing off your clit, keeping his pelvis to yours to bring more relief to the nerves, while he wrapped himself around you and held you close as you both finished.

Your hands fell to his skin as he filled you up. Heavy breaths slippery on your jaw, cock and balls twitching with each burst inside of you. You gripped onto his ass with each twitch, keeping him in, holding on, wanting it all to last.

It took a while for your heavy breaths and jelly-like limbs to subside.

"Wow." You don't know who made the noise, but with Bucky's face still hidden in your neck, kissing soft pecks, rustling his beard, you're pretty sure it was all you.

"I'm sorry."

Laughing softly, accidentally squeezing his half-hard cock, you pull him up to look at him. You're both fucked out. Ugly in the most beautiful ways. And it's this time you both laugh.

"Thank you for apologising," you whisper, "but I don't think I can forgive you. Not yet anyway."

He nods, the smile that was on his face before, eases into something slightly more serious. Sadder, but understanding. "Of course."

Easing up, Bucky makes no mistake in taking care of you. Picking you up, carrying you down the hall like absolutely nothing, sitting you at the toilet, cleaning you with a warm rag and making you pee, despite your protests in him being there, watching.

"Sweetheart I've seen everything," he replies, standing in front of you, cupping your jaw. "I'm seein' everything now, too."

You don't really know how it slipped your mind that you were both still naked in that moment, but it felt… strange. In a good way.

Showering with him felt harmonious. As with his touch, cleaning you all over, reverent, not lustful. Careful. He looked and worked with determination, lips pouted and brows taut, making sure your hair was thoroughly washed out of the products before shutting off the water and plopping a towel over your head, only to then start to messily rub it around. Something he would do on beach days years ago.

Laughing comes easy, same with the teasing and groans of displeasure.

"Bucky! Come on, you'll tangle my hair!" You whine from under the sheet, flicking it up and slapping his hands away with a grin and squint. His smile is wide. Bigger than you remember it ever being, all as he watches you dry your hair in comfortable silence.

"I meant what I said by the way." You say after a while, watching him from the mirror.

He hums, snapping out of the trance you put him in by just being.

"When we… I said 'I love you'," you pause for any indication, "I meant it."

Coming up behind you, arms slinging tight around your waist, holding you close. He automatically kisses your temple as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "I know."

Looking at him through the glass with your brows furrowed. "You know?"

Bucky shrugs casually. "Sweetheart, we say it all the time."

You refrain from sighing loudly, so you turn in his hold. Naked chest to naked chest and his arms stay secured, lazily draped on your sides.

"Yeah but this time its…" you gesture broadly, "different."

He smiles, breathlessly staring into your eyes, like he needed to memorise the colour and swirls of your irises. "Different."

You didn't need to clarify if it was good or bad. Didn't need to tell him anything, because when Bucky looked at you, he understood every minuscule detail your body was trying to explain.

Different isn't so bad after all. And when it's something you get to enjoy with your best friend, it's actually a lovely feeling.

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Back when Bucky was a student, the library had felt like a refuge, a place where every worry could be neatly pressed between the pages of a book and shelved away for later. Between the sound of pages turning somewhere in the distance and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead that no one ever really notices until they stop working, expectations lower their voices and time stretches just enough for him to breathe.

Four years later, standing behind the front desk with a stack of returns balanced precariously in his hands, it feels… well, not so different, except that now he’s the one expected to know where everything goes.

Which, in theory, he does.

In practice, however…

“Barnes?”

Bucky blinks, the sharp sound of his name pulling him out of the slow drift of his thoughts, and as he looks up a little too quickly, the top book in his stack shifts just enough to send a brief flicker of panic through him before he tightens his grip.

“Yeah, yes,” he corrects himself mid-breath, stepping closer to the computer. “Sorry. I was just—uh—thinking.”

The blonde girl on the other side of the desk watches him mildly unimpressed, fingers drumming lightly against the wood.

“That’s usually how that works.” She replies dryly, nudging three books toward him. “Can you check these out?”

“Right. Yeah, of course.”

Bucky sets his stack down with exaggerated care, as if the pages would turn into ashes at the slightest bump, and begins scanning the books one by one, his movements just a fraction too aware of themselves. He knows how to do this, he’s done it hundreds of times. There is absolutely no reason for his hands to feel like they belong to someone else.

“Okay, so these are all set,” he hums, sliding them back across the desk with what he hopes resembles confidence. “You’re good.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, anytime. I mean, during open hours. Not, like, anytime anytime.”

The student pauses as she is putting her university badge back in her wallet just to send him a glare that reeks of poorly concealed judgment.

“… Right.”

She takes the books in silence and Bucky watches her go for longer than necessary before letting out a slow sigh, tipping his head back to the ceiling as his lips press together.

“Good recovery.” He murmurs under his breath.

“Buck.”

He doesn’t need to look to know who it is, there aren’t many people who call him that, but his head turns anyway. Steve is leaning casually against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, expression already bordering on amused in a way that makes Bucky immediately defensive.

“You just told her not to come back.” Steve grins.

“I did not,” he huffs, words coming out a little too quickly. “I just clarified the hours.”

“I clarified.” He insists in response to his raised eyebrows, less animatedly this time, because arguing with Steve is like trying to hold water in his hands—pointless and inevitably messy.

His best friend’s grin only grows as he follows Bucky to the shelf he was previously organizing, but whatever he’s about to say next never makes it out, because at that exact moment the heavy front doors open with a quiet creak that still somehow cuts through everything else.

Bucky doesn’t think, nor decides. His body just knows, gaze lifting instinctively, like pulled by an invisible thread, and then, you walk in.

You move unhurriedly without being slow, composed without being rigid, the soft rhythm of your heels echoing faintly against the polished floor as you cross the entrance. There’s nothing ostentatious about you, nothing that demands attention in the obvious way. And yet, it gathers around you anyway, inevitable, drawn in by the quiet confidence you carry so naturally.

Bucky forgets how to breathe for a moment.

He has known you for years, but he’s never quite prepared for the way his chest seems to tighten and soften all at once, a reflex he has no control over.

“Oh,” Steve snickers beside him. “There she is.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, not when his entire focus has narrowed on you making your way to the front desk, already smiling in that easy, familiar way that feels like it belongs in this space just as much as the books do.

Darcy spots you at once, straightening with visible delight.

“You’re late.” She announces, though the accusation is entirely undermined by the grin tugging at her mouth.

“I’m fashionably late,” you set your bag down with a soft thud, your tone teasing. “There’s a difference.”

“There isn’t. You just enjoy making an entrance.”

“I enjoy making you wait.”

At that point, Darcy laughs, bright and unrestrained, and you follow a second later, the sound softer, but no less captivating.

And Bucky…

Bucky sighs.

It slips out of him before he can stop it, quiet but unmistakably there, the kind of sound that belongs more to a fairytale than to real life.

Without realizing it, his body shifts, leaning slightly to the side as if captured by your melody, and the way your expression changes as you speak: the subtle lift of your brows, the absent gesture of your manicured hand as you emphasize a point, the way—

The cart.

There is a cart behind him. A very real, very solid cart, stacked with books that are waiting to be sorted.

His elbow does not meet empty air so much as it fails to meet anything at all.

His balance tilts, center of gravity rearranging in a way that is both slow and horribly inevitable, and for one suspended, dreadful moment, Bucky is aware of what is about to happen, completely incapable of stopping it.

“Oh—”

The impact is catastrophic.

The cart slams into the nearest shelf with a jarring metallic crash that reverberates through the silent open space, books jolting and tipping, one slipping free entirely to hit the floor with a heavy, echoing thud that seems to stretch far longer than it should.

When the commotion dies, a religious silence settles back in its place, thick and absolute. And Bucky is on the floor, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him an escape route.

“… I meant to do that.” He strains out to no one in particular.

Somewhere nearby there is a snort that is quickly hidden by a cough. On the contrary, Darcy doesn’t even try: her laughter breaks through the quiet, too loud.

Bucky refuses to look at you. He likes to believe he still has some dignity left and he intends to preserve it for at least another three seconds.

Footsteps approach, quick and entirely unsurprising.

“Jesus, Buck.” Steve frets, already crouching beside him, one hand braced on his shoulder as he looks him over. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, dragging himself up with Steve’s help, hands brushing at his clothes in a futile attempt to appear unbothered. “Yeah, I’m great. That was—great.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I just… misjudged the space.”

“You mean you forgot about the heavy cart behind you because you were too busy daydreaming?”

Blushing, Bucky bends down at once, grabbing the nearest fallen book if only to have something to do with his hands.

“I knew it was there,” he insists under his breath, suddenly feeling too warm.

Steve leans in slightly, voice close to a whisper. “She saw everything, you know?”

If a stare could kill, he would already be at his funeral.

“I’m aware.”

“You sighed.”

Bucky freezes for half a second.

His head snaps towards his friend. “I did not.”

“You totally did.”

“I breathed, Steve. Just like any other human being.”

“That was not breathing, man, that was you yearning like a damsel in distress.”

His eyes close in dejection, as if that might erase the last thirty seconds from existence.

“I hate you.” There’s no real weight behind it.

“No, you don’t.”

“… No, I don’t.”

With a satisfied grin, Steve straightens up while Bucky gathers a precariously balanced book, gripping it a little tighter than necessary.

“C’mon,” Steve adds, nudging him lightly. “Let’s clean this up before you take out a whole shelf trying to impress her.”

“I’m not trying to impress her.” Bucky mutters.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Despite every instinct screaming at him not to, Bucky decides to glance up. Just for a fleeting peak.

You’re still by the desk half-turned toward Darcy, but your attention has shifted, your frown flickering in his direction with a kind of faint curiosity that sends electricity straight through his veins. And for one ephemeral moment, it feels like you’re looking directly at him.

His grip loosens enough for the book to slip from his hands and hit the floor.

Again.

At least Steve has the decency to press his lips together to hide his laughter. “Are you going to offer her your handkerchief now that she looked at you?”

“Shut up.” Bucky hisses, already crouching down, thoroughly, completely doomed.

Bucky has spent a considerable amount of time—far more than he would ever willingly admit—trying to convince himself that what he feels for you can be contained within the boundaries of his own mind, that can exist without demanding anything from him other than the occasional, carefully controlled glances when he’s absolutely certain no one is paying attention. Because it would be easier to carry it if it remained small and undefined and safely unspoken. A feeling that could be tucked away between routine and responsibility like a pressed flower between the pages of a book, preserved but ultimately harmless.

The problem, unfortunately, is that it has never been harmless.

Not even at the beginning. And that is something his mind recalls with a kind of stubborn clarity that refuses to fade.

It had been his first day of college, a morning that should have easily blurred into all the others, marked only by nerves and unfamiliarity and the low thrum of anticipation that comes with stepping into an entirely new world. He had been running just slightly behind schedule, not enough to cause a scene, but the lecture hall was already filling when he slipped through the back doors, shoulders drawn in just a little as if that might make him less noticeable. His bag shifted awkwardly against his side as he scanned the room for somewhere that felt sufficiently out of the way.

The space itself had been warm with early sunlight, long beams of gold stretching through tall windows illuminated the rows of seats that were already occupied by students who seemed, at least from where he stood, far more composed and certain of themselves and their place there. And Bucky, who had never been particularly skilled at navigating spaces that required that kind of confidence, had done what he always did best in these situations: move swiftly and quietly out of the way like a scared little mouse, choosing a seat that allowed him to exist without the pressure of being perceived.

The room had smelled faintly of old wood and chalk, filled with the soft murmur of conversations that wove together into a low, indistinct hum. His notebook was rigid beneath his trembling fingers, the nervous energy still alive under his skin.

And then you walked in.

There wasn’t any dramatic shift or unnecessary urgency, yet your effortless composure altered the rhythm of the room all the same.

Bucky had looked up without thinking, his attention drawn by instinct, expecting nothing more than another ordinary face to catalogue and then promptly file away as part of the background of his new routine.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. 

There had been something in the way you carried yourself: assured without feeling unapproachable, and that inexplicably held him captive.

Bucky had found himself marveling at you doing something as simple as carefully setting your things down. You then turned to face the room, your eyes sweeping briefly across the rows of students, almost pleased.

“Good morning, everyone.” You had started, voice clear and even.

At the time, he had dismissed the gentle pressure behind his ribs without much thought, attributing it to the unfamiliarity of the environment. This was a completely new experience and therefore bound to feel odd at first, so Bucky had resolutely turned his attention to his notebook, pen moving a little too frantically across the page as he attempted to anchor himself to a practical and tangible task.

However, as you spoke—not just about the material, but around it, through it, as if literature was not a bunch of static concepts to be memorized, but a universe to be explored—his attention kept shifting not to what you were saying, but to how you were saying it. To the way your hands moved when you explained a particularly important paragraph, to the small pauses you allowed yourself when choosing your words, because precision mattered more to you than simply filling the silence.

You were the professor. The kind that doesn’t just teach students concepts and ideas, but changes something fundamental in the way they see the world. You taught nineteenth and twentieth-century literature—British mostly, with the occasional American detour—and spoke about it in a way that made it feel alive and still unfolding. 

You could recite passages without looking at the pages, entire lines of Pride and Prejudice slipping easily into conversation as if they had always belonged there, as if they were simply another language you spoke fluently. And you quoted your favorite poets with the same certainty. Never showy, never exaggerated. 

You carried that knowledge with that poised, quietly seductive composure of someone who knows—knows that she knows—and because of that, never needs to raise her voice to be listened to.

Watching you interact with students was fascinating. You truly listened, fully immersing yourself in their words to the point that even hesitant responses felt worth being heard. But most importantly, Bucky noticed the way your glossy lips curled around a smile each time someone was brave enough to participate—a genuine and unguarded curve that seemed to belong more to you than to the role you were occupying.

At first, he told himself it was normal. Students notice things about their professors all the time; admiration—academic or otherwise—is not unusual, it doesn’t mean anything beyond a simple appreciation for someone who is good at their job.

He held onto that explanation for longer than he probably should have.

Through the first few weeks of returning to that lecture hall, he always chose the same general area in the back that allowed him to exist without drawing attention to himself.

Except distance, Bucky would eventually realize, did very little to lessen the effect you had on him.

Somewhere along the way, his thoughts of you had become more constant and less easily dismissed. Bucky began to notice not just the obvious aspects, but the smaller, more specific details that had no real reason to matter to a student, and yet traitorously lingered in his mind before falling asleep.

Your fingers played with the corner of the page whenever you were concentrating on a passage. Your head moved in a small, curious tilt to an unexpected answer, because as you always said, “there is no correct, absolute way to interpret literature.” Your handwriting curved just slightly to the right across the board, neat but not rigid, structured but still distinctly yours. Your voice softened when reading aloud, as if you were stepping into the text rather than simply reciting it.

And Bucky found himself anticipating those moments.

It was a gradual, subtle change that sinked rather than struck, growing steadily in the background of everything else until one day, without any clear warning, Bucky became aware of it in a way that could not be easily undone.

Sitting in that same lecture hall, long after most of the other students had left, his notebook opened in front of him though he had long since stopped writing, and listening as you gathered your things at the front of the room, he realized that what he felt had extended far beyond anything that could be reasonably categorized as harmless or temporary.

Yet, he had not said anything. Because even allowing the words to take shape in his mind had felt like crossing a line he had no right to approach, let alone step over.

So Bucky had done what he deemed best at the time.

Keep it contained.

He finished the course, handing in his assignments and accepting your feedback with reverent attention, all while maintaining that same distance he had cultivated from the beginning.

He had graduated.

He had left.

He had told himself, at some point, that it would fade. That time would do what it’s supposed to do.

Except it failed.

Because now, standing in the same building years after his first day of college—the same quiet hum surrounding him, the same soft rays filtering through the windows—and watching you laugh across the room as if no time has passed at all… his heart still tilts toward you, inevitably drawn to your light.

It was a root that burrowed deeper instead of retreating, patiently lying dormant until it became, without his permission, far too ingrained to pull free. And the truth is, he did not just develop a passing affection, or carry a fleeting admiration that lingered longer than expected.

Bucky fell in love with you.

Silently.

Completely.

And he never really found a way to fall out of it.

By the time the library begins to empty, the building itself seems to settle back after holding its breath for the entire day. Chairs sit askew where students have left them in a hurry, some pens lie abandoned on the desks, and the overhead lights seem just a fraction too bright now that there are fewer people around.

Bucky has always liked this part of the day. There is something comforting in the slow winding down and the small, predictable tasks that come with closing. It gives him something to focus on that doesn’t involve thinking too much about the way your smile lingers behind his eyelids each time they flutter close, or how his own reaction to your sole presence was… deeply unfortunate.

You had left not long after his embarrassing fall.

He had not watched you go. Not obviously, at least. But Bucky had been aware of the subtle shift in the air when you moved toward the door, your voice lowering as you said something he couldn’t quite hear from where he stood, that made Darcy smile in a knowing, almost conspiratorial way.

He had pretended not to notice.

Bucky likes to think he is very good at pretending. Which is exactly why he doesn’t immediately react when he hears footsteps approaching the desk, lighter than Steve’s, accompanied by the casual sound of hands dragging across a surface, before coming to a stop right in front of him.

“Long day?” Darcy asks, her tone light to the point that it immediately raises suspicion.

Bucky firmly keeps his eyes on the screen.

“Not really different from the others.” He shrugs. The safest answer he can give without committing to anything.

She simply hums, leisurely leaning her elbows against the desk as she studies him with open curiosity.

“You fell over today.”

Bucky’s eyes flutter close for a moment.

“I tripped.” He corrects.

“You collapsed,” she counters deadpan. “There was a whole sound effect and everything.”

Muttering, he blinks at the screen to focus back on his task. “It was an accident.”

“Right,” Darcy draws the word out. “And the sigh?”

His fingers stop over the keyboard.

“What sigh?”

“You sighed.”

“I didn’t.” 

“Yes, you did.” She grins, far too pleased with herself. “It was, like—so romantic, yet a little tragic. Honestly, if I didn’t know better I would’ve thought you were rehearsing for one of those Netflix romantic movies.”

His lips part indignantly, but nothing comes out, because arguing will only make this worse. “I was just tired.”

“From sitting at the front desk all day?”

He squints at her, nodding once. “Yes.”

Tilting her head, Darcy considers him in a way that feels dangerously teasing.

“You know,” her fingers tap lightly on the wooden surface. “It’s kind of fascinating.”

Bucky doesn’t like that word.

“What?” 

“The way you look at her.”

There it is.

He blinks, going for his best deadpan face.

“Who?”

“Her,” she repeats, saying your name. “My friend. The professor who should’ve gotten the Teaching Excellence Award last year instead of that jerk Mr. Campbell.” She rolls her eyes. “The one you definitely did not sigh at earlier.”

Bucky lets out a short, incredulous breath, a nervous scoff slipping out before he can stop it. “What? No! Why would I even do that?”

The words come out too fast and high, tripping over each other in their urgency. His head shakes just a little too quickly as he leans back slightly, like physical distance might somehow reinforce the denial.

“We barely speak to each other.”

Darcy observes him in silence for exactly three seconds. Then her lips gradually twist into a smug smirk. Not unkind, but still, it suggests she has already decided how this conversation is going to end.

“Bucky,” she starts with a raised eyebrow, regarding him almost fondly. “You look at her like she invented happiness.”

A pathetic sound claws out of his throat, caught between a laugh and a choked whimper that does absolutely nothing to help his case.

“What are you even rambling about?” He insists with an exaggerated chuckle, though the conviction is… lacking.

“Hey, it’s actually kind of impressive. I didn’t think people did that in real life.”

“Look, Darcy, I don’t—” He starts again, then his shoulders fall. There is no version of this where he wins. “I’m just… looking. People look all the time, we have eyes for a reason. It’s not that serious.”

“Didn’t know ‘not that serious’ meant staring at someone like they’re the best part of your day.”

Heat violently creeps up the back of his neck, cruelly manifesting across his face with a red blush. He turns back to the computer screen in a poor attempt to hide it.

“You’re seeing things that aren’t there.” He mutters.

She shakes her head, and her blue eyes seem to soften, but it could be a trick of the light. “Bucky, I’ve known her for years, and I’ve known you for what, a few months? And even I can tell.”

That—unfortunately—lands like a punch to his stomach.

Swallowing, his gaze drops to the way his fingers curl weakly against the edge of the keyboard.

“I don’t…” He tries again, fainter this time, because the denial thinned precariously under the weight of being seen. “It’s not—it’s nothing like that.”

Darcy doesn’t interrupt him and that somehow makes it worse.

“She’s—” He sighs. “She was my professor. She’s older, and so… amazing. And—and pretty, and she’s got her whole life together, while I’m...” 

He gestures vaguely to himself, to the desk, to the library. As if that explains everything. “This.”

There’s a brief pause.

“You’re ‘this.’” Darcy repeats, her tone pensive rather than dismissive. “And what exactly is ‘this’ supposed to mean?”

Bucky huffs a small, humorless laugh.

“Temporary,” he swallows. “Unimpressive. A guy who falls over carts in the middle of the day because he can’t—” He cuts himself off abruptly, pressing his lips together.

“Because he can’t what?”

Bucky shakes his head again, eyes hardening. “It doesn’t matter.” With his back straightening a little, he mentally retreats back into that safe cocoon made of denial and insecurity that has protected him since middle school. 

She is quiet for a moment longer, studying him far less amusedly now.

“It’s been years, hasn’t it?”

His whole body stills and that says more to her than words ever could.

Sighing, she pushes herself off the desk. “You know,” her tone is casual as she adjusts her glasses. “She likes books because they say what people can’t bring themselves to say out loud.”

Bucky glances up at that, caught slightly off guard.

His colleague simply offers him a knowing smile.

“Just… something to think about.” She adds with a light tap of her knuckles on the desk, before turning, already stepping away as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion. 

“Darcy.” Bucky protests tiredly, but the words don’t quite form anything coherent. She’s already waving him off without turning back.

“Lock up, Barnes.” She calls lightly over her shoulder. “And try not to fall over anything on the way.”

The door closes behind her with a final click, plunging the library back into a deafening silence.

Bucky stands there for a moment longer than necessary, his hands resting against the edge of the desk and his gaze unfocused as her words echo in his mind in a way he doesn’t particularly appreciate.

She likes books because they say what people can’t bring themselves to say out loud.

Exhaling and with a hand dragging down his face before letting it drop, his shoulders tighten as a sense of discomfort begins to surface in his chest.

Because it would be easy, in theory.

To do something.

To say something.

Huffing a quiet breath, Bucky shakes his head with a sad smile. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He mutters. 

The idea alone is absurd, so dangerous that he doesn’t have the courage to examine it too closely.

Because what would he even say? How would he say it?

The image forms anyway, uninvited and entirely unhelpful: him standing in front of you, words tangling somewhere between his brain and his mouth, his fingers fidgeting awkwardly and unnecessarily because they never know where to go, his voice catching on something as simple as your name—

He grimaces.

“Yeah,” he murmurs dryly, reaching for the stack of keys as he steps out from behind the desk. “That would go so well.”

He moves through the library methodically, switching off lights one section at a time, the space dimming in stages as shadows stretch across the shelves. By the time he finishes, the only light left is the soft, warm glow on the desk.

He pauses there, keys still jingling in hand, his tired reflection faintly visible on the black computer screen. With a tired sigh, Bucky reaches forward and turns the lamp off.

The click of the lock echoes faintly in the empty space, and just like that, another day is over. 

Morning, in theory, is supposed to fix things.

It’s a universally accepted fact: sleep settles thoughts. Tangled and overwhelming woes will loosen with rest, and even a few hours of unconsciousness create order and resolution where there was none. A reset that doesn’t require effort.

Unfortunately, this morning proves, with irritating efficiency, that theory and reality have very little interest in aligning. Because when Bucky wakes up, there is only a dull, persistent pressure behind his eyes that comes from thinking too much and sleeping too little, and the immediate awareness that nothing has been resolved overnight. In fact, if anything, as soon as his eyes snap open, his stomach starts somersaulting in ways that make focusing on anything else significantly harder.

His first conscious thought is, inevitably, you.

His second is the memory of yesterday.

He exhales slowly into his pillow, pressing his face against it like that might physically muffle his thoughts.

“Shit.” He mutters, voice still rough from hours of disuse.

He lies there for a moment longer, staring at nothing and fully aware that going back to sleep is not an option. Lingering in bed will only allow his mind to spiral harder.

So he gets up and carries it with him anyway.

By the time he reaches the library, the day has already begun without him. Once he pushes the door open, it’s the echo of familiar voices easily threading together that hits him first, suggesting an unspoken complicity built over shared breakfast and coffee breaks lasting more than they should.

Steve is leaning against the front desk, coffee in one hand and posture relaxed in that effortless way that means he has been awake and productive for hours. Sam is right beside him, mid-sentence, gesturing lightly with a half-eaten pastry, while Darcy stands across from them behind the desk, her own cup balanced precariously in one hand as she guffaws at something Sam has just said.

It’s… too lively. Especially for someone whose brain is still trying to catch up with the rest of his body.

“I’m telling you,” Sam warns jokingly. “If he falls again today, I’m not helping him.”

“Mind to remind us exactly when you ever helped?” Darcy asks, incredulous. “From where I was standing, you looked like you were choking on your own laughter.”

“Hey, I offered emotional support. And don’t act like you weren’t cackling on this same desk.” 

“Sam, you almost fell from your chair. You had tears in your eyes.”

He side-eyes Steve offended. “Because I was thinking about his wellbeing, man.”

Bucky seriously considers turning around. Ultimately, he decides against it, because that would be suspicious and he is already operating at a disadvantage.

When he steps fully inside, all three heads turn toward him almost automatically.

There is a brief, collective pause, before chaos descends upon him.

“Well, look who survived the big, bad cart.” Sam smirks with entirely too much energy.

Bucky simply sighs, regretting getting up from his bed.

“Good morning to you too.” He mutters, walking toward them and hoping they will drop the topic if he doesn’t engage too much.

“Good morning.” Steve echoes, his tone noticeably lighter than usual, which is never a good sign.

Darcy, on the other hand, narrows her eyes at him.

“You look terrible.” 

“Thanks.” Bucky replies flatly.

“You’re welcome.”

Sam leans forward on the wooden surface, arms crossed and eyes studying him with a barely concealed grin. “Did you sleep at all, or did you just lie there thinking about your life choices?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, which does nothing to stop him. 

“Man,” Sam continues, shaking his head. “You really committed to the tortured lover bit.”

“It’s not a bit.” Bucky sighs, dropping his bag on a chair.

Steve simply watches him, quieter and more observant, his gaze flicking briefly over the tension in Bucky’s shoulders and the slight heaviness in his movements.

“You okay?” 

Bucky simply shrugs. “Fine.”

His friend hums doubtful but doesn’t push. Sam, however, is desperately waiting for a reaction.

“So,” he claps his hands once. “About yesterday—”

“No.” Bucky’s head snaps toward him. 

Darcy beams. “Oh, we’re absolutely talking about yesterday.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Bucky insists, already bracing himself.

“You fell.” Sam counts on one finger.

“For fuck’s sake—I tripped.” 

“You sighed.” Steve adds.

“I breathed.”

“You were in absolute awe.” Darcy counters with a beam.

“I was just curious.”

“I thought you were about to fall to your knees and ask her to marry you in the quad.” Sam smirks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“What—” He sputters, his cheeks quickly turning red at the slight implication of you... marrying him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means,” Darcy cuts in, her tone taking a more serious note. “That you need to do something about it, Barnes. Now.”

Bucky looks at her like she grew a second head, then tucks his chin down, fidgeting with a stack of random papers lying close to the computer.

“Can we not do this right now? I slept like shit, my head is throbbing and I’m only running on a cup of coffee because I didn’t have any cereal left. Just… please.” 

Sam exchanges a fleeting, subtle look with Steve, before his lips part, eliciting a stressed groan out of Bucky.

“What if,” he hums, like the thought has just occurred to him, nothing more than a passing idea with no real weight behind it. “You just… didn’t talk to her.”

Bucky frowns.

“Is this a joke? I already don’t.”

“No, I mean on purpose.” He clarifies, eyebrows raising knowingly. “Like, instead of overthinking every conversation into oblivion.”

With a tired exhale, his eyes close momentarily as if the action alone could give him the strength to deal with his nosy friends. “Sam, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does,” his friend insists, straightening up. “Okay, listen. You’re bad at talking—or whatever it is that you do with her—we’ve already established that.”

“Thank you.” He replies sarcastically.

“So stop trying to talk!”

Bucky stares at him deadpan, mouth opening and closing as his brain elaborates.

“That is the worst advice you’ve ever given me!”

“Not talking is not the same as saying nothing.” Steve corrects quietly.

Bucky’s eyes land on him, more suspicious than confused. “What are you getting at?”

Darcy sets her coffee down with an air of finality. “Sam’s trying to suggest an alternative method.”

“Which is?”

Said man gestures vaguely. “Anything that isn’t you standing there and short-circuiting in real time.”

“That’s not—” Bucky sputters, frustrated. “I don’t short-circuit.”

All three look at him with different degrees of amusement, to which he can only sigh, tension leaving his shoulders at once.

“… Okay, I guess sometimes I kind of short-circuit.”

“Sometimes, he says… ” Sam coughs. “Anyway, just don’t put yourself in a position where you have to speak.”

“So what should I do?” Bucky asks sincerely curious for the first time that morning.

At his friend’s shrug, his head falls back dejected.

“This is going nowhere.”

At that point Darcy crosses her arms, leaning forward on the desk, eyes solemn and fixed on Bucky’s.

“Barnes, you don’t have to tell her… everything. No one’s expecting you to stand in front of her and confess your feelings like a fucking Hallmark movie.”

“Good,” Bucky mutters. “Because I’m not doing that.”

“But you could communicate something.” She continues.

“It’s not like I never talk to her.”

“I mean, you say ‘hi’.” Steve shrugs, grimacing at the memory of his friend nearly tripping over his own feet the time they ran into you in the hallway last month—one of the rare times they’d managed to pry him away from the library for more than five minutes.

Bucky points at him, pleased. “See?”

“Barnes, that’s barely a syllable.”

He frowns. “Okay, so what do you want me to do then?”

There’s a brief pause, the silence too heavy for Bucky to sustain and he’s ready to put an end once and for all to this useless discussion, but then Darcy shrugs nonchalantly. 

“Write it down.”

He freezes.

“What?”

“Write it down,” she repeats, like it’s obvious. “You’re better when you have time to think, not to mention the effect her mere presence has on you. Right? So think. Then write.”

“That’s—no,” Bucky frowns. “No, that sounds so much worse! That’s permanent.”

“It’d be on a piece of paper.” Sam quips up. “It’s literally the least permanent thing. One wrong gust of wind and puff, it’s gone.”

“You don’t even have to sign it.” Steve adds.

Hesitation glints in his blue eyes as they silently jump between their hopeful faces.

“You’re asking me,” he says slowly. “To write her a note.”

“No,” Sam corrects. “We’re asking you to write her a love note.”

“There is a difference.” Steve’s eyebrows wiggle teasingly.

“A very important one.” Darcy nods.

Sighing, Bucky’s gaze drops briefly to nothing in particular, his thoughts already starting to move faster than he can keep up with.

It’s a bad idea. It tastes like something he’s going to definitely regret a few months from now, like taking on a hobby you were so certain it was going to be funny and stimulating, but now it only steals your patience and money.

And then what’s he going to do when you are going to eventually find out the notes came from him? Resign and move to another state? How is he going to face you?

But what scares him the most, is the fact that the idea of confessing doesn’t feel as impossibly pathetic as it did yesterday night. 

“He’s thinking about it.” Sam sings songs into his cup of coffee. 

“I’m not—” Bucky starts, then shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

Darcy takes a sip of his coffee. “I think you do, but you don’t have to come up with something from scratch. You already know the kind of books she likes.”

Bucky’s chest tightens faintly.

“Yeah.” He sighs, eyes timidly meeting the floor. “That I do.”

“Borrow something,” she continues. “Then make it yours. Oh! If it helps,” she perks up. “She’s coming by later for The End of the Affair. We’ve got this weird tradition going on every spring—I randomly pick one book for her every week and she treats it like rewatching a comfort show, except it’s all different love stories on pages instead of seasons on a screen.”

Bucky lets out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction, not exactly in defeat but in something closer to reluctant consideration. His lips press together, before resolutely looking his friends in the eyes.

“One.” His voice breaks embarrassingly, like it costs him everything to say it out loud. “Just one and… we see how it goes.”

Sam’s grin lights up the entire room.

“All we need is for you to try.” Steve gives him a pat of encouragement, though Bucky could use a lot more than that right now.

Just a note and they’ll finally leave him alone.

You arrive later in the day, the end of your teaching hours bleeding into the tranquil part of the afternoon, when the library becomes more about the familiar rhythm of study sessions and exchanging small pieces of conversation that never feel particularly rushed.

When you walk in, Bucky is at the front desk, pretending to be busy with some books he has already sorted twice.

“Hello, James.” You greet him easily, his name warmly rolling on your tongue like this is just another part of your day and not a personal attack to his soul that makes his entire nervous system briefly forget how to function.

Bucky looks up and immediately regrets it when he meets your eyes.

“Hi.” He answers, too quickly, too quietly, and then clears his throat as if that might fix the way it came out. “Hi.”

It doesn’t fix it at all. His ears go slightly red but you don’t seem to notice. Or if you do, you are kind enough to not comment.

“Long day?” You set your bag down and lean into the desk’s edge, one hand closing softly as your temple rests against it.

“Uh, kinda. Well, it’s nothing compared to that of a professor.” His fingers fidget nervously.

You smile faintly at that, like you understand more than you let on. “Don’t underestimate your job, James. You’re surrounded by voices that refused to disappear. And you take care of them. That counts for more than you think.”

His lips part slightly, failing to find any words that could rival your beautiful mind. He isn’t used to hearing his job described like it holds weight, more meaningful than a temporary position and a set of tasks he performs without thinking too much about them. 

Before he can think about anything worthy enough, your eyes glance sideways as Darcy appears from the back.

“There you are,” she bubbles. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me.”

“I would never skip our afternoon gossip session.”

Bucky watches as the conversation flows without effort, leaving him standing just slightly outside of a bubble he doesn’t quite know how to enter. It’s actually adorable how his eyes try to stick to the books in front of him, yet still end up on you.

Darcy disappears again almost as quickly as she appeared, muttering something about “perfect placement” and leaving you and Bucky in a quieter space that immediately becomes more noticeable.

“I swear she gets more dramatic every week.” 

Bucky huffs something that might be a laugh if it were louder.

“Seems… consistent characterization.” He manages, regretting it the second it leaves his mouth.

There’s a pause in which Bucky considers walking into the nearest shelf and staying there, but then you smile. At him. Because of him. It’s a shy curve, amused and fleeting, that makes his heartbeat accelerate just enough to hope you won’t hear it.

His eyes are already flying away from your beautiful face, hands reaching for the nearest thing like it might save him from the way his blood is pumping wildly in his veins.

His fingers close around a stapler. A fucking stapler.

Your eyes follow his movements, until they are distracted by a book lying nearby with a yellow post-it stuck to the cover, your name elegantly written on it.

“Oh,” you perk up. “She picked it already?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods once, your fingers lingering over the cover as if touching an old friend. The shift in your expression is immediate: the tiredness doesn’t disappear so much as it gives way, naturally bringing you back to life. He watches it happen with quiet wonder, struck by how easily something simple as a book can reach the very core of your soul.

“Mmh,” you turn it in your hands. “Good one to start my yearly re-reading.”

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Thought so too.”

You glance up at that, curious, but before the moment can stretch too far, Darcy reappears again to insert herself between you both with suspicious efficiency, and the conversation drifts easily into lighter territory, from complaints about deadlines to a sarcastic comment about your best friend’s enthusiasm for emotionally ruining you with the book she picked.

Bucky listens more than he speaks—as usual—until eventually, you gather your things, saying your goodbyes with the same lovely smile, and then you are gone again, slipping back out into the world beyond the library. One where Bucky can’t follow you.

So he stays behind, his stomach churning as your perfume invades his nostrils, and his cheeks warm, the same color of a strawberry.

The parking lot is less busier than expected as you settle into your car with ease, dropping your bag onto the passenger seat. A soft exhale claws out of your throat, your shoulders finally loosening and your head momentarily resting back against the headrest.

It’s only when you reach for your bag to adjust it properly that something about the book feels slightly off.

The edge of a white paper is sticking out from between the pages, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. You pause, frowning at it as you pick it up carefully. For a moment, you assume it must be nothing: maybe a forgotten bookmark, or a note Darcy accidentally left there. It wouldn’t be the first time it happens. She often leaves her things at your apartment, later in the week complaining about having lost them.

Still, there is something about the way it’s folded that makes curiosity swirl in your stomach as you open it with caution.

“I couldn't have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.”

Of course you would recognize it immediately given how many times you have already read it. It’s a passage from the book itself, written in careful handwriting. Deliberately selected. And it’s… beautiful in its simplicity; romantic in a way that makes your breath slow without you meaning it to.

You read it once again, smiling softly at the gentle words.

And then you finally notice the second part.

“I hope your day was kind to you.

Love, B”

The shift in your expression is immediate. Because that is something personal, directed not toward a character, but toward you.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edges as your heart gives a small, unexpected lurch, catching you off guard to the point you bring your palm to your chest just to make sure your body is still functioning. Sitting still, your mind tries to make sense of what you are seeing, and the thought of the note being a mistake crosses your mind pretty quickly. 

A misunderstanding, right.

Maybe this B left the note for someone else.

Maybe it’s a joke.

But the words are too intentional. A quiet, sincere message that doesn’t feel performative yet is entirely too thoughtful, causing your cheeks to heat up. It seems to be directed at you but you don’t link the signature to anyone in particular.

Your stomach twists in a strange, fluttering sensation as you read it one last time. Then, you finally lower the paper and stare at the parking lot in front of you for a moment longer, before carefully folding the note back up with trembling fingers, your pulse still uneven and your thoughts scattered in a way you don’t fully trust yet.

It could be nothing. But it doesn’t feel like nothing.

Once the note is safely placed back inside the same pages, almost reverently, you slip the book into your bag, out of your sight. 

The sky is gradually darkening with soft hues of orange and pink and you still need to stop by the store to buy some produce, yet you allow yourself to sit in silence for a couple of minutes, hands lightly resting on the steering wheel and gaze lost somewhere far away. And when you finally decide to start your car, the radio blasting some latest pop song, your thoughts can’t help but circle back to the words you just read.

You

say… do you know anything about a certain piece of paper inside the book you gave me?

Darcy

a piece of paper?

oh shit is it the receipt for that blue shirt I’m supposed to return tomorrow? bc if I miss it again I’m gonna lose those 60 dollars for good 😭

You

I thought you returned that yesterday? btw I don’t know what it is, looks like a love note I think? is this your umpteenth “subtle” way to tell me I have to start dating?

Darcy

no you said you were coming with me tomorrow

oh? I have no clue what you mean 😇

maybe the books took pity on your nonexistent love life and are finally starting to write back to you? wouldn’t that be something?

You

fuck off 🙄

Darcy

love you too <3

“He could not be mistaken. There were no other eyes like those in the world. There was only one creature in the world who could concentrate for him all the brightness and meaning of life. It was she.”

You don’t notice it, but your smile lights up every corner of my world.

Love, B

The following week, the book comes home with you without attention, just another familiar weight in your bag that you don’t think twice about once class starts.

It’s only later in your apartment, when you are finally allowed to exist without answering to anything or anyone, that you reach for it again almost absently. Now comfortable on your couch, you are already halfway into the thrilling anticipation of losing yourself in yet another story that has nothing to demand from you, except attention.

Once you open it, something small slips out before you even register the change in weight. The folded piece of paper lands on your knees with no sound, yet you flinch anyway. For a long moment you just stare at it with wide eyes, because this can’t be an accident, not anymore. 

The first note could have been an oversight, something forgotten, or probably meant for someone else. That’s why it had been easy, then, to push it into the background of your thoughts and let it become a harmless detail in an otherwise ordinary week.

Your fingers move before your brain fully agrees to it, the paper already familiar in its structure now: the same placement of a line from the book first, and beneath it, a simple, personal addition, almost disarming in how unremarkable it tries to appear.

Your eyes trace the words slowly, as if savoring every letter.

There is a particular kind of attention in it that doesn’t feel casual. Not in the way people are ordinarily kind, or polite. This feels like someone has been observing without announcing it, leaving behind traces of themselves instead of explanations.

When was the last time anything in your life felt like it was aimed at you specifically, rather than at the role you occupy, the version of you that is expected to respond in proper, predictable ways? And who would do something like this? Not in the dramatic sense of confessions, but in this understated, quiet way of slipping fragments of themself into pages, trusting that you would find them when you were meant to.

It feels almost intimate in its restraint.

And as your mind tries to analyze that, it naturally reaches for an old memory—an unconscious comparison. A place where you’ve been before, back when everything at work still felt new and open.

At some point in the last months of your previous relationship, your ex was part of your life like those people who exist just close enough to feel superficially involved. There were evenings you’d come home carrying the day still alive in you: students who had sparked a debate with their brilliant answers; stimulating discussions that had shifted something in your thinking; all the small, unremarkable moments that shaped your job into something more than a simple obligation.

He listened as if you were talking about the weather.

And over time, you learned how to adjust yourself around that. To smooth out the edges of your enthusiasm before offering it.

Your jaw tightens at how miserable you were.

After you broke up, you didn’t stop loving love. You just stopped expecting it to arrive in a form that chose you back. Books filled that space more easily than people ever did, love stories especially—those could be held at a distance, experienced without consequence. You could allow yourself to feel everything without needing to risk what came after. 

Until now.

The note in your hand doesn’t feel like it was ever meant to remain tucked away between the pages of a book. But you have to remind yourself to keep your feet on the ground. It’s too easy to misread things like this, assigning meaning where none is intended.

You should stop here. You almost fold it back and place it on the coffee table like an afterthought, ready to jump straight into the first page. But then, uninvited, a face appears at the edge of your memory.

The person you have seen behind the desk more than once. The way he looks up too quickly when you approach, as if he can sense your presence the moment you cross the threshold. The carefulness of his voice when he speaks to you. The way he seems to take up less space when you are near.

James.

You exhale sharply, as if that alone can dismiss the thought.

Sweet, kind and clumsy in a way that makes him easy to underestimate and difficult not to notice. But also younger, and most importantly, your student once, even if those years have settled behind you both by now.

There are boundaries that people like you don’t cross. And yet, the thought refuses to leave.

Sighing, you fold the note with precision, as if returning it to order might also restore the sense of control you are gradually losing track of. You tell yourself, as you set it aside, that there is probably a logical explanation behind this. Many things sound unreasonable when analyzed under the microscope between the walls of your own mind. But even as you try to convince yourself of that, you are aware that something in the air between you and that possibility has shifted. This is starting to become a pattern, and patterns begin to ask for interpretation whether you want them to or not.

The thought of someone seeing you as a creature that could hold that kind of light is enough to make your lips curl into a serene smile for the rest of the night.

“Do I love you? My god, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.”

You seemed a little tired today. I hope you’re being gentle with yourself.

Love, B

Sam is the reason Bucky is outside at all.

“Man, if I have to watch you reorganize the same shelf one more time, I’m reporting you.” He had said an hour earlier, already halfway to the front door before Bucky could argue. “You need air. Sunlight. Human interaction that isn’t whispering.”

“I talk to people.” Bucky had protested under his breath, grabbing his jacket anyway.

“Yeah,” Sam shot back, holding the door open. “At a volume only ghosts can hear.”

Now they’re crossing the quad on their way back to lunch, the faint bitterness of coffee still lingering on his tongue as the campus feels alive but not too overwhelming. Students are scattered across the grass, their smiles tired and their bags dropped carelessly by their side.

Sam is talking about something Bucky isn’t entirely following, gesturing with what remains of his drink, when it happens.

The collision is light, but the consequence is deadly for his poor heart.

You’re walking toward them from the opposite path, a heavy tote bag slipping slightly from your shoulder, completely focused on something you’re pulling out of it.

Bucky sees you before you see him but he doesn’t move out of the way fast enough. The impact of your arms bumping is barely more than a firm brush, but it’s enough to knock the balance out of what you’re holding.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry!” Bucky startles, already reaching forward as the books in your arm tilt dangerously. You manage to catch most of them, but a few slip free anyway, hitting the concrete with a dull thud.

“No no, it’s okay, that was me.” You apologize quickly, crouching down to pick them up, though you’re a fraction slower than usual, like your body is lagging behind your intention.

He is already on the ground, hands closing around your books before you can reach them, then arranging them in a neat stack.

“Sorry.” He mutters again, offering them back to you, though he doesn’t let go right away, not when you look this tired. Your fingers brush against each other for an ephemeral moment, causing a shiver to run down his spine, and when you straighten up, your eyes finally land on him.

“Oh, James!” Your eyebrows lift in surprise, voice warming almost instantly. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Bucky parrots back, a little breath caught in the word.

Up close, it’s easier to notice the heaviness under your eyes and the lazy curve of your smile—it takes a bit more effort to reach your face. Yet it’s the sparkle he’s used to see in your movements that worries him the most. The energy is still there but buried a little deeper than usual.

“You okay?” The question slips out before he can filter it, his eyebrows furrowing.

You blink, caught off guard not by the question itself but by how swiftly and directly he gets there.

“Yeah.” You nod at first. A small, polite answer that is meant to close the subject rather than invite more questions.

Although Bucky doesn’t say anything, something in his expression must give him away, because you let out a small breath that turns into a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Is it that obvious?”

He shrugs, a little awkward now that he realizes he crossed a line.

“Only if you’re paying attention.” He mumbles, then promptly looks down, like he’s said too much.

“Okay, I’m a little tired.” You admit, shifting the books against your chest. “It’s been a long week, nothing to worry about.”

Bucky hums pensively, like he’s been expecting that answer. “Yeah, you look—” He stops himself, frowning. “Not bad. Just—tired.”

You beam properly for the first time that day, a hint of amusement breaking through the lack of sleep.

“Wow. You really know how to cheer a woman up.”

“I didn’t mean—” His eyes go comically wide. “I just—”

The words trip over themselves before he can stop them.

“You are always beautiful.” He blurts out, too fast, too honest.

You still, eyebrows raised in shock. But as Bucky feels his stomach drop somewhere near his shoes, your expression brightens in a way that he almost feels like he has died and gone to his own personal heaven.

“Oh, thank you.” You momentarily glance down, a coy smile taking over your lips. Your voice is a low, breathy thing, but it lands heavier than anything else in the conversation so far.

His brain scrambles uselessly for damage control, for something to say that might undo the moment, but everything just sounds worse before it even forms completely.

Behind him, Sam lets out a quiet, poorly concealed snort, but Bucky ignores it.

“I—” He starts again, yet you’re still smiling at him. Which, somehow, makes it infinitely worse.

“You should get some rest,” he swallows, in a last, desperate attempt to direct the conversation. “If you can.”

It’s simple, a bit clumsy even with the way he can’t seem to meet your eyes as you study him like you’re not used to people saying that and meaning it.

“I will,” you nod. “Thank you, James.”

His hands twitch at his sides, wishing he could offer to carry your books, your bag, or say something useful, something that might actually help and not further push him to hide forever—but words fail him, dying in his throat.

You shift your weight slightly, lips parting as if you are about to say something else, when your gaze flicks past Bucky’s shoulder and lands on the man watching the scene like his favorite reality show.

“Oh—Sam?” You greet him, a little surprised.

His friend straightens immediately, stepping forward with a grin that’s just a little too knowing.

“Miss—” He starts, out of instinct more than anything else.

You groan softly, already shaking your head. “Oh God, no. Please don’t. We are not doing that.” You chuckle. “We are almost colleagues at this point. Or close enough, Doctor Wilson.”

Sam lifts his hands in surrender. “Force of habit.”

“It makes me feel ancient.” You add jokingly.

“You look far from ancient, professor.” Sam shoots back easily with a friendly wink.

Bucky glances between the two of you laughing like two old friends, a knot forming in his throat at how naturally the conversation unfolds, how easily Sam fits into it.

“How are you doing?” You ask him, genuine interest threading through your tone.

“Good,” Sam crosses his arms to his chest. “A lot more busy. They’ve got me running around a lot, but I guess that’s part of the deal.”

“You’ll be great at it.” You state without hesitation.

Sam grins. “Yeah, I know.”

You laugh at that, shaking your head.

“I’m serious,” you add a tad more serious. “You’ve got the right instinct for helping people.”

Sam briefly glances down at that, not used to compliments. “I appreciate that.”

There’s nothing wrong—nothing Bucky can point to and say this is why—and maybe that’s what makes it worse. Your interaction with his friend isn’t forced, not tentative in the way it always seems to be with him. It flows, not leaving room for hesitation, and hesitation is the only language Bucky’s ever been fluent in.

His hands keep hovering uselessly at his sides before one of them comes up to rub the back of his neck, an old habit he falls into when he feels disquieted. For a moment, he considers stepping in, adding something—anything—but he wouldn’t even know where to begin. He would rather leave in silence than try inserting himself into a rhythm that would carry on just fine without him, and probably end up being ignored. Even if he knows rationally that neither of you would do that to him.

So he stays where he is, half a step behind, listening. As usual.

You nod once, satisfied, then glance back at Bucky.

“Well,” you give him a little smile, drained but real, adjusting your grip on the books again. “I should let you both get back to it.”

“Yeah,” It comes out as an involuntary whisper, so Bucky quickly clears his throat. “See you.”

“See you around, James.”

You give Sam a small wave, then turn, walking across the quad until you gradually blend back into the movement of the campus.

There’s a beat of silence in which Bucky is still looking longingly in your direction, when Sam exhales.

“Wow.”

“I mean, wow.” He repeats at the lack of response, dragging the word out this time. “You just stand there and do that with no warning?”

“Do what?” Bucky mutters, already starting to move again.

His friend falls into step beside him, shaking his head. “You ever notice you stop blinking around her or is that just me?”

Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he continues, completely undeterred. “You were gone. I could’ve run around naked and you wouldn’t have even noticed.”

“I wasn’t that distracted.” Bucky replies flatly.

“Liar,” Sam counters. “You didn’t even know I was still there until she spotted me.”

Bucky can’t argue, because for once he’s right, but Sam doesn’t need to know that.

His friend shoots him a sidelong glance, lips already twisting into a small smirk. “You’re in trouble.”

He sighs tiredly, yet doesn’t even try to deny it.

“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... I have loved none but you.”

I get the feeling I’m already in deeper than I have any right to be.

Love, B

Darcy called it a “fair” exchange, half-sprawled against the front desk earlier that afternoon while Bucky pretended to log the latest entry of the day, hopeful she would eventually forget the whole thing if he looked busy enough.

“I helped you with the note thing,” she stated, like it was a perfectly reasonable transaction. “I require my payment now.”

He had eventually agreed, which in hindsight felt like the first mistake of the day.

It’s simple, really. In and out. Pick a pastry, hand the money and run back to the library where words are predictable and the space knows his name.

But the cafeteria is loud, exposed. Trays clattering, chairs scraping, too many conversations overlapping so nothing can be separated cleanly. And too many people existing too close together without thinking about it.

Bucky moves through it like he’s slightly out of sync with the floor beneath him. He’s been here before throughout these past few years, of course. With Sam, Steve… even Darcy recently, when she drags him out on their breaks, talking the entire time so he doesn’t have to. But being here alone makes such an ordinary task sound impossible. He is suddenly aware of his damp hands and how he shouldn’t let them hover uselessly at his sides. Of his posture, too straight or not straight enough. Of the fact that no one is guiding him through the space with casual familiarity, splitting the crowd ahead of him with easy conversation that makes him feel less like an intruder.

Bucky eventually reaches the display case feeling like he’s halfway through a side-quest that tastes more and more like an ambush. Pastries sit behind the glass in neat rows, almost judgmental in their little safe corner, yet he doesn’t really see them. His focus keeps slipping, attention unable to find anything to attach itself to for more than a second.

Two options blur together in his mind.

He should just pick one. It doesn’t matter, it’s just pastries. 

But he hesitates too long. A couple behind him shifts closer. Someone laughs too loudly nearby and it hits his ears too suddenly, his shoulders tightening instinctively, like his body is trying to make itself smaller.

He should choose. He should leave. He should do anything that involves not standing still like an idiot.

And then, without his permission, his eyes dart away mindlessly, stopping right to the far end of the room, on a face he knows too well. And the chaos is entirely forgotten.

You are here—always somewhere inside the rhythm of the building. But Mr. Fowler is here too, seated across from you like it’s the most natural arrangement in the world.

Professor Fowler is a math genius. He is always composed, always too comfortable in spaces that aren’t entirely his, sporting that cunning smile as if he were the sole keeper of the secret to having the last word in every conversation.

You are leaning forward, hands moving animatedly as you talk about something that matters more than anything else in the room. Maybe a student’s absurd answer in one of your quizzes. Or maybe is it something more personal? It doesn’t really matter, because Fowler is laughing and there’s nothing polite about that. He genuinely finds it funny. There is no hesitation, no carefulness.

And you answer that at once, smiling at him so easily.

That’s the first word that comes to mind, uninvited and unhelpful. Ease, Bucky realizes with unpleasant clarity, has a shape, and you and Fowler fit inside it without effort.

He has heard things before. Even if they came from voices that don’t matter, they start to form patterns when they repeat often enough in passing corridors, in the kind of giggles that bubble when something is slyly assumed.

Your names are linked together too lightly, followed by a glance that suggests there is nothing to confirm and nothing to deny, just the ultimate assumption everyone makes when two well-matched people keep ending up in the same orbit: both of them good-looking, established, sharp in their own fields. The sort of pairing that doesn’t need to be announced to feel plausible, which somehow makes it worse than a confirmation would have.

Bucky realizes he has stopped breathing properly at some point during that realization. His hands still hold nothing useful, and the counter is now farther than he remembers, his body having gradually drifted away without noticing. 

Across the room, Fowler says something, and this time you laugh—properly, head tipping back and eyes squeezing shut. And there is nothing performative in it, only familiarity unfolding candidly between you like it has always been there.

It feels real.

And it doesn’t include him.

He should have left the moment this stopped feeling like speculation and started looking like certainty. 

There are people who move through the world as if it already recognizes them, and people who don’t quite manage to step into that recognition without friction. So Bucky turns away and doesn’t look back.

There is no point in that, not when your smiles are for another man.

When he finally reaches the library, Darcy’s voice catches him before he can fully disappear into the stacks.

“Barnes,” she calls, far too bright for the way his day has just fractured. “Where is my muffin?”

“They ran out of pastries.” The shock at the way his own mind promptly provides him with a convincing lie doesn’t manifest on his face.

Darcy squints at his back like she is trying to decide whether something happened or it’s just one of his days. “You okay?”

With a non-committal hum, Bucky keeps walking until he’s standing in his usual dark corner, no memory of the steps in between and the people he brushed past along the way. The books are already there, waiting in the same order, and for a moment he simply stands in front of them.

Then, almost mechanically, he begins to rearrange them.

Not because they need it.

“She did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it.”

Sometimes I think standing too close to you would be enough to undo me. I find myself stopping thoughts before they become something I can’t easily take back.

Love, B

A single touch of his shoulder was enough for his cock to stir. Well, it wasn’t just that.

Bucky was talking with Steve in front of the library when he spotted you and Darcy making your way back after your break.

He didn’t realize he stopped speaking mid-response until Steve glanced at you and then back at him with understanding.

The effortless grace in your movements made it impossible for him to look away, a mixture of admiration and longing dancing in his own blue eyes... until they landed on your outfit. The skirt you were wearing moved differently than the ones he was used to, shorter and tight enough to sinfully cling onto the flesh of your thighs covered by sheer, light fabric that made his breath hitch embarrassingly loud.

And then you had come closer, and his knees almost buckled when he noticed how much skin your shirt was revealing. It’s pretty hot today and you were here for a conference organized by the Department of Literature. It’s only normal for you to put a little more effort in your outfits when you are not in class; you could be a little bit bolder.

The open collar was covering almost all of your breasts, still, the curve of your tits was completely visible for his eyes to feast upon.

The final blow was you touching him. You’re mid-sentence, when your foot caught on the uneven pavement, and his body just had to react before thinking. His hand was already around your waist, your fingers going for the nearest thing for support: his shoulder. You ground yourself for a moment as you corrected your step, thanking him with a sweet smile that will haunt him for weeks.

It was barely contact. An instinctive touch and nothing more.

Still, now he can’t stop the phantom brush of your digits on his covered skin from giving him goosebumps. Or the tingling sensation on his palm as it closes uselessly around nothing, trying to remember what the curve of your waist felt like.

It wasn’t long before Bucky had to excuse himself, conveniently holding his jacket in his arms because of the hot weather and low enough to hide his big bulge.

The walk to the restroom was nothing short of humiliating. He felt like every single pair of eyes was burning through his skin, judging him for popping a boner in the middle of a conversation with the prettiest woman in the world wrapped in tight silk and nylon.

It’s not the first time Bucky comes with your name on his lips, and images of you moaning and crying out under him rolling in his mind like the lewdest of movies. Still, it never happened in a public place.

As soon as he locks the door behind him, Bucky’s slacks are so unbearably tight he clumsily unhooks his belt, lowering them enough to relieve the growing pressure on his erection. He wishes to indulge in one of his perverted fantasies so bad, but it doesn’t feel right. Not here.

In a desperate attempt to calm down, he presses his back against the wall, sweat causing his hair to cling to his forehead and eyes squeezing shut. Until the image of the swell of your breasts comes back traitorously behind his closed eyelids, and that soon transforms into your naked tits bouncing in front of his face, nipples hard and glistening with his spit after he thoroughly kissed and sucked and pinched the sensitive nubs.

Yes, in his mind you are a sensitive little thing that needs her breasts worshipped. If he had a little more experience, Bucky is certain he could make you come just by toying with your nipples.

And then he thinks about that damn skirt. His fingers would lightly trace your soft skin covered by the pantyhose, ripping the fabric apart just to hear you gasp, and then taking his time in covering your pretty thighs with his mark.

Bucky always starts with the best intentions: slow, light touches, trying to make the pleasure last as long as possible. But he is far too eager to wait. He could learn to be patient for you, though. Edge you and himself for hours until you can’t take it anymore, indulge in your shaky thighs squeezing his head as his tongue teases your clit to bring you so close... and then pull away just to hear you beg and whimper for him to fuck you until you pass out, until the only thing your mind can remember is his name, and your pussy the shape of his cock.

A whimper claws out of his throat when his fingers instinctively reach down, wrapping around his length. Bucky is both long and thick, his palm sliding up and down, following the upward curve so easily. A shiver runs down his spine when he focuses on the tip, smooth and rounded, his hips jerking forward as his thumb smears precum across the crown.

He is sure you wouldn’t have any problems taking him. You are a determined, strong woman, and even if the stretches would burn at the beginning and your cheeks would be wet with fat tears of overstimulation, you’d still look down at him like a goddess with her favorite devotee, stubbornness burning in your eyes as you’d ride him with the little strength left.

Brows furrowed in concentration and head thrown back against the white wall, Bucky strokes his cock at a steady pace, lips parted around muffled breaths and low groans that fall into the palm pressed firmly against his mouth. At some point his eyes snap open, traveling down to the space between his legs, and his brain must really hate him, because it offers the image of you knelt there, shirt unbuttoned and skirt bunched at your hips, enough to expose your wet core. Your hand plays with his balls while your glossy lips stretch around his cock.

“Just like that, baby—fuck—”

His hips twitch in wild, frantic thrusts, the sloppy, wet sounds of his fingers picking up their pace echoing in the empty restroom. He is throbbing at the phantom feeling of your tongue tracing the veins and your lips closing around his tip to suckle on it like a damn lollipop.

He isn’t prepared for the violent, abrupt wave of pleasure that hits him only a few seconds later. Ropes of cum steadily paint his palm, a few, thin stripes spurting on the floor as his choked groans die behind pressed lips.

When the room finally stops spinning, Bucky tiredly slumps back against the wall, eyes accidentally falling on the mirror right in front of him. His chest heaves with rugged breaths and his hands are now dirty with his own cum. The sight makes his already red cheeks look like two tomatoes.

His cock is still out and half-hard—it makes such a crude picture next to his creased pants and underwear.

Only then shame curls hot in his belly.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel.”

There are people you admire, and then there are people who quietly become part of how you think about everything else. I didn’t expect the difference to feel this irreversible.

Love, B

Classes have just let out, so the hallway is still quite full but thinning at the edges, students spilling out in clusters to move toward exits; some linger just a little longer than they need to. Bucky is standing off to the side, a folder tucked under his arm for the administrative office, waiting for the flow to clear before he moves.

You come out of one of the classrooms a few steps ahead of him, mid-sentence, turning slightly as you finish saying something over your shoulder to a student who stands by the door.

“That’s actually a really good point—just don’t stop there, okay? Push it a bit further and you’ll see where it goes. Actually, you know what? I have some articles about the psychological function of the Gothic in nineteenth-century literature, and I believe they could be very helpful for your essay. Just send me an e-mail to remind me, okay?”

The student nods, half-confident, half-lost, and you give her an encouraging smile before she heads off. You fully step into the hallway while adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and only then your distracted gaze lands upon him.

“James.” Your eyes light up.

“Hey.” Bucky smiles coyly, shoulders straightening unconsciously.

You shift the thick stack of papers in your arms, catching Bucky’s attention.

“Monthly assignments?” He guesses.

You glance down at the stack, then back at him, lips already curling knowingly.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Your shoulders move with a deep sigh. “And they all seem to have been written at three in the morning, which makes them… pretty creative.”

He huffs a quiet chuckle, a mix of sympathy and amusement.

“Yeah, can’t blame them.”

“I don’t even mind the lack of sleep,” you continue. “It’s the confidence. They’ll write something completely unhinged and still conclude it like it’s the most solid argument ever made.”

That pulls a real smile out of him.

“Honestly, I respect that.” He says before thinking too hard about it. Then, almost immediately, “Not—the unhinged part. Just... the confidence.”

Something about your laugh shakes the butterflies in his stomach.

“No, I get it. There’s something admirable about committing to a bad take.”

He nods along, then hesitates like he’s deciding whether to say the next part.

“Are they actually bad? Or just… not what you were expecting?”

Your head tilts a little, considering him for a moment.

“Some of them are bad,” you admit quietly. “But some are... uh, unfinished thoughts, yes. Like they’re almost there, but they stop right before it gets interesting.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s worse, I think.”

Your eyebrows shoot up curiously.

“Because they could’ve been good... if they’d dared to go further.” He quickly explains, then immediately wonders if that sounds stupid. Too obvious. Too—

“Yes, exactly. Dare is the right word.” You sound elated to be finally understood. “They get scared.”

There’s a small pause in which you hurriedly look for one paper in particular, pulling it out from the middle of the stack.

“This one actually had a really good point,” you mumble to yourself as you frown at it, eyes smoothly skimming the text. “About how emotional restraint in early twentieth-century fiction isn’t absence, but displacement.”

Bucky looks up at that, interest showing on his features.

“Like—redirected?”

“Exactly,” you nod, a little more animated now. “But then they just didn’t follow it through.”

“They could’ve tied it to narrative voice,” he muses. “How what’s left unsaid actually shapes the way the story is told.”

“Yes!” You smile. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s a flicker of something in your expression—approval, maybe, or just satisfaction—that gives Bucky enough confidence to continue.

“Do you ever…” He clears his throat. “I mean—do you ever feel like they just don’t trust their own ideas enough?”

Your smile turns a little gloomy.

“All the time.” You shake your head. “They think there’s a ‘correct’ answer they’re supposed to land on, so they don’t follow their real thoughts on the matter.”

He nods, more certain now that the conversation is finding its rhythm.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Like they’re writing for approval instead of… figuring something out.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than before.

“You read my mind.”

The words settle between you with finality, your gaze meeting his, surprised at first, like you’re still turning the conversation over in your mind. And Bucky doesn’t lower his eyes like he usually would.

He holds it, because stepping away first would mean breaking this rare moment he gets to enjoy just existing with you. Because there’s a soft attentiveness in your expression that makes it hard to pull back from.

Like he’s worth listening to.

The moment stretches for a second too long. Then another, until it no longer feels like a mere pause in a conversation, and giving away even the slightest of hints about his feelings for you is enough to scare Bucky into talking again.

He clears his throat first, the sound cutting abruptly through the quiet hallway as he looks down at the papers like they’ve suddenly become very important.

“Uh—” He has no idea how to finish that.

You blink like you’ve just been pulled out of a dream, your posture adjusting slightly as you look away as well, fingers tightening just a little around the stack in your arms.

A small, almost embarrassed breath leaves you.

“Yes—” You murmur, then shake your head faintly, as if resetting yourself. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s—” He mentions at the same time, then cuts himself off, heat uncomfortably creeping up the back of his neck.

The brief, clumsy overlap of words goes nowhere, but then you shift your weight, grounding yourself back into something familiar, something safe.

“Actually,” you take a small step closer, a little more composed now. “While I have you—”

His head snaps up a bit too fast at your wording.

“I wanted to ask you something about one of the students who’s been coming to the library a lot—tall, always looks like he hasn’t slept in three days? His name’s Peter. Peter Olson.”

Bucky blinks, searching his memory.

“… That doesn’t narrow it down much.” He admits hesitantly.

An embarrassed chuckle falls from your lips. “Fair. Mmh, well he usually sits by the back tables. Keeps switching books every couple of hours like he’s looking for something and not finding it.”

“Oh,” Bucky perks up. “Yeah. I know who you mean. The one who wears the same grey hoodie every day?”

“Yes, that’s him!” You snap your fingers. “I was just wondering if you knew him, since he spends so much time there. Has he ever said anything to you?” Your brows furrow. “Or anyone you know? He’s been struggling in class, and I can’t tell if it’s the material or something personal.”

It’s not the question per se that catches him off guard, but the way you ask it. Not like it’s your job, like you’re obligated to care.

“He doesn’t talk much,” Bucky starts slowly. “But he stays late. Sometimes he just plays games on his phone until we close.”

You nod pensively, like that confirms something.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I might check in with him,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. “Just... in general.”

You glance back at Bucky then, a soft smile already brightening your features.

“Thank you so much.”

He shrugs, hoping to come across as nonchalant as Sam. “Yeah, of course. Anytime.”

You shift your grip on the papers again, but you don’t move away immediately. Instead, you squint at him.

“Hey, are you doing okay?”

The question lands unexpectedly.

He blinks. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Just yeah?”

He chuckles at that. “I swear,” he repeats, a little more honest this time. “I’m good.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer, like you’re deciding whether to believe him or not. Despite your initial doubts, you nod anyway.

“Okay.”

No lecture, no attempt to force him to speak.

“Well,” you announce ruefully, taking a step back. “I really need to go and start grading these now. Thank you again, James.”

“No problem,” he gives you a thin-lipped smile. “See you around, and good luck with those.”

Bucky stays there minutes after the shape of your body has disappeared behind a corner, the folder meant for the administrative office still waiting in his hands.

Nothing big just happened. It was just a normal conversation, honestly. You didn’t say anything extraordinary, nor did anything that should linger in his chest like this. You talked about literature and essays. You exchanged ideas. You asked about a student. You asked about him... And then you let it be enough.

Later, when he’s alone, it comes back to him in pieces—the subtle pride burning in his chest at being on the receiving end of that kind of attention, like he exists in the same category as everything else you choose to care about.

“Her presence altered the flow of time itself, making the hours feel lighter when she was near and heavier when she was gone.”

I’ve started measuring time around the moments you are by my side. I didn’t realize how much that would change things until I started noticing the difference when you are not there. Something in me refuses to settle properly without you in my day. Am I going mad, or does that happen more easily than people like to admit?

Love, B

Irritation curls hot in his chest as Bucky focuses on his phone, on the message from Steve warning him he’s running late. Waiting alone like this has never sat well with him, not when the constant sense of not belonging thrums high in his veins.

He steps forward in line anyway—they discovered this quaint café years ago while looking for a place to study for the days they actually didn’t feel like opening a book at all—barely paying attention to what he’s ordering, until a familiar voice cuts through the jazz melody coming from the speakers.

“James?”

He turns around in surprise, because there you are, sitting at one of the tables by the window, one hand wrapped around a cup, the other lifting in a small, happy wave when you catch his eye.

His body stiffens at once.

There’s no distance of a desk between you, no quiet formality shaping the interaction, like a college hallway. You look… softer, somehow. Draped in light fabric that catches the faintest movement of your body even when you’re still. It’s a dress that falls more naturally than the usual careful lines of trousers and shirts he associates with you.

Why does Bucky feel like he’s committing the sweetest kind of sin, seeing this version of you that belongs entirely to yourself?

His phone is still in his hand, screen gone dark, but he doesn’t even register the weight of it, because in that moment, there is just you in a pretty dress and afternoon light, smiling up at him like you are an angel genuinely delighted to see him.

Only then does he remember he is supposed to respond.

“Oh—hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, your smile growing—easy and relaxed, fitting perfectly into a sunny Saturday morning. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh—waiting. For Steve.” He gestures vaguely with his phone. “He’s late.”

You laugh, a quiet, knowing sound. “Always the last one to arrive and the first to go away. I see nothing has changed.”

Your hand points at the empty chair in front of you. “You can come sit, if you want. I’m waiting for my friends too.”

It’s said so casually, like it doesn’t require consideration.

Bucky hesitates anyway.

“Are you sure?” He is immediately aware of how unnecessary the question is.

“Of course! We can keep each other company.” You bubble. “I don’t bite.”

That gets a small, startled huff out of him—half laugh, half whimper—before he steps closer to you than he’s ever been.

The first few minutes are clunky.

Bucky sits a little too straight, hands not quite knowing where to go, fingers brushing the edge of his cup like he needs something to keep him anchored to reality. His answers are short at first, slightly off-beat, but you don’t let the conversation stall.

“How’s work been?” You rest your chin on your closed hand.

“Uh—good. Quiet. Mostly just… books.” He winces a little at his lame answer.

“That’s literally my favorite category of things!”

A quiet chuckle escapes him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders thanks to your cheerfulness.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You get to spend your whole day around them,” you continue. “That sounds like a dream to me.”

He shrugs, a reflex more than a response. “It’s just… temporary. You know, nothing serious.”

You don’t answer that right away.

“Temporary doesn’t mean meaningless,” you explain calmly. “And being around something you love every day isn’t small, James. Most people don’t even get close to that.”

He opens his mouth to respond—out of habit more than anything—but doesn’t have anything ready for that, in fact. And you don’t push it, opting to take a sip of your drink.

Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.

Somewhere along the conversation, things shift.

Maybe when you start telling him about one of your classes and how a student arguing with you over an interpretation somehow made you rethink your own reading of the text. Maybe when he finally finds himself asking a question without rehearsing it first. Maybe when you laugh again, and this time he doesn’t freeze around it.

“You let them argue about Joyce with you?” His eyebrows shoot up, a hint of disbelief slipping through.

“Of course!” Your eyes widen, like it’s obvious. “That’s the fun part. Otherwise it’s just me talking to a bunch of nodding heads for two hours.”

The corners of his mouth lift properly this time, not the small, careful version he usually allows in public.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

You agree with a shake of your head, taking a sip of your second cup of latte. “You’d be good at it, actually.”

That catches him off guard.

“At… teaching?” He tentatively asks.

“Yeah. You pay attention. That’s half the job.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that either. So he just nods, a little slower this time.

“Have you ever considered that?”

His brows furrow in surprise. “Actually... no.”

You don’t react immediately, and for a moment he thinks the conversation might just drift away on its own, like so many of the others have, but instead you tilt your head slightly, studying him with that same quiet attentiveness that never fails to bring a blush to his cheeks.

“I’m serious,” you add, softer now. “You make people feel like what they’re saying matters. That’s rarer than knowing things, honestly. You can always study content, but some people never learn how to make someone want to keep talking.”

No one has ever framed him like that before, as if it were something worthy of praise rather than just a byproduct of him being timid, or quieter than most people.

His distant eyes drop briefly to the table as if the surface might offer him something solid to hold onto while his thoughts rearrange themselves around the idea, his fast heartbeat almost drowning any other sound at how beautifully you keep describing him and his job.

“I never thought about it like that.” He murmurs, not sure if it was meant for himself only.

You don’t push it further, just lean back into your chair with a serene smile.

“I’m telling you, there is a difference,” a voice behind you abruptly ripples through the quietness. “You can’t just say a flat white and a latte are the same thing.”

You flinch at the rising volume of the statement.

“They are basically the same thing,” another voice argues back, annoyed. “It’s milk and coffee. That’s it.”

“That’s like saying all literature is just words on paper. Don’t be ignorant, Joe.”

Bucky’s gaze flick up to you at once, a sparkle of amusement dancing in his eyes, like he’s silently asking if you’re hearing this too.

You are, clearly, because you’re biting your lips so hard to avoid laughing and draw their attention.

“There’s a texture, there’s a ratio—there’s an actual difference if you pay attention.”

“I am paying attention,” Joe replies, sharper now. “I just don’t think it’s worth pretending it’s deeper than it is, Mary.”

“That’s not pretending,” she counters quickly, almost cutting over him. “That’s just… caring about things.”

He lets out a short, disbelieving snicker. “No, that’s overcomplicating things that don’t need it.”

“Right, because you hate when things get too complicated.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know very well what I mean, Joe.”

“It’s coffee, Mary.” The guy insists exasperated, but there’s something defensive in his voice now, less certain. “You’re acting like it’s a personality trait.”

“Maybe it is,” she snaps back. “Maybe the way people choose things does say something about them.”

“Or maybe you just want it to.”

“Or maybe you just don’t notice anything.”

And just like that you watch Mary stomp out of the coffee shop with a sighing Joe right on her heels.

There is a brief, silent pause in which you and Bucky just stare at each other, before you both burst out laughing.

“They’re not wrong, you know?” You breathe out, still smiling. “People get very attached to their preferences to the point it becomes a personality trait.”

Bucky leans back a fraction in his chair now, more at ease than he had been at the start.

“I think it’s less about the coffee,” he crosses his arms to his chest. “And more about wanting to be right about something.”

You hum around a sip of your drink. “Or wanting something small to feel important.” You argue back. “It’s easier to defend a preference than to admit it doesn’t really matter.”

“Do you think people actually taste the difference,” he asks after a moment. “Or they just decide they do?”

A grin takes over your lips.

“I think sometimes they decide first,” you rest your chin back against your hand. “And then convince themselves their senses agree with them.”

It feels like that explanation applies to more than just coffee, to more than just the harmless debate that unfolded right behind you between two strangers who you will probably never meet again.

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary before he looks down again, almost unconsciously.

“Well, I think I’m in trouble.” His grin is poorly concealed.

That makes you smile. “Why?”

“Because I don’t think I’ve ever made a defining coffee decision in my life.”

“That’s fine,” you gesture with your hand. “Not everyone needs to be a person of conviction.”

He squints his eyes at you. “I feel like that’s not a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

He huffs out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head at your serious expression.

“Movies are like that too.”

That catches his attention a little more.

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone has one classic opinion they feel morally obligated to defend.”

“That’s… accurate, unfortunately.” He rolls his eyes, suddenly reminded of his sister and her obsession with Casablanca.

You lean back a little in your chair. “Like people who act like you personally attacked their family if your favorite movie is not some... I don’t know—” You gesture loosely with one hand. “French, silent short film from the twenties.”

Bucky closes his eyes tiredly, head falling back. “God, I hate those people.”

“I kinda am those people.” You eventually admit with a smirk.

That earns you a look.

“I’m joking!” Your giggle is so contagious his own lips twist into a small smile. “Well, maybe sometimes...” Your index finger rhythmically taps your chin as you think for a few seconds.

“I just love classics.”

“I don’t... actually like most classics.” He scrunches his nose.

You blink, slightly taken aback. “That sounded like a confession.”

“It felt like one. I’ve never told anyone.”

You lean forward in interest, whispering conspirationally. “Okay, so which ones don’t you like?”

He hesitates for a moment, like he knows this is about to become a problem. “Grease.”

Your expression falls at once, humor slipping away just as quickly as it came.

“What?”

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

“That’s worse.” Your eyebrows shoot up.

“How is that worse?” He frowns.

“Because it means you watched it and still chose neutrality.”

He stumbles over his words, hands raising in defeat. “Wait, wait. I didn’t choose anything. I just didn’t... connect with it.”

You straighten up slightly. “That’s not allowed.”

His lips press together, trying to hide a smile. “Why not?”

“Why?” You balk. “Because it’s Grease, James!”

“That’s not an argument.”

“It is culturally! It’s been around forever for a reason.”

That makes him laugh properly this time.

“Well, now I feel like Joe.” You chuckle at that, shaking your head in fake disappointment.

“This is exactly what I meant about people having strong opinions about things they don’t care about.”

You tilt your head at that, mildly affronted. “Excuse me, I care deeply.”

“It’s a musical.”

“It’s one of the musicals.”

At that point Bucky leans back on his chair with a glint of delight dancing in his eyes. “So I’m not allowed to just… not like it?”

“No.” You shrug, lips already twisting into a grin.

It makes him smile again, his ears burning a little at the fleeting realization that he just had a funny banter with you without making a fool of himself.

“Okay.” He sighs resignedly. “Then what do I get to dislike without being judged?”

You think about it seriously, arms crossing to your chest as you look out of the window.

“Ah!” Your face lights up. “Modern remakes of classics.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s safe?”

“That’s universally safe.”

“I feel like you’re setting me up.” He squints at you.

“I swear I’m not,” you lift a hand in sincerity. “That’s just objective truth.”

Bucky’s blue eyes study you for a moment with something you can’t fully decipher, ultimately opting for a thin-lipped smile. “You’re impossible.”

His gaze inevitably falls on your lips, so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the way your own lies on his.

However, your phone lights up, the strong vibration of an incoming text breaking the spell. Bucky suddenly straightens up, expression sobering now that he has been pulled out of whatever quiet complicity had settled between you. Meanwhile, you throw the screen a quick glance, then your eyes fall back on him.

“My friends are here.”

Bucky moves quickly, pushing his chair back with too much strength, the scrape of it against the floor making a few heads turn.

“Steve isn’t here yet, right?” You ask, and then, more tentative. “Stay.”

As if surprised by your own request, you correct yourself frantically. “I mean, if you want to, of course. I just… I’d really like it if you stayed. I can introduce you to my friends.”

That’s when Bucky stops entirely.

Your eyes are so hopeful and devastatingly pretty, your expression open at how uncomplicated the request is even if it clearly costs you something to make it. 

He almost says yes.

It’s there, immediate, unfiltered, so close on his tongue. Because there’s no calculation, no expectation dressed up as politeness. Just the simple, disarming fact that you want him there.

Then the door opens. Voices spill in. Energy, movement, a kind of ease he hasn’t been part of in a long time.

And then—

Fowler.

Of course he’s here. Of course he belongs to this part of your life too.

Bucky bites his tongue and shakes his head before you can say anything else.

“No, it’s—I should go, really.” He is already stepping back. “Steve just texted. He can’t make it. I’ve got… stuff to do. Groceries.”

He knows you can see through his lie, but he doesn’t really care to fix it right now. Still, that small shift in your expression—disappointment flickering in your eyes before you smooth it over with a polite smile—shatters his heart to pieces.

“Oh. Okay,” you nod. “Well… I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

“Yeah,” his voice dims. “Yes. Monday.”

He doesn’t trust himself to stay longer than that.

Outside, the air suddenly feels colder than it should for a morning of late spring.

His feet don’t stop moving until he’s across the street. Then he turns back, even if he knows what’s going to see will make him lie awake all night.

Through the window, he can still spot you—only now you’re not across from him, not contained in that small, manageable space of a shared table.

You’re part of an organized mess, alive and warm. Inside jokes repeated over the years and questions that require only a knowing look.

Your friends lean in, talking over each other, laughter overlapping easily, and you’re right there in the middle of it—the center of it all—responding without hesitation, without that small pause he’s come to recognize when you speak to him.

Fowler is closer than that day in the cafeteria, seamless in the way he occupies the space beside you. You laugh at something he says, and it’s probably the same laugh he has heard just a few minutes ago. It shouldn’t matter but Bucky stands there longer than he means to. Long enough for the pit in his stomach to return and set him a few steps back in your blooming friendship.

Could he even call it that, what you had? Talking about literature, stopping for a meaningless chat in the hallways, and randomly bumping into each other on a Saturday morning?

He is just an acquaintance. Those are your friends. They fit in a way that doesn’t require adjustment, that doesn’t need to be questioned.

And Bucky thinks about how long it took him to stop tripping over his own words, how even at his best, it had taken effort to reach something that, for Fowler, seems to exist without trying.

He thinks about his job. Replaceable. A placeholder more than a direction.

He thinks about the way his life still feels like it’s waiting to start.

Your life looks full, complete in a way his isn’t. And the people in it... they belong there. They’ve already figured out what he’s still trying to understand.

He exhales slowly, the sound barely leaving his chest.

Whatever existed in that small space between the two of you inside that café, it’s meant to stay there. It doesn’t extend here and it never will.

This time, when he turns away, he doesn’t stop again.

By the time Bucky reaches the end of the street, the decision has already been made, agonizing but certain.

Tomorrow will be his last note.

“The human heart has a way of making itself large again even after it's been broken into a million pieces.”

I didn’t know how to write these notes in a way that didn’t sound like I was still your student trying to impress you. I think I’ve been confusing proximity with possibility, standing too close to something I was never meant to touch. I’m still a temporary version of myself, still borrowing space. Time. Confidence. And I don’t think I’m the kind of man you would ever choose. You… you’re not temporary. You come into people’s lives to brighten them with your presence, and I don’t believe I am worthy enough to deserve that kind of warmth.

So I think this is the right thing to do.

I am going to let you go.

Not because I want to, but because I don’t know how to keep loving you without shattering into pieces, until there’s nothing left to recognize.

Always yours, B

You don’t make it home today. The thought of this small, unexpected thing finding its place in your life without asking permission, like it has belonged there all this time, always returns persistently in the back of your mind. It has translated into pure anticipation of what you’ll find next inside your books, and today it has been impossible to ignore since the moment your eyes opened. You catch yourself thinking about it between lessons, tasks, in the small pauses where it blends with the image of a certain person, already fantasizing about what’s going to happen the next time you’ll see him again.

By the time you step into the library, you’re already smiling to yourself. It’s ridiculous, you know that. Nothing about a person anonymously writing you love notes should matter this much, it shouldn’t feel this addictive.

Despite the fact that the initial on the notes had been easy to dismiss at first, something vague enough to ignore, it gradually became impossible not to imagine a certain someone behind those words. You told yourself you’re being irrational, but as much as your brain tries to keep you grounded, it can’t stop your pulse from picking up every time that possibility takes hold in your thoughts.

You don’t rush, not outwardly. But there’s a lightness to your steps, a quiet impatience that shows in the way your fingers tighten slightly around the cover, in how quickly your gaze moves past Darcy. The world feels just a little less interesting compared to what you’re about to read.

It’s been a long time since anything has made you feel like this. Or, anyone.

You slip away from the main aisle, drawn toward a quieter corner where shelves grow narrower and the sun doesn’t quite reach that far in. Your fingers are already finding the page before you’ve fully stopped walking, a warm sensation blooming in your chest in a way that feels embarrassingly close to a suffocating excitement. And when the folded paper finally reveals itself, tucked exactly in the middle of the book, your smile grows, unguarded and bright.

For a brief, suspended moment, everything feels exactly as it should.

You finally stop between two rows of thick books, hands closing around the edges of the note with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel so natural. For a second, your thumb presses along the crease, tracing it once—enough for you to take a deep breath and calm down your wild heartbeat.

The quote registers first—your mind catching its tone before its meaning fully settles—and then your eyes move down, desperately looking for the rest. For an explanation.

Each line feels like a stab to your heart, those words completely stripped of the gentleness that had softened them until now. There’s no careful distance here, no hesitation disguised as sweet restraint. Whatever has been building silently inside your secret admirer has become an uncontrollable, raging sea, inevitably crashing your heart against the cliffs.

By the time you reach the last line, your breathing has changed.

Your palm rests on your mouth in an instinctive attempt to contain a sob. Your eyes sting without permission, blurring the edges of the words still lingering in your mind.

You read it over and over again.

It’s a goodbye.

And it doesn’t make any sense.

Nothing in the notes before had prepared you for this abrupt ending, for the certainty that your fate has already been decided without you. You try to trace it back, to find the moment where it might have shifted, something you might have missed—a look, a conversation, anything that could explain how it reached this point.

But there’s nothing.

Only the unsettling realization that someone has been feeling this deeply, this painfully, somewhere just outside your awareness. And now they’ve chosen to step away.

Your grip tightens around the paper.

The ache that follows in your chest surprises you more than anything else. These notes had become a small but constant reminder that someone out there saw you as something more than your role and a polite smile. You hadn’t fully realized how much of them you carried with you every day until now.

It had become a possibility you never allowed yourself to name. And now it’s being ripped away from you before you’ve even had the chance to decide if you wanted it.

A wet breath leaves your lips, the paper trembling faintly between your fingers as you lean back against the sturdy shelf, hands stiff on your thighs as you clench your jaw, trying to stop your chin from wobbling so embarrassingly fast in a public space.

That’s why you don’t hear him at first.

Bucky lethargically turns into the aisle with a few books in his arms, already half-thinking about where they belong. He slows when he notices someone ahead, instinctively preparing to move past without disturbing them.

Then he recognizes you, and his body locks into place.

You’re standing too still, your posture drawn inward in a way that doesn’t belong to you. Your bag has slipped from your shoulder, probably without you noticing, because it hangs awkwardly in the bend of your elbow. The fabric of your shirt was dragged with it, the collar now slipping just enough to expose the slope of your shoulder and your collarbones, the seam no longer primly sitting where it should.

You look… undone, in the most mortifying of ways.

And then his gaze drops. In your other hand, a book barely held, your fingers curled around it without intention, like you forgot it was there.

Realization hits fast enough to make his stomach turn, sharp and sudden.

His note.

The air leaves his chest in a shallow breath.

He had imagined you finding out, vaguely, distantly—but not like this. Not with you standing in one of the darkest corners of the library, alone and crying for the very thing he had convinced himself would never affect you so much.

A soft, shaky sniff pulls him sharply out of his thoughts, so Bucky decides that this is enough.

He steps forward, careful like approaching a wild, injured animal.

Your name comes out of his lips more hesitantly than he wants to admit.

Your chin lifts, a flicker of surprise, brief and disoriented, crosses your features, before you realize who is standing before you. At that point you straighten abruptly, instinctively composing yourself, though the traces of what you were feeling can’t disappear with a single swipe of your fingers.

“James.” You greet him with a slight bow of your head, your voice fainter than he has ever witnessed.

His heart hurts at the sight.

“Are you okay?” He whispers.

You nod too quickly. “Yes!” You exclaim, nodding eagerly. “Yes, of course. I’m fine, it’s just—” The sentence falters, dissolving before it can take shape. You shake your head then, swallowing. “It doesn’t matter.”

Bucky should leave. He set the decision in stone last night as he crafted his last note, deliberately, with the kind of resolve he doesn’t usually manage to hold onto for long. And even if right now you are shaken—holding onto that piece of paper that clearly matters to you more than he ever intended—Bucky should step back, let it end cleanly, before it could turn into something more complicated, more humiliating.

You’ll move on. In a few days, maybe a week at most, the notes will blur into a simple memory. You’ll return to your life, to the steady rhythm of it, to things that are real and lasting and meant for you. And eventually—months from now, years, it doesn’t matter—you might remember this with amusement. A strange, fleeting experience. A story to tell with a soft smile to your kids, about that shy, awkward student who hid behind borrowed words because he never quite had the courage to stand in front of you and speak them himself.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

But you’re still holding that damn piece of paper, and he knows every word written there.

“You don’t have to pretend.” He mumbles.

Your eyes lift to his again, searching now, something in his tone catching where everything else might have passed unnoticed.

“… James?” Uncertainty threads through your voice.

There’s a moment where he almost steps back, almost lets this dissolve into something safer.

“I didn’t think you’d read it here,” he blurts out, his voice strained at the edges. “I thought you’d take it home, or… later.”

Your back slowly straightens to face him as realization dawns on your face.

“You wrote this.”

Bucky nods, just once.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology comes quickly, choked, like it has been waiting all along in his throat.

“I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean for it to end up like this.”

“Like what?” You ask, voice steadier despite tears still blurring your vision.

“Like you having to deal with it.”

You shake your head, a small, almost disbelieving movement.

“That’s not—” Your eyelids flutter shut momentarily, chest raising and lowering with a deep breath as you try to find the right way to say something that suddenly feels more complicated than it should be.

“Why would you think this is something I have to deal with?”

He lets out a short, humorless breath.

“Because it is,” he says with too much certainty. “It’s not something you asked for.”

“And you decided that for me?”

He hesitates. “No. I just… didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

“Harder how?” You press, stepping closer without fully realizing it.

Bucky takes his time to look at you, properly, and whatever he sees in your expression seems to unsettle him more than the fear of being rejected.

“Because I’m not—” His jaw clenches as he searches for words that don’t sound as inadequate as he feels. “I’m not someone you would choose.”

You stare at him with furrowed brows, because of how easily he says it, how certain it sounds, like he has already accepted it as an absolute, indisputable fact.

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“I’m not deciding anything,” he replies, though his voice breaks. “I’m just being realistic.”

“You’re not,” you say, taking another step closer. “You’re assuming.”

“I’ve seen enough to know,” he sighs, and there’s something in the way his voice tightens that suggests he hadn’t meant to say even that much. “It’s not—this isn’t about whether I feel something. That part was never—” He stops, swallows back an embarrassing sob that dissolves his words into a whisper. “It’s about where I fit beside you. And I don’t.”

You silently study how he’s holding himself tightly, slightly leaning back, like he’s already preparing to flee.

“That’s not your decision to make.” You shake your head, stepping closer again. “You’re being afraid.”

He can’t deny that.

And that’s when you close the distance.

Your lips meet in a tender kiss. It isn’t rushed, but it isn’t hesitant either. It’s a decision made without overthinking, without giving him space to retreat behind that safe prison of insecurity he built to protect himself from being hurt.

Initially, Bucky doesn’t move, eyes wide and arms rigid at his sides.

This doesn’t make sense. Your lips on his.

It’s only when one of your hands touches his cheek, warm and hesitant, the other settling over the uneven rhythm of his heart, that his palms lift, almost cautiously, like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear with a single brush of his fingers. Just a figment of his imagination. A beautiful, sweet lie.

He cradles your cheeks, the touch so fragile, like a breath caught between speaking and silence. And your lips part gracefully against his, his tongue gaining more confidence the more you tease it with yours.

Bucky’s a mess by the time you pull back, his ears ringing and his breath shaky. You don’t leave him completely, the tips of your noses still brushing as his eyes desperately search yours for the slightest hint of regret. But he finds none.

“I don’t understand,” he breathes out. “Why would you—”

“Because I want you, James.” You answer simply.

“That’s not—That’s not supposed to go like this.”

Your eyes close with a sigh, and when they flutter open again, Bucky has to swallow back another apology as a set fresh of tears makes them glow so prettily under the dim-light.

“What if I don’t see you the way you see yourself?” Your head tilts. “If I don’t think you’re temporary. If I don’t think you’re out of place in my life.”

There’s a long moment where he just observes you in awe, the certainty of being unwanted he held onto for so long unraveling piece by piece, replaced by something far more delicate yet warm. So warm his chest feels full.

“Then why didn’t you—” His voice breaks, the question catching in his throat.

“Because you never gave me the chance.”

This time, Bucky doesn’t look away. His shoulders loosen, gradually, finally allowing himself to live in the moment. One of his hands shakily moves from your face, like he’s still not entirely sure you are real, and settles lightly against your waist. His eyes follow the movement, grounding himself in your body to convince himself this no longer feels like a ridiculous dream.

“Can I—” His lips press together at your grin.

He doesn’t finish the question. Instead, he simply leans in.

This time, the kiss is his.

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛 here is the link to the collab masterlist!

books quoted:

1. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene 2. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy 3. The Princess Bride by William Goldman 4. Persuasion by Jane Austen 5. Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence 6. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë 7. Il barone rampante by Italo Calvino 8. The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller

First thing’s first… AI generated content is remarkably unpopular.

Almost all of you believe that human provenance is a must. (And we couldn’t agree more.)

This one came as a bit of a shock: nearly half of all respondents felt their work could be mistaken for AI.

And almost all of you (99.5%) think AI content should be clearly labeled.

Thank you to the thousands of writers who took the time to complete the survey. Together, you wrote over 500,000 words—that’s a heck of a mighty tome! You can read the full report over on our blog.

That was until the self appointed leader of the group, Natasha Romanoff, decided that enough was enough. In her own words, she was tired of the drab concrete buildings in which you worked soul sucking desk jobs and wanted to explore. But she didn't want to go alone. So, she planned. She made itineraries that the group was excited about. A few helped narrow down the field to a destination of the Amalfi Coast. But somewhere between the planning stage and the plane taking off for a two week trip to Positano, only you and Natasha had actually managed to buy the airfare and split the cost of an ocean front hotel room in the picturesque town.

Arriving in a landscape dotted with colorful cliffhanging houses on the bluest waters you had ever laid eyes on should have been enough to decompress. Yet the first thing out of Nat's mouth when you had barely unpacked a bag in the small hotel room you would be sharing was: "You look like you need to relax." Evidently the charm of being in another country without having to think of emails and spreadsheets for two weeks was not enough to bring your shoulders down from where they had permanently bunched at your ears.

And that is how you found yourself herded to the five star spa attached to your hotel. The air was tinged more prominently with orange blossom and citrus oils here, mixing with the salt air of the sea that seeped in through the windows. There was a soft melody of instrumental music along with water bubbling from a few rock fountains that dotted the reception area, granting a relaxing atmosphere from the bustling of the hotel lobby just beyond the entrance.

You had been directed to a pair of plush armchairs by the receptionist and offered a glass of cucumber water along with a list of services that were outrageously priced, even for a tourist town. You supposed that the main focus of stepping into a place like this should have been the ease of which it was to relax. But what really wasn't relaxing were the prices on the laminated sheet.

"Nat I - " you began in a hushed tone, but were cut off by the wave of her hand.

"We're on vacation," she sighed taking a small sip of water. "Just charge everything to my card, and you can pay me back when you can. I need the miles anyway." It wasn't so much of an offer as it was a request to just treat yourself. Like innately, she knew that you would argue over spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ninety minute massage.

Slumping back in your chair, you knew it was futile to argue when Natasha put her mind to something. The receptionist approached shortly after, getting you both on the schedule. Her voice had a distinct charming Italian lilt that you supposed was meant to be calming, though it felt performative in a way; like everything in this over priced spa. Maybe that's how they were able to charge such high prices. If clients were lulled into a false sense of comfort at every turn, it hurt less when money changed hands.

Natasha's name was called first by a tall, muscular blonde man wearing dark blue scrubs. Before she disappeared behind the frosted glass doors flanked by two lemon trees, she gave a sly wink, her nose scrunching slightly. A secret girl code that loosely translated to her likely coming back out with her masseur's personal phone number.

Good for her, you thought. Though you dreaded if she actually did get it that you'd be spending the rest of the vacation playing tourist alone.

That left just you and the incessant dripping sound of water in the reception area, which truthfully wasn't all that relaxing when it had you debating if you had time for a bathroom break. In the middle of your deliberation, you heard your name called.

When your eyes lifted to see who your appointment was with, you now had a concrete reason as to why services here were so expensive. A six foot, broad shouldered muscular man with chestnut hair, and blue eyes that could rival that of the ocean waters of the coast was looking at you expectantly. Your gaze drifted down to the clipboard that held your assessment form you had filled out while waiting. And you were sure it was a normal sized clipboard, but it looked dwarfed being held in his hands. Hands that would soon be on your skin.

His smile was warm, and looked to be the most genuine form of soothing in the spa as you walked up to him on unsteady legs. "I'm Bucky, looks like I've got you for the next hour and a half," he introduced himself, and you immediately noticed he did not carry the same Italian accent of anyone you had encountered at the hotel.

He held the door open for you into a warmly lit hallway, with more greenery and a stronger scent of lemons. "Do you have any problem areas you'd like me to address?"

The only problem that came to the forefront of your mind - aside from your sore back muscles - was that your mind was now…blank.

And yet he patiently waited for an answer as he directed you to a small dim room. Likely having rendered so many women speechless, that this was just part of his routine when he introduced himself to someone new.

The room he showed you to only held a massage table, a small cart with various oils and towels, and the same plinking music that had been playing in reception could also be heard in here, albeit much softer. "Uh, my back kind of? It was a long plane ride," you said, finally finding your voice.

Bucky nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard he still held. "Taking care of yourself on vacation? Good girl, sitting that long can cause unneeded stress on your muscles."

The praise coming from his mouth seemed to slip out so naturally, your brain almost didn't register it. But the rest of your body sure did.

He's probably like this with everyone, he's just trying to get a bigger tip from you. You reminded yourself.

"If you'll just undress to your comfort level," he pulled the drape of the massage table back, "I'll be back in five minutes."

And with that, he was out of the room with the door closing behind him with a soft click. Truthfully your comfort level with a strange man in a foreign country should've been to add more clothes and walk out of here. Especially with the way your thoughts were racing as you pictured his hands on your body.

Perhaps you should go request a different masseuse. One that you didn't want to do things with he probably wasn't allowed to charge for. But with the way your back ached and the crick in your neck from an eight hour flight, you didn't want to wait for a different masseuse. Nor did you want to explain to Natasha why it was necessary and get teased relentlessly.

Deciding you'd like the full experience, you stripped bare and folded your clothes in a neat pile on the chair in the corner. Sliding into the cocoon of soft sheets on your stomach, you shifted the drape over your backside and as soon as you made yourself comfortable with your head on the rest, a knock sounded at the door.

"Alright sweet girl," Bucky's smooth voice reached your ears once more as he stepped into the room. "Let's see if we can't get you to relax."

This was already a bad idea, you surmised. Your body was reacting to the baritone of his voice in ways you hadn't even considered when Nat suggested a massage. Like it was reminding you of the dry spell you had currently been in with your dating life and that something or someone needed to rectify that soon.

He peeled the sheet away from your back to begin, the sudden rush of air hitting your nerves and sending a shiver down your spine,

"Cold?" He asked from somewhere above you, concern lacing his words.

"A little?" Your voice squeaked the lie piling on to your mortification. You weren't really cold, more like your nerve endings you long thought dormant were reacting to any form of provocations.

You heard the click of a button somewhere and a sudden wave of gentle heat flowed from a vent on the wall next to you. "There we go," he murmured. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible."

Some more shuffling occurred while you watched his shadow cast by the dim amber lights dance around the dark floor. A click of a cap being flicked open almost had you peaking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but eye contact would likely only heighten this one sided awkwardness you felt for the next ninety minutes.

A warm sensation dripped over your skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in its wake. Bucky's palms were on you next with a firm pressure that already had the tension floating from your body and into his palms. Deft fingers kneaded the muscles along your spine first, pausing to roll among your shoulders.

Sinking further into the table, it was almost easy to forget who was on the opposite end of the hands that you could describe as harbingers of magic. Your eyes slipped shut, finally letting out a deep breath you didn't remember inhaling.

"Good girl, keep letting go," Bucky whispered, knuckles digging into your shoulder blades and working your muscles loose. There was that praise again, made all the more intimate by the fact that you were now naked and his hands seemed to be working overtime to pull every bit of tension out of your body.

He made it so easy to relax. More so than anything out in the reception area. The aura around his person inviting and safe in a way that made it easy to let go. From the warmth of the room, the slide of his fingers, the gentle praise, a floaty kind of feeling rushed to your head. It was then he found a knot just to the right of your spine that was worked out with enough pressure for an involuntary moan to slip past the barricade you'd been carefully crafting.

And it really wasn't even something you could pass off as a momentary lapse of judgment, especially if he kept skillfully working your muscles out like he was.

But Bucky, professional as he was, never wavered even when he felt the tension rising back to your body like you had done something wrong. "Happens more often than you think," he reassured. "Make all the noise you need to, sweetheart. You don't need to hold back on my account," he said evenly, and you could hear the ghost of a satisfied smile in his tone.

With permission granted unlocking something in your brain, you sighed, letting whatever slightly pornographic sounds come out. It wasn't like you would see him again anyway to be embarrassed about it. And as you fully let go, both of Bucky's hands continued working lower now to where the drape covered the last bit of your decency.

"Your lower back is really tense…" he muttered, hands wrapping around your waist, your attention flaring to the point of contact. "Desk job?"

Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'. "Uhm, yeah, unfortunately. I try to stretch but…"

"I can put a towel under your hips if you'd like?" he interrupted whatever your thinly veiled excuse was going to be for not getting up and stretching for ten minutes every hour. "May help me work out some of this discomfort."

You spied him already rolling up a piece of fabric into a tight cylinder. His hands and fingers glistening in the low light looking like a sin you'd love to commit.

You nod in agreement, and shift so he can wedge the towel under your hips. In doing so, the drape covering your ass narrowed, now just barely keeping you concealed.

More oil was added to your skin and Bucky's hands returned to your lower back. You had to give it to him, the added cushion under your hips did help your spine stretch, and the oil was already seeping into your muscles, aiding in the relaxation. But now you had a different problem entirely. The towel had been placed in such a way it pressed right against your clit, the texture of terrycloth mixed with the oil dripping down providing a delicious friction you hadn't been expecting.

And just why had you decided it would be a fabulous idea to get naked? As if the heat pooling between your thighs the second you laid eyes on your masseuse wasn't bad enough, you now had to deal with the fact that every time his thumbs pushed from the swell of your ass to the middle of your spine he unknowingly rocked you just right to send sparks shooting through your limbs.

If you thought keeping your noises to a minimum before was a challenge, it was certainly about to be an even bigger struggle. Screwing your eyebrows together, your fingers gripped the face cradle harder, you dared to let out a much more breathy exhale than before. Slightly worried that if you held any further noises in, Bucky would catch on to the lewd activities happening under the drape.

It would be so embarrassing to come like this, you thought for a brief second, another airy moan traitorously leaving your lips.

That time, Bucky's hands did pause, ever so briefly, on their upward trajectory. Enough that it was obvious he noticed your sounds had changed. But he didn't draw attention to it verbally. Instead, he moved…slower.

His hands trailed down, past your hips to your thighs. Thumb digging just a touch more into your muscles as he moved with leisure.

You barely noticed the drape that had still been covering your ass was being pushed up, too focused on the way he seemed to know when to press on your lower back to get another inappropriate sound out of your mouth. On the next pass, Bucky's fingers grew bolder, dipping between your thighs and nudging your legs apart.

It eluded you that his thumbs were getting closer and closer to where you were now dripping on every pass. Rational thought had long since flown out the window with the way he was slowly rocking you against the towel.

At least…until he drifted experimentally. Two fingers slowly and precisely slipped directly between your thighs ever so slightly relieving the ache that had been building since you had put your body in his very capable hands. It was too deliberate, yet slightly timid to be considered an accident. Much like the soft moans he had elicited from you moments earlier.

Your eyes flew open, breath catching as he did it again. Two fingers mindfully stroking your clit like he was testing your reaction. "I can stop," he said easily once you met his piercing blue eyes over your shoulder, pausing his ministrations but not taking his fingers away. "But I am very good at my job."

You were aware that you could say no. Surely such a posh and highly rated establishment would not survive if such acts were being performed under duress.

You were also aware that while you could…you had absolutely no intention of asking him to stop. Much like when you gave yourself grace by letting your mouth fall open, moans flowing freely, you rationalized that you were on vacation. You were never going to see this man again, and your body was wordlessly begging your mouth to just say yes. Shifting to tilt your hips in a silent dare for him to keep going, you both performed a staring contest in the soft light. But you realized quite quickly that he wasn't going to move again until you said something verbally.

Letting out a shuddering breath, and throwing all caution to the wind along with the last of any rational thought, you imperceptibly shook your head and gave a shaky whisper of "don't stop."

A slow grin spread across his face, a spark of delight as he gingerly tossed the drape to the side. There was no use for it now, considering it had turned into a small sliver that covered nothing.

"Turn over for me, sweet girl, if we're doing this, let's do this right," he murmured, giving a slight tap to your clit before withdrawing, a gentle hand coming to your hip to help maneuver you to your back.

With shaky arms and his guidance, you adjusted. The towel you had been grinding against was also discarded quickly, all the better so you didn't see the mess you had likely caused. Bucky's hands were on you again, steady, but sure, working their way slowly back up your thighs like he was still giving you the chance to back out.

"Beautiful," you swore you heard him whisper above the low music that was still faintly playing in the background. Heat spread from your chest to your ears as you chanced a glance at him while his fingertips made their journey back between your thighs. But his eyes, dark and hooded, were fixated on the dance of his hand moving closer to your center.

You let out a small 'oh' the second he circled your clit, thighs parting further — an invitation to keep going while your fingertips dug into the table. Eyes falling closed, your body arched into the movement, rocking without abandon now that it wasn't something you were trying to hide.

He had not been over exaggerating, he was very good at his job. Executing just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerves, every so often dipping to gather the slick now freely dripping from your cunt and tease your entrance. Like he was a lover made just for you, and had learned every single way to provide the highest amount of pleasure to make your head spin.

"When's the last time she was taken care of, hmm?" his voice was closer than it had ever been, your eyes flew open again to see he had moved so his torso was hovering over yours, hand that wasn't performing magic between your thighs braced next to your head.

Fuck, his eyes were more disarming up close. Two shimmering pools of bright blue reflected what could only be described as starlight from the ambient lamps.

Did you really want to admit to a stranger how long it'd been since the last time anyone touched you like this?

"Uh…" you stammered, "haven't really…been awhile."

Real smooth. But what were you meant to say when words were drowning before they had a chance to form?

A gentle, compassionate look crossed his features. "Tsk, you can't neglect something as precious as this sweetheart."

With that, he finally pushed a long finger past your entrance, the stretch sudden causing a needy whine to travel up your throat.

"There you go. Just relax for me…" he whispered the command right against the skin of your cheek, and to your credit, you really did try. But the coil in your lower belly was tightening further and further.

Another unabashed moan slipped past your lips as he added a second finger, your jaw going slack from the sudden stretch while your fingertips dug further into the table to the point your knuckles ached. "I'm trying," you protested, though several parts of your body were continuously clenching.

Above you, a deep rumble vibrated from Bucky's chest. His hand that had been planted next to your head reached for yours, working your grip free of the table. Your fingers interwove with his creating a far more intimate connection than you had been braced for.

"Keep trying sweetheart, you can do it," he coaxed, leaning further in until his lips were right next to yours. While his hands and words were confident, there was a hesitation in the movement of his lips. Like he was a man who was afraid of pushing too many boundaries.

Your fingers squeezed his once his thumb pressed deliberately onto your clit, back bowing off the table while your thighs spread further, one ankle falling carelessly over the edge. "You're so close," he whispered, lips finally meeting the corner of yours. "Can feel it in the way she's squeezing me."

"Mhm," you managed to whine, lips chasing his automatically when he went to pull away.

There was barely a second of hesitation and his mouth was on yours, greedily drinking in the sounds of pleasure as he pushed you closer and closer to release. He tasted of bergamot, lemon and sea salt, like the personification of the small town itself.

It was like something snapped between you the second your lips collided. Something untamed finally being set free after being unfairly caged. Your hand flew to the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer, enough that with the angle, he had to withdraw his fingers from your cunt so he could steady himself above you.

You wanted to grumble at being denied, body clenching desperately around nothing. Until Bucky adjusted, knee finding the bare space of table between your legs. With a slight bounce, his large form soon eclipsed yours as he settled into a comfortable position. All the while, his lips never really ceased contact with yours. Exploring parts of you that you hoped he never dared venture with other clientele.

But any unfounded jealousy you may have stumbled upon exited your mind the second he pressed his hips to yours. The hard, throbbing ridge of his erection had your mind reeling. It hadn't really even occurred to you that he could be as affected as you were, needing his own form of tension relief. Perhaps the soft dark blue scrubs he wore were intentionally chosen to hide such things.

Your legs bent at the knees, drifting to either side of his torso until you cradled his lower body with yours. A sound came muffled from his throat, his teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your lower lip when your hips twitched upwards, bare pussy dragging across the outline of his cock that sent fire rushing through your belly.

Your free hand fisted into the hem of his top, thoughts running rampant of how you planned on daydreaming about ripping this very top off when you got back to your hotel room to now being able to experience the real thing. His hips moved in needy, urgent circles, the head of his cock catching your clit every so often causing your thighs to clench around his frame harder. His movements were so delicate, so restrained, you wondered if he was reconsidering.

Testing the already flimsy boundaries, your hand released his top, moving to rest on the warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder radiated from where your palm was placed as the weight of him sunk deeper onto you. Your hand explored further, your own hips canting up to meet his; soaking the front of his pants with your slick. Fingernails scratched into the hard wall of muscle, contracting like claws with each slow grind.

When you reached his shoulder, Bucky released his grip on your hand, yanking the fabric off and discarding it. It had been one thing to imagine what he looked like underneath the navy blue top. It was another thing in itself to see it in the ambient lighting of the massage room. The flickering candles on the shelves reflected shadows on every crevice that had to have been honed by hours in the gym. Both hands now moved of their own volition, traipsing up the dips until they smoothed over the light dusting of hair along his chest.

"Seems only fair I suppose," he chuckled softly, watching your hands explore. "That you get to feel me up now instead of the other way around."

You felt your cheeks heat once more, moving to withdraw your touch. But, Bucky moved quicker, gripping your wrist and placing a soft kiss to the delicate inside with a smirk.

"Knew you were going to be special the minute I laid eyes on you," he whispered, tugging your wrist until your hand landed at the nape of his neck again, your fingers carding into the soft hair.

"Bet you say that to every girl who walks in here," you mumbled, gaze darting to where his other hand was palming his erection through his pants that were slick from where you had been grinding against him.

A short laugh flitted from his lips, pulling the waist of his pants down further until his thick cock was freed. "I do, but none of them have ever gotten to do this though," he admitted gently, running the tip of his cock already leaking with precum through your folds.

The meaning behind his words barely registered when your eyes were still glued between your bodies. His large hand was wrapped around the thick shaft as he fucked into it, tip gliding through your aching pussy until it kissed your clit and withdrew again.

The motion continued, teasing away what little self restraint you had left with each dip that barely caught at your entrance. A frustrated exhale escaped your lips, looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "Can you just - " you huffed as he slid through even slower, like he had all the time in the world yet you knew the ninety minute session would have to end sooner or later.

The corner of his mouth pulled up again, head dipping so his nose brushed yours. "Patience sweet girl," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna rush this."

Your leg wrapped higher on his hips wondering if your strength could out match his. But his grip found your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh to keep you from using your muscles in an attempt to get what you want. His hand released his cock, letting it fall heavily onto your hip so he could cup your jaw.

"Breathe with me, okay? In," he inhaled, your lungs expanded on command, chest rising to meet his.

"And out," he exhaled, lips brushing yours intimately while your breaths mingled, his hips adjusting so you felt the nudge of his tip at your entrance.

You really should have expected him to press in the next time he coaxed you to inhale, yet the stretch of him finally filling you completely and slowly was something no amount of breathing exercises could've ever prepared you for.

A loud whimper tore through from your throat while you adjusted to his size, the hand at the base of his neck gripping a bit tighter to steady yourself. Bucky hiked your leg up further, hooking it around his hip — freeing up his other hand to completely cradle your face, elbows tucking under your shoulders while he settled his weight onto you. An intimate gesture you least expected, from someone who was a stranger a little more than an hour ago.

He hadn't even really moved yet, letting your bodies get acquainted; muscles clenching around his throbbing cock while his thumbs slowly brushed over your cheekbones. Every breath leaving your mouth was shallow, attempting to get air to your lungs while every other nerve ending was just concerned with pleasure.

Your fingernails found solace digging into the taut muscle of his bare back, clinging to reality as he finally buried every inch in. Eyes watered as you held his stare of concern marred behind feral need. "Breathe sweetheart," he reminded you once again, thumbs never ceasing the calming movement against your skin.

The table swayed gently with the start of his hips rocking. The ridges and veins of his cock massaging the most intimate and sacred parts of your body.

Needy deep grunts and soft breathless moans soon filled the room, articulated by the whisper of your skin connecting and the nature sounds that were once meant to be relaxing. They now only fueled a delirious fantasy, mixing with the heat rising. Where the room melted into something far more primal and less composed than anything the upscale spa had offered in their list of services.

His strong hands continued to keep your head tilted up. Every desperate thrust into your already fluttering pussy, still aching for the release he denied you earlier had your eyelids dropping. But his hypnotizing eyes that watched every flicker of pleasure on your features were hard to stay away from for long.

"Come on now, darling, let go of that last bit of tension," he breathed softly, head dipping to your collarbone so his lips were right next to your ear with another deep thrust that had stars bursting in your vision.

Words seemed fleeting, as much as you wanted to say for the umpteenth time that you really were trying, but the bliss washing over your body in waves was hard to release. Nothing would have made you more content than to stay in this haze of citrus scented oils.

"So stubborn." You swore you heard him huff, trailing a hand between your bodies where his thumb found your clit, massaging gently.

Entire body locking from the jolt caused a gasp to punch out from your lungs. Thighs and arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging further into his skin until you were sure the half moons would become a permanent feature to his otherwise flawless body.

"There you are, now let it all go." Bucky's teeth grazed the column of your neck, thumb picking up speed in time with his pace that was becoming erratic. Pleasure finally crested through your nerve endings, flowing to every limb and ligament as you fell over the edge. Saliva pooled on your tongue, eyes finally falling closed to surrender to the sensations. His lips found yours again, an intimate gesture designed to bring you back to the present. He groaned deeply, a tremor rumbling through his entire body as you felt the throb of his own release flare into yours.

Bucky pulled back from the crook of your neck, hair that had been perfectly styled now fell in front of his wild eyes while realization crashed down on both of you. A sudden dawning of what just happened probably…should not have happened. Your limbs were still limp, muscles melting into the table in a sensation you had missed for too long.

"Am I - uh - going to have to pay extra for that?" you asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation, breath still ragged.

He laughed, low and genuine, brushing a piece of your hair back from your forehead. "Nah, we'll keep that off the books."

You giggled in response as he carefully maneuvered off of the table. You propped up on your elbows, accepting a clean sheet he handed in your direction, like he knew your body was already growing colder without his to keep you warm.

"When do you leave?" he asked sincerely, donning a fresh scrub top. Eyebrows drawn together in earnest.

You really hadn't been expecting him to all of a sudden seem so vulnerable, for someone who got you to the position you were currently in with such quiet confidence. "Oh, we're here for two weeks."

He nodded, looking now at a planner that was splayed open on the small counter. "Do you…want to come back tomorrow? I can take you to dinner first and then I can get you another…more appropriate session."

He tripped over his words as he asked, endearing in a truly charming way. "Yeah," you agreed easily, swinging your legs off the side of the table. "I'd like that."

Bucky's shoulders dropped, relief flooding over his features. "Great," he smiled, handing you a business card. "I've, unfortunately, got another appointment I need to get ready for, but I'm looking forward to it."

"Hope it's not one just like this?" you asked, turning the card around in your fingers to see what you assumed was his personal cell phone number scribbled in a margin.

"No," he chuckled again. "This was a…uh…first for me."

Natasha was already in the reception area when you drifted through the frosted glass doors. Everything that had first annoyed about the corporately saccharine decor was muted, the only thought on your mind was when you would get to see it again.

"So?" Natasha asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as she scrutinized your sudden glow. "How was it?"

You accepted another small glass of cucumber water, settling beside her. "Amazing. I'm coming back tomorrow."

The redhead's eyes narrowed at that, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. "Is that so? And here I thought this was meant to be a girls trip?" she teased, nudging your foot with hers.

"Weren't you the one who said I needed to relax?" you shot back, briefly flashing the business card before tucking it back into your pocket with a playful smile. "Not my fault the relaxation method doesn't fit your definition of a girls trip."

After Chirps: Okay, maybe I did have more to say??? I hope you liked this one! But I'd be remiss if I didn't link the masterlist post for the collab, and let y'all know that along with all of the other scrumpdillyumptious fics coming, my veterinarian Bucky fic comes out in less than a week! As proud as I am of this one, that one is my baby and I can't wait to share it ❤️

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

Your phone buzzes in the middle of another spiraling of staring at a screen that is not going to change unless you press meaningless keys. Whatever moment you were going through, though, didn’t quite prepare you for what follows.

Seeing your mother’s name on the small screen at this hour doesn’t bring a sense of alarm. It instead brings a hollow tightness to your chest, the kind of heavy stillness that usually precedes a car crash. And when you pick up the phone, come the news, even though they don’t quite feel like that when they sound through the tiny speaker. It’s a physical weight, a heavy stone dropped into a pool, sending ripples that touch every single branch of your current life.

Your grandmother is gone.

The woman who used to smell like peppermint and potting soil, whose voice was the only thing that had ever truly made the world feel quiet. You had spent countless summers with her, back in the countryside, hands in the dirt as she taught you the right way to plant a rose, how to prune a tree so it could grow stronger. Suddenly, the spreadsheet still bright on your computer has shifted from a boring task to a full-on insult. How could the numbers and columns still be there, rigid and demanding, when the person who taught you how to breathe through a heatwave on a July afternoon is simply… gone?

Are you supposed to simply go back to your life as you think of her kitchen, of the way the sunlight always seemed to pool on the linoleum in a buttery square where her cat would always sleep? Or as you are swarmed with the memory of her hands, mapped with veins like the very rivers she lived near, strong enough to haul buckets of compost and yet still gentle enough to braid your hair?

Still on the phone, your mother tells you she has left behind the weathered cottage and the garden to your name. In your mind’s eye, you could already see it surrendering to the weeds way before her heart stopped beating. No one ever cared for it the way she did, even though it had been in your family for generations. Your grandmother had been sick for a while, now, and you’re sure no one else had taken the time to care for the one thing she always did. It was yours, now.

You spend the rest of that Wednesday night in a state of suspended animation. There’s no crying, at least not yet, but you move through your apartment like a ghost, packing a back with a mechanical efficiency you’re sure would scare your mother, folding clothes you haven’t worn in years. The decision to leave doesn’t come from a sense of duty, of being present for your mother or the clinical logistics of a funeral that always feel too heavy for people mourning. It is simply survival instinct, one that hits you so sharp and sudden it almost knocks the breath out of you. Looking around your cramped apartment, filled with ergonomic furniture you don’t really like and unfinished documents, you realized tonight you were running on empty. There was no more fuel to give the city. Your grandmother’s passing was the only trigger you needed to leave it behind. You needed to go back to the only place that still holds the scent of something real, even if that reality is currently buried under layers of grief.

And by dawn, your suitcase is thrown into the trunk of your car and you are leaving the city behind.

The drive is a blur of highway static and caffeine-induced insomnia until the asphalt finally gives way to the gray ribbons of the backroads. The further you get from the skyline, from the tall buildings that framed your every day for years now, the more the silence starts to ring in your ears, echoing the emptiness in your chest. Silence used to be nice. Whenever you visited your grandmother, left the busy days behind for maybe a week or two, the silence was comforting. A heated blanket, a balm that helped you heal.

But now, as you finally pull into the gravel drive of the cottage, silence is no longer the peaceful sanctuary you had promised yourself. It’s heavy. The house looks smaller than you remember, tired, as if without her spirit to hold it up, the walls are finally starting to give in to gravity.

When you stop your car and step out, you don’t go inside immediately. Instead, you walk around the side of the house, drawn to the back where the heart of her life used to beat.

And just like the silence you had craved, the peace you had always felt here crumbles, too, the moment you lay your eyes on the yard. The garden isn’t overgrown; you think you prefer calling it a green monster. It’s aggressive, a sprawling graveyard of things your grandmother used to love. Waist-high weeds have completely swallowed the lavender path, and the wild blackberry thorns have woven themselves into an impenetrable wall. The trellis, where her prized roses used to climb in disciplined rows, is now buckling under the weight of strangling vines that look like they’re trying to pull the cottage back into the earth. An old fountain is overrun.

Standing on the bottom step of the back porch, the scale of the neglect is paralyzing. Leaves you to wonder how long had been since your grandmother had been physically able to care for her own things. How long she had kept away from the flowers and plants that had always breathed happiness into her. Just like your own mind, her space, now yours, is tangled and messy, far too gone for one person to ever hope to fix. You look at your own hands, too soft and lacking callouses, and realize you don’t even know where to start. How are you supposed to honor her memory? When you don’t know the difference between tools, the right time to plant the seeds? Guilt hits you, then, with the kind of edge that drags a cold sweat down your spine. In her absence, the wild had claimed her legacy while you were busy in the city filling spreadsheets that mattered to no one. You want to make this house a home once more. But how does one do that with an empty heart?

The first two days are spent in a state of mourning that feels exactly like static, gray and thick. You stay inside, unable to look out the windows at the chaos, and move through the cottage like a diver underwater, every motion resisted by the weight of silence.

Tea goes cold before you remember to sip it. You stare at the floral wallpaper in the hallway until the patterns begin to resemble the columns and rows of your old work, except this wallpaper doesn’t scream at you in approaching deadlines. Here, time has no teeth. It doesn’t bite, just swallows.

For the last two nights, you’ve slept in the guest bed. Your old room feels too much like a museum of a person you outgrew and no longer recognize, and her room feels like hallowed ground you are nowhere near holy enough to tread upon.

By next morning, you find yourself in the kitchen, the buttery square of sunlight hitting the linoleum exactly as you remember it, except there isn’t a cat any longer. Hands begin to aimlessly open drawers, finding yourself needing a distraction, or trying to look for something, anything. Matches for a candle. A reason to stay despite finding this place so different from the one you’d once called your second home once. And you find it, tucked between a ball of twine and a stack of expired coupons, right in the middle of the junk drawer: grandma’s old address book with a faded floral cover that still smells faintly of the rose-scented hand cream she used every night. The edges of the pages are frayed, paper slightly yellowed. A small business card falls to the floor halfway through flicking through the pages.

Barnes Landscaping & Restoration

Something in your heart flips. Not because you recognize the name, but because you immediately see her familiar handwriting in it. Another piece of her left behind that now you get to keep.

“Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth.”

A sharp lump forms in your throat. This small note, mindless, written by your grandmother at a time she needed to keep a reminder, is the first thing that managed to pierce the numbness since the phone call announcing her passing. You can almost hear her voice saying it, the appreciative tone she used for people who worked with their backs and not just their mouths. And even though the grief cannot be fixed by a landscaper, you know now that there’s a flicker of hope of fixing everything else around here. You aren’t a gardener, just a person used to staring at gray bars on a screen. But an extra pair of professional hands surely will be perfect to help you face the thorns outside the house.

After you pick up the phone on the wall and dial the number, there’s two rings and then the line clicks open.

“Barnes,” the voice on the other side says. You freeze for half a second, like now you’re unsure what you’re even supposed to ask for.

“Hi,” you start, voice cracking slightly from days of disuse. You realize you haven’t said a single word since you’ve come here days ago. “I’m… I’m calling about the property on the old creek road. It’s my grandmother’s, Caroline… was. Sorry. She’s passed and I’ve just inherited the place and—” You look out the window at the waist-high weeds and strangling vines. “I think the garden has gone to war and I don’t have a way of winning that fight.”

There is a long pause on the other end. You hear the faint sound of a truck engine idling.

“Caroline was a very sweet woman. I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says, voice softening a fraction. “She spoke about you a lot. Said you were lost in the city.”

That stings a little. Mostly because it’s true.

“I’m not in the city anymore. This is my home now,” you whisper.

Another silence.

“If you’d like, I can come over this afternoon. Take a look at the garden, you can tell me what you’d like to do with it. First consultation is free for Caroline’s granddaughter.”

The afternoon sun is thick and syrupy, casting long shadows across the linoleum, when the silence of the old creak road is finally broken. You stay tucked behind the lace curtains of the kitchen window, watching heavy tires roll over unkempt gravel. A beat-up, dark blue truck pulls into view, a workhorse of a vehicle, mottled with patches of primer and the red clay of the country. The engine cuts out, and when the door creaks open, he steps out.

Barnes.

He doesn’t look like any type of contractor you’ve ever hired in the city. There’s no clipboard, no neon safety vest. He stands by the door of his truck for a long beat, hands sliding into the pockets of his dirt-stained denim, eyes surveying the “green monster” you were apparently too terrified of. From your vantage point, you see how his yellow plaid shirt, faded from too many washes and too much sun, first buttons open to reveal a white top underneath, stretches taut across a pair of shoulders that look like they were built for the sole purpose of carrying the heaviest of weights. But that’s not where your eyes linger.

Instead, they stay glued to his left arm. You don’t mean to stare. Not really. But the silver metal shines when the sunlight hits it and holds your gaze even if you try to look away. Spread across fingers, forearm, bicep, until it disappears under the short sleeve of his shirt. While watching him, you find no attempt on his side to hide that arm.

Barnes lets out a heavy sigh. Not a sigh of annoyance, or at least you don’t recognize it as such. He looks at the tangle of weeds and the buckling trellis not as nuisance, but as an old friend who has lost their way. There’s no rush to get the job done, no immediate knock on the door to get your attention. He is simply there, rounding the front of his truck as he looks around for details that surely escape you. Barnes looks like he belongs to the dirt, like the mud on his boots is a permanent part of his skin. He adjusts the brim of his cap, a movement that causes the fabric of his shirt to pull against the muscles of his back. There’s a quiet power in him, a “man of muscle” persona that’s just utilitarian, like he is a tool designed for this specific job. You can’t imagine him anywhere but here, amidst the messy chaos of your late grandma’s garden.

He touches a dry stalk, eyes some dead plants. The words from the address book return: he listens to the earth.

The door creaks behind you as you finally step out onto the porch, sneakers sinking slightly into the uneven boards, which have been worn down by years of sun and wind. You wrap your arms around yourself, though the day isn’t cold, just more of a habit that you’ve developed to shield yourself from the vastness of the yard that feels like it’s swallowing the cottage whole.

Barnes turns at the sound of you, and you then notice how he’s taller up close, broad through the shoulders in a way that makes the yellow plaid look borrowed from a smaller man. You don’t look at his metal arm again, and he doesn’t try to hide it or tuck it behind his body. It’s right there, part of him, gleaming faintly.

“Ma’am,” he says, removing his cap as a gesture all too long lost by men who called themselves gentlemen. The action reveals a sweep of dark hair damp at the temples from the heat, and without obstruction, you find it easier to see his eyes now, blue, color of ocean water. There’s no attempt to offer a handshake, and he doesn’t say anything more.

You offer your name back like it’s a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Mister Barnes.”

“No need for the formalities. Haven’t been a Mister of much,” he corrects quietly. “I’m James. Most folks call me Bucky.”

His gaze drifts back to the yard, lingering on the strangled trellis. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Been a while since I was out here. Last time… must’ve been early summer. Told me the roses were coming in strong, wanted me to come trim the climbers before they got away from her. But I used to be here all the time. Helped her with some drainage plannin’, built the trellis for her.”

There’s a pause, and you see him narrow his eyes at a patch of what might once have been… well, anything, now lost under a sea of bindweed. “Should’ve checked when she went quiet. Figured she was just busy with her cannin’ or had some family visitin’. Didn’t feel right to push.”

You recognize the weight in the words. Guilt. A stranger who wasn’t a stranger to your grandmother, feeling the heaviness of not having visited her more often. It’s particular, how grief has a way of finding everyone who loved the same person and handing each of them their own particular version of it.

“She was good people. Always had coffee waitin’, strong enough to wake the dead. Talked about her grandaughter, well, you, a lot. Always said you were the prettiest girl in the big city. ‘suppose she wasn’t wrong.”

That lands too close to the bone while the numbness in your chest holds firm, a gray fog that keeps any sharper feelings at bay. Another time, in the city, you would have found Mister Barnes, James, Bucky, an incredibly handsome man. Maybe you would have said something warmer to him. You’re impressed, distantly, by the solid build, the quiet competence that radiates without needing to announce itself. But the grief sits too heavy, a stone lodged between your ribs. Flirting feels like a language from another life, one spoken under different air. Here, it doesn’t occur to you.

Bucky seems to interpret the silence on your end as discomfort. He clears his throat and gestures toward the almost collapsing trellis. “She loved those roses. So we’ll build them back up. Cut back what’s chokin’ ‘em, give the roots some air. They’re tougher than they look.”

We.

You don’t know what to do with that word. It does something to the wall of numbness you’ve been operating behind, finds a hairline crack and sits there. Something about the way he says it, not a sales pitch, not an empty promise to bill you later. This isn’t just a job for him. It’s a mission, a way to set right something that had slipped away while he wasn’t watching.

You nod, the motion feeling distant. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s a lot. And I’m not her, I barely know anything about this.”

He nods, once. Accepts that.

“It's a big job," Bucky says, back to practical. “Months, probably, before it looks like anythin’.” He glances at you sideways. "Depends what you want to do with the place."

You look at the cottage behind you, at the lace curtains still visible through the kitchen window.

“I want it to feel like her again,” you say. “Doesn’t need to be perfect. I just want it to feel like it has a reason to still be standing.”

Barnes is quiet for a moment. Then he says: “That's a good enough reason to start.”

The sound of a trunk horn wakes you up before the alarm goes off.

Your body registers it first of all, pulling you up from the unreliable sleep you’ve been managing since you arrived, and for one disoriented second, suspended in the gray space between dreaming and waking, your mind can barely place it itself. Then the floral wallpaper swims into focus, then the smell of old wood.

The clock on the nightstand reads 7:12. Outside, the truck engine cuts, a door swings open and closed, and then silence again. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening in to the silence.

Bucky didn’t say he’d come this early. He didn’t say much at all, in full honesty. But you can already recognize the sounds of someone beginning to work in the garden that is now yours.

There is something deeply strange about it, a man like him moving through the wreckage of your grief at 7 in the morning while you are still horizontal and unwashed, yet the strangeness has an undertone to it that you can’t quite name. Maybe the particular relief of knowing that a problem is being faced even when you are not yet capable of facing it yourself.

By the time you manage to get up and get downstairs, you have pulled your hair back and traded yesterday’s clothes for something cleaner, which feels like the upper limit of what you can reasonably ask of yourself before 8 AM. The kitchen is exactly as you left it when you enter it to fill the kettle and set it on the burner before standing at the window.

Bucky is already deep into it.

He has positioned himself in front of the trellis, the worst of it, the structure that had looked to you like a lost cause from the moment you first saw it. Strangling vines have grown over it in layers, and he is working from the top down with a pair of long-handled shears, cutting in sections, pulling the severed lengths away and piling them to the side. The patience with which he does it makes it look like a delicate surgery.

You watch him work the way you watched him last time from this same window, with the glass serving the necessary distance for someone who is not yet ready to be in the middle of things. He reaches up to cut a particularly stubborn length of vine and the motion pulls his shirt taut across his back. You notice, again, the funny implausibility of his size relative to the delicacy of what he is doing. Hands, one flesh, one metal, moving through the overgrowth with the precision of someone looking for something they don’t want to damage in the finding.

The kettle whistles.

You make two cups of coffee on autopilot, as if the memory has already been embedded into you.

The back door opens just as you finish pouring the two cups, and Bucky walks over, registers you, then the cups, but he remains impassive.

“Mornin’. Didn’t expect you up this early,” he says. Doesn’t apologize for arriving at 7 AM, you notice. He’s just a man who assumed starting before the heat peaked was a given.

“I heard the horn.” With careful steps, you walk towards him and offer him a mug. “Grandma always had coffee waiting. Would feel wrong not to do the same.”

He takes the mug you extend with his right hand, wrapping his fingers around it, and you notice then the state of them. The knuckles. The deep lines of the palm, the hardened skin at the base of each finger, the kind of callouses that take years to build, sustained by the repeated act of choosing hard work.

“Thank you,” is all he gives you. Without being told, you realize that this isn’t the kind of man who fills silences out of politeness. That you can stand here and drink your coffee and not be expected to perform conversation, and that this is, somehow, the most considerate thing he could offer you right now. So you do just that. Stand there. Drink your coffee.

Eventually, Bucky finishes his coffee and then he’s back out the door, and back to work. You follow him this time, trailing behind him as you look at vines he’s begun working with. Up close, the damage is more visible than it was from the window. The vines have threaded themselves through every joint, every crossbar, working their way into the structure the way roots look for water by branching out and filling every small gap. But the trellis itself, the bone of it all, is still standing. Barely, but there, in a very unexpected way.

“You built this, right?” And even though it’s a question it sounds more like a statement because you remember what he told you already.

“Few years back,” he crouches to free a length of vine from the base, pulling steadily, working it loose rather than snapping it. “Your grandma wanted something that could hold the climbers through winter. Most prefab wouldn’t cut it.” Bucky glances up at the structure appraisingly, and you recognize the look of someone looking at something they’ve made a long time ago and are no longer sure what to think of it now. “Needs a few joints repaired, but the frame’s sound.”

Through the morning, he works and you watch, still keeping to the edge of things, mug gradually emptying before you fill it back. In the meantime, Bucky has uncovered a significant section of the trellis frame, and it is in this newly exposed stretch that he stops, crouches low, and puts the shears down.

What he’s looking at is a rose cane; or rather, what remains of one. It is gray-brown and leafless and looks, to an untrained eye like yours, like everything else in this garden, something that has long given up. But Bucky is looking at it with a particular kind of focus, one that makes you wonder if he’s reading something written in a language you definitely don’t speak, his metal fingers hovering just above the bark without quite touching.

“Is it…” Dead? That word cannot even slip past your lips.

“Dormant,” he corrects hastily. “There’s a difference.”

Then, his fingers pinch a small section of the outer bark away from the cane and he shows you the inside, which is very unmistakably green.

Alive.

“Oh.”

He stands back up, retrieves his shears and keeps working. You stay where you are a little longer, looking at the exposed cane with it secret green interior.

“She had a catalogue. Like mail-order flowers or somethin’. Used to argue about it,” Bucky says after a while, from slightly above and to your left, his attention still on the vine he’s cutting. He doesn’t feel like he’s making conversation, more like he’s just thinking out loud. “There was this one climber she’d ordered, I forget the name, she was convinced it would come back every year without any help. I told her it wouldn’t survive the first frost without protection. Stubborn thing, planted it anyway, said she’d take her chances.”

“Did it survive?”

Scanning the remaining vines with a slow eye, Bucky points to the largest dormant canes, one that is thicker than the others at the base.

“Third year runnin’.”

He doesn’t say it smiling. But the corner of his mouth does something, a small upward shift, before he ducks his chin slightly like he is trying not to make a thing of it; then goes back to cutting.

You stand there for another moment, before going back inside to refill the kettle, because the alternative is to stand there, in the middle of his work, like you belong there, and you’re not quite ready to believe that yet.

Making him tea is an accident, the first time.

You hadn’t planned it. You are in the kitchen, making a cup for yourself, the way you have been every afternoon since you arrived, and your hand simply reaches for a second mug. Muscle memory, maybe, or the particular guilt of drinking something warm while a man is pulling thorns out of the ground thirty feet away. You bring it out without overthinking it, set it on the porch railing and go back inside before he has to acknowledge it.

Bucky leaves the mug empty on the railing when he leaves.

The second time is less accidental.

A lavender path runs along the south side of the garden and is entirely invisible under a season’s worth of bindweed and creeping grass. Bucky has moved on to it after working on the trellis for a while, and he approaches it with the same care he approached the roses.

You have been watching from the porch for most of the morning, cup of tea gone cold in your hands, when he stops and looks back over his shoulders at you.

“You could help with this part,” he says, a statement of fact he’s choosing to share. You look down at your hands, then back at him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know. Doesn’t matter for this, you’re just pulling.”

So you go in.

He hands you a pair of gloves without comment, the thick gardening kind, slightly too large, and you understand when you pull the first weed that this is why; the bindweed has thorns worked into it, a little too vicious, finding skin without any warning. You work at the edge of the path while he takes the denser middle section, and for a long stretch of time the only sounds are the pull and tear of vegetation.

The quiet between you has changed since the first day. It has lost the quality of two strangers being careful around each other, and it’s something simpler now. Still as quiet, but more comfortable now, like you’ve both established, without many words, that you trust each other enough to be silent together. You find that you can think in it, without the static that has followed you since the news broke.

“Is this one?” You hold up a stem you’re not sure about, something with small dark leaves that doesn’t quiet look like the rest of the weeds, but you also haven’t seen before.

Bucky glances over from where he’s kneeling. “Clover. Leave it.”

“…Why?”

“Pollinators like it. And it’s not hurtin’ anythin’.”

You put it back down carefully, tamping the soil around the base the way you’ve watched him do it, pressing with two fingers. There’s no comment from him on the imitation but you have the sense, even without looking his way, that he notices it. That’s the thing about Bucky, you’ve come to realize; he notices most things without making you feel watched.

Noticing without watching is a quality you have been trying put words to since the first day, when he looked at the rose cane the way most people look at something they love that has been damaged. There is a particular kind of attention he gives to things that is completely different from the attention you grew up being taught to pay. In the city, attention was a performance. In meetings, you looked at whoever was speaking to show them you were present, notes taken to demonstrate engagement. But here, Bucky’s attention is a different thing entirely. It is simply where his interest is. No performance, no proof. He looks at a plant and you believe that looking is the entire point of what he is doing.

And for the first time since his arrival, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like to have that quality of attention turned on you fully. Not the sideways glances you’ve caught, but the whole thing. If he’d find the flaws in your build, or if he’d look for the green under the bark.

Then you pull another weed, because this is not the time.

You are both working toward the center of the path from opposite ends when your hands converge on the same section, and you find the first live lavender stem. Bucky sees it first, a small cluster of gray-green stems, flattened under the weight of everything that has grown over them, but intact. He stops your hand and points.

“There.”

You lean closer, seeing the almost unrecognizable lavender, pressed flat and pale from the lack of light, but the leaves are still soft when you touch them, still releasing a faint dry fragrance that hits you all too softly. Then you hear him make a sound, like something has just occurred to him.

You glance over.

He is still looking at the ground, at the lavender next to you, an expression on his face like he’s actively deciding whether or not to let out whatever thought has come to mind.

Then, without looking up, without any preamble whatsoever:

"Why can't the flower ride his bike?"

You blink twice. Bucky’s jaw is set, expression aggressively neutral, like he has not just said what he said.

“… What?”

“… It’s just somethin’ that came to mind. An old joke I told your grandmother once.”

A pause hangs, your face doesn’t move except for your slightly furrowed brows.

“Okay. Why can’t the flower ride his bike?”

“Lost his petals.”

Bucky says it completely straight, the same tone he uses to tell you about drainage ingredients and soil composition and which weeds are worth keeping.

The laugh comes from somewhere so far down that it immediately surprises you on the way out. Not a small involuntary thing, but a bigger, louder laugh, one that takes over your whole chest and makes your eyes water before you’ve caught up to it. There’s no dignity to the sound that comes out of you, that escapes before grief has any chance to intervene. You press the back of your wrist to your mouth and it makes no difference at all.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s looking at you like he’s fighting very hard not smile, and losing that battle.

“That is the worst joke I have ever heard,” you manage, when you can speak again.

“Yeah. But you laughed. Was about time.”

The smile is still on your face when it happens.

It arrives quietly, the way the worst things do. One moment you are laughing, the sound of it still warm in your chest, and then something catches, a foot finding a loose board in the dark, and the warmth quickly dissipates.

Because the laughter had felt good. Physically good, the first thing in weeks that has cut cleanly through the haze, and the goodness of it is exactly what undoes you. The thought arrives fully formed and merciless: she will never hear you laugh again. Will never know you were here, in her garden, laughing at a terrible joke told by a man she liked very much.

The tears come before you can stop them.

You turn away from him immediately, a reflex, one hand coming up to cover your face. Tears that had been waiting, pressurized, behind the numbness for days, weeks, and are finally seeping through a moment of weakness. You try to breathe through it and can’t quite manage, and now you’re crying without much composure, without careful management you’ve been applying over your grief like a bandage of the wrong size.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—”

“You don’t have to be.”

You don’t answer. You keep your hand over your face because looking at anything feels impossible right now.

“It’s not right,” you get out, eventually. “That I can laugh when she’s— I shouldn’t be laughing yet, it’s too soon, it means I’ve already started—”

“No.”

Bucky settles into stillness beside you, not touching, just present.

“Doesn’t work like that. Laughin’ doesn’t mean you’re done grievin’, or that you’re lettin’ go of anythin’. Just means you’re still here.”

You try to breathe.

“She would have wanted you to laugh. Grief will sometimes be loud, and then quiet, and then loud again. That’s okay.”

The tears are still coming but something in your chest has eased, just slightly. Finally, you lower your hand, and the garden comes back into focus. Bucky is giving you the courtesy of not watching you reassemble yourself, staring at something else which is, you think, exactly what your grandmother meant when she wrote that he listens to the earth. You’re part of it, too.

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your shirt and exhale slowly.

“I’ve been holding that in for a while,” you say.

“I can tell.” Another pause. “You know your grandma had no patience for held-in things. Would’ve had you cryin’ into a cup of coffee on the first mornin’.” The corner of his mouth gives up the fight entirely, shows a real smile, there and then gone just as quickly. “You want to keep goin' or call it for today?”

“Let's keep going,” you say.

He nods, once. Puts his gloves back on and you do the same.

From then on, every afternoon, somewhere around the point when the sun peaks and the garden becomes briefly inhospitable, Bucky takes a break he doesn’t announce and appears at the edge of the porch. You have started timing the kettle to it, which you admit only to yourself and no one else. You sit on the steps, he leans against the railing, and the conversation comes in the same way everything does with him: unhurried, arriving when it arrives.

He tells you things about himself. Careful, not because he doesn’t want to share them, but because you can tell he’s not sure whether you want to hear them. (You do, you come to find out.) Then tells you things about the garden and about your grandmother in the same tone, as if they are the same subject. That she once spent an entire afternoon arguing with him about the correct way to stake a climbing rose, and he let her win, and she knew he let her win and never brought it up again.

“She said something about you,” you tell him eventually. “In the address book, next to your number. I don’t know if you’d want to know.”

Bucky just looks at you.

‘Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth,' you tell him. Exactly as she wrote it.

He looks away, out at the garden. Pulls the brim of his cap down a fraction, which you have figured is exactly what he does when something lands somewhere tender. There’s a long enough silence that you start to worry you’ve misstepped.

But then, quiet: “That’s good to know.”

That’s all.

The worrying starts a month in, and it announces itself in the most ordinary way.

You are inside the house when you hear it, a single sharp sound from somewhere in the garden, metal against stone, followed by a silence that has a different quality than the usual working silence.

When you move to the back door, what you find is Bucky standing very still beside the railing with his left hand pressed flat against his right forearm, metal protecting the flesh.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” He says it so quickly and flatly that it’s very obviously a lie.

“Bucky.”

He looks at you then, a brief evaluating look, and something about whatever he finds in your expression makes him relent. He lifts his metal hand to show you: a long shallow scratch along the inside of his forearm, from a piece of broken border edging he had been repositioning. Doesn’t look deep from where you’re standing, but the way he’d been holding it suggested it had stung considerably more than nothing.

“I have a first aid kit inside,” you say."

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t ask,” You say it the same way he says most things. A fact, not an argument. “Come inside.”

He does, and sits at the kitchen table carefully, as a man who has learned to take up the right amount of space and no more, while you find the first aid kit in the cupboard where your grandmother always kept it, between the spare candles and the batteries.

The scratch is genuinely minor. You clean it without ceremony and he watches the process with patience, and you are aware, more than you have been at any point working alongside him in the garden, of how close you are. The kitchen is small. His flesh arm is resting on the table and you are sitting in front of him, and the afternoon light is coming through the window at an angle that does something very specific to the planes of his face. It highlights the blue in his eyes, too.

You focus on the first aid kit instead.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, but there’s no mention that he wants you to stop. Maybe he just feels required to offer you the exit.

“She’d have done it,” you say simply.

His eyes move to the window. “You’re not her.”

A small thing. It doesn’t need to be more than it is. But he finishes it in a way that makes it harder to simplify it: “I like that about you.”

You press a small strip of gauze into place with your thumb, smoothing the tape at the edges. There is no logical reason to take this long finishing a minor scratch. You both seem to know that, but neither of you moves away.

Your eyes travel, briefly and without meaning to, to where his metal arm rests next to his body. The afternoon light catches the articulated joints, the way it sits completely still the way flesh and bone rarely does. Your eyes drift away before it becomes a thing, but he sees it.

“You can look,” Bucky says. Not an invitation exactly. He’s just handing you a door you didn’t know you were standing in front of. “Most people do. Just usually they try harder to pretend they don’t.”

“I wasn’t—” you start, and then stop, because you were, a little. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been one of the only people in a long while who just… let it be there. First day I came out, you looked and moved on. Treated it like it was part of a person instead of the whole story of one.”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you stay quiet and let him have the floor.

“Most people either stare and can’t stop, or they work so hard at not lookin’ that it becomes its own kind of starin’. Both make a man feel like a curiosity. You just… handed me coffee.”

“Seemed like the right thing to do.”

The corner of his mouth moves. “People don’t always do the right thing.”

Another silence, but it’s more comfortable now. There’s no need to fill it, you’ve both learned how to live inside it, but you continue anyway. A breach in his persona that you intend to explore, if he’ll let you.

“How long have you had it?” you ask, and you say it to his arm, because starting there feels like less an inconvenience than meeting his eyes.

“Fifteen years, give or take.”

The number lands heavier than you expect. Fifteen years is long enough to become the shape of a person. Long enough that you cannot picture the version of him that preceded it, and you suspect, that maybe he can’t always either.

“Work accident,” he adds, not because you asked. Just because the words are sitting there and he’s decided to pick them up. “Land clearin’ job, upstate. Big contract, the kind you don’t turn down when you’re twenty-five and tryin’ to build somethin’ from nothin’. There was an equipment failure. It was fast. Everythin’ else after was slow, though.”

You don’t say sorry, because something tells you he has a particular and well-earned exhaustion with that phrase. Instead, you ask: “What was the hardest part? After.”

He considers it for a bit.

“Knowin’ what my hands were supposed to do and not being able to trust them to do it anymore.” Bucky glances down at his right hand, the lines in the palm, the built callouses. “I’ve worked since I was seventeen. This kind of work, specifically. It’s the one thing I knew how to be. For a while I genuinely didn’t know who I was without it. Or if there was a version of me that existed separate from it.”

“But there was,” you finish for him.

“Took some convincin’. And a lot of broken things. Broke more fence posts learnin’ to calibrate the grip on that side than I care to admit. Had to relearn the pressure for everythin’. Soil density, stone, root systems. The sensitivity is different, temperature reads different. But some things are easier now. The metal doesn’t tire, doesn’t cramp in the cold.” He makes a face then, without self-pity, but still a bit funny. “Other… things are still being figured out, ‘til this day.”

“Fifteen years in and still figuring it out?”

“Most things worth doin’ take longer than that.”

You sit with that for a moment.

“I used to think that people would always see it first and everythin’ else second. That it would just be the thing that preceded me into every room,” he says, arriving at something he doesn’t often take out into the world. “But I have found that some people make it easy to forget it ever felt like a problem.”

Although he doesn’t look directly at you when he says it, his eyes now on his metal arm, you know he means you, even through the subtext.

You smooth the edge of the bandage one more time, a gesture with no remaining practical purpose, and then you fold your hands in your lap.

“For what it’s worth… from where I’m standing, it’s a good arm.”

He blinks. It's the closest to caught off guard you've ever seen him.

“Beg your pardon?”

“The arm. It’s good. Found the green inside the rose cane, pulled the lavender out without breaking it. It’s done something good. Just thought someone should say it.”

“… Thank you.”

And he means every syllable.

When he leaves that afternoon and you stand at the kitchen window watching the truck back out over the gravel, you notice something funny that takes you a moment to identify, unfamiliar after weeks of weight.

You are already thinking about tomorrow.

Not with dread. Not with the gray, flat, nothing that has colored every day since you arrived. It’s hopeful. You want tomorrow to come because that means you’ll see him again.

It’s a Thursday morning when Bucky announces he’ll start working on the fountain at the center of the garden. You’d looked at it weeks ago, and it was left on standby to be dealt with eventually. That eventually is today, which is how you both end up here, on your knees in the dirt, staring at the vines that have overtaken it.

“Pull toward you,” Bucky says (for the third time) because you keep pulling sideaways and the vine system underneath is apparently connected in a way that means you’re undoing his work every time you do. “The root runs that direction. You’re fighting it.”

You scoff. “I know I’m fighting it, I’m trying to remove it.”

“You remove it by not fighting it.”

“… Very zen for someone covered in mud,” you shoot back, even though technically he’s not covered in mud. But there’s a streak of it along his jaw where he’d wiped his face with the back of his wrist without thinking, and his shirt has long given up on any pretense of cleanliness. He looks at you, patience of a woman who has decided not to rise to it, and then reaches across and repositions your hands on the vine, both of his hands, flesh and metal, bracketing yours briefly.

“There, now pull.”

You pull, and the vine comes away from the stone in one satisfying length, roots and all.

“Oh.”

The fountain is old. Limestone, you think, or something like it, pale gray and carved simply, a wide basin sitting on a short column. Someone, maybe your grandmother, maybe your grandmother with Bucky’s help, had planted climbing things around its base and they had done exactly what climbing things do when left without guidance: they engulfed it entirely.

Clearing it takes the better part of the morning.

The heat is real today, thick, settling into the back of your neck and staying. You’ve both abandoned the idea of breaks, working through the mess in sections, passing the shears back and forth without needing to ask. You’re working closer together than you have been before; when he reaches past you to get a root system threading the far side of the basin, his metal arm crosses your line of sight close enough that you could close your hand around it if you moved a few inches to the left.

“Hand me the trowel?”

Find it, pass it over, and he takes it with his right hand, the left braced flat against the side of the basin to keep his balance while he works at the base and you watch the metal fingers spread against the stone for a moment before you make yourself look at something else.

And by noon, the fountain is mostly exposed.

You both sit back on your heels and look at it. The limestone is dark with old moisture in places, and there’s green algae mapped across the north face where the water must have pooled and sat. The pipe inlet at the base of the column is corroded but present.

“Think it still works?” you ask.

“Possibly. I imagine the line was shut off some time ago. If it hasn’t cracked in the cold and the pump is still… Where’s the external water shutoff?”

Which is how you end up in the small utility space beside the back door, the two of you shoulder to shoulder in a space that was clearly not designed for more than one person, while Bucky shines his phone torch at the copper pipework running along the wall and explains what you’re looking at and what he intends to do with it.

You are not listening to him as carefully as you usually do.

This is new, and you’re aware of it as a thing that is new. In the early weeks, Bucky’s presence had been a comfort primarily because it was a constant and because it was directed outward, at the garden, at the definable and fixable concrete. You could absorb the company without it requiring anything of you. Somewhere in the middle weeks, it became something you looked forward to specifically, the two cups of coffee and the particular silence that had grown familiar.

But this, right now, is something else again.

It’s the awareness of him as him, in a utility cupboard, explaining the gate valve, and something in you has oriented toward the way he moves and talks to you. Helplessly and without drama, just the natural consequence of conditions.

There is a difference between dormant and dead.

You’d thought it applied only to your garden.

“—so if you turn this one first, counterclockwise, and then the secondary valve gives, you’ll know the line is intact—”

“Bucky.”

“—and if it doesn’t, then we’re lookin’ at—”

“Bucky.”

He stops, looks at you, which in this space means looking at you closely.

“Sorry,” you say. “I missed the last part. Which one first?”

A brief pause, and then: “This one.” He takes your hand, your right and his right, and guides your fingers to the valve. “Counterclockwise. Slow.”

There’s a shudder in the pipework when you turn it, a gargle and the sound of water moving through old joints, and then: nothing catastrophic.

“Secondary,” Bucky continues, and you feel him behind your shoulder, leaning in to watch.

You turn the second valve, and the pipe hisses.

“Give it a minute.”

You give it a minute.

When you both walk back out to the garden, the fountain is running.

The water comes up through the basin inlet in a steady, narrow column, spills over itself and begins to fill the basin slowly, moving over the algae and the old stone. The sound of it is small and even and has been absent from this garden for long enough that it sounds almost strange to your ears.

Both of you dirty, both of you tired, you stand beside each other watching it, heat still pressing down from above.

“It works,” you say.

“It works,” he agrees.

Neither of you says anything else for a while.

You think about your grandmother's hands on this stone, over decades, the same hands that braided your hair and hauled compost and pressed the seeds into the earth. You think about Bucky standing at the edge of her overgrown garden on the first day.

Still here. That’s what he’d said when you’d been crying on the lavender path. Laughing doesn't mean you're done grieving. It means you're still here.

You are still here.

And you, here, don’t make a decision, exactly. Or if you do, it isn’t the kind you feel yourself making. It’s more like you just stop holding something.

Whatever small distance remains between you and Bucky as you watch the fountain is quickly closed when you shift toward him and kiss him.

It’s all too brief. Soft. His cheek is warm from the sun when you touch it, and he smells like turned earth, but nothing really compares to how his lips taste against yours. To how he kisses you back, for a full second, and you swear you can feel his body leaning in, and maybe you’ve got the power of sight because even with closed eyes, you can feel his metal hand hovering and reaching for your waist.

Except he doesn’t. He goes completely still and then steps back.

Bucky’s not unkind in the way he does it, but he does it nonetheless. One step that reestablishes a distance. Very briefly, he looks like a man who has just pressed his hand to a bruise he’d forgotten about.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, which somehow makes it worse.

There’s warmth in your face when you look at him now, but not from the heat. “No, I’m sorry, that was…”

Was… what?

“This isn’t a good idea.”

This is the part where you say something, a distant corner of your mind observes. But the embarrassment has arrived, sudden, and you’re caught between it and the question of what he had done in that one still second before he moved away. Because it had not been nothing. You are certain, with the certainty of someone who has spent the last weeks learning how to read a careful person, that the way he kissed you back, even for a split moment, had not been nothing.

“Okay.”

It’s the only word small enough not to make it worse.

Days later, you make lemonade for the first time. You don’t examine the decision too closely. It’s hot, genuinely hot, the first real heat of the season pressing down on the cottage and the garden like a hand, and lemonade makes sense in a way that has nothing to do with anything else. You bought lemons a few days ago after finding a recipe with your grandmother’s handwriting tucked inside a cookbook. You follow it exactly, including the ungodly amounts of sugar mentioned at the end.

When you carry the pitcher and two glasses out to the porch, Bucky is working at the far end of the garden on the vegetable patch and he sees you from a distance. Straightens up. Looks at you. Walks across the garden toward the porch.

There’s something different about watching him move toward you versus watching him work, something you register without deciding to. He takes the glass you pour and drinks most of it standing up, deeply thirsty, then looks at you with mild surprise.

“Tastes exactly like your grandmother’s.”

“Found the recipe in the cookbook.”

You pour him another glass when he hands you his empty one, a silent request for more. Then he sits on the porch steps instead of leaning on the railing, which he hasn't done before, and you sit beside him at a reasonable distance.

This isn’t so different from the first day you stood side by side looking at the green monster. Of course, the garden is changed now, less of a green monster and more of a slight green inconvenience, nowhere near finished, but visibly different. The trellis is cleared and the roses are staked and the lavender path is at least recognizable. There is structure reappearing where before there was only chaos. Clear evidence of work. Evidence that things can be found again if one is willing to look.

You sit on the porch steps and drink too-sweet lemonade that tastes like every summer you spent here, and beside you Bucky is quiet in the way he is always quiet, which is to say completely and without apology, and it makes you think about the lavender pressing itself flat in the dark for years and still releasing fragrance when someone touched it.

There is a difference between dormant and dead.

You’re on the porch when a storm announces itself with the first roll of thunder somewhere past the treeline. Crouched by the vegetable patch, Bucky hears it too, and you see him pause his work and tilt his head back slightly, reading the lines of the sky.

The first drops are fat and isolated, hitting the porch boards, and then between one breath and the next, the sky opens entirely.

Bucky runs toward the porch steps in a few strides, and you both stand under the narrow overhang and watch the garden disappear into gray curtains of rain. The tin roof above you turns the downpour into something enormous, a sound that swallows everything else, and the smell of wet earth hits almost overwhelmingly.

“That came fast,” you almost yell over the rain.

“Saw it coming from the ridge about an hour ago. Didn’t think it’d move this quick.”

Wind picks up and drives the rain sideways under the overhang in a fine spray that finds your arms and your face, and Bucky shifts in front of you, blocking some of it.

“Come inside, there’s no point standing out here.”

The kitchen is dim with the storm light, and the sound of water on the roof fills the cottage from wall to wall. With careful hands, you put the kettle on, because that’s what you do, and Bucky leans against the doorframe that separates the kitchen from the hallway, carrying some self-containment of a man in someone else’s house, even after months.

You’ve noticed that he does this, chooses doorframes and porch railings and the edge of things, rather than the middle. Somehow, that makes you impatient today.

“You can sit down. You’ve been here every day for months.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going to wear out the chair.”

In an act that almost feels like rebellion, he doesn’t move, and you turn back to the kettle. Rain is relentless against the roof, and the kitchen feels smaller than it usually does, storm drawing in the walls somehow.

After the water has boiled, you set his mug on the table and sit, before Bucky crosses to the table, pulls out a chair and sits with the kind of particular quietness he always does since the other week’s incident. He’s always too careful around you, now, since that kiss. Like you’re an explosive device he’s terrified of setting off.

He drinks his tea. You sit down across from him and drink your own.

This should be comfortable. They used to be, your silences, for long enough that you’d stopped noticing them as silences. But this one has something in it, something that has been building in the open field of your garden. Things changed that day at the fountain; nothing broke, not fully, but something bent, and now both of you have been carefully working around it, pretending it doesn’t change the entire geometry of your relationship.

“Roses are gonna need checkin’ after this,” he says eventually, trying to loosen up the air just a fraction. Another time, you would have appreciated the gesture, but right now it makes something unsettling burn in your throat. “Heavy rain on new stakes can—”

“Can we not?”

A pause. Bucky looks genuinely confused.

“Not what?”

“Talk about the garden. For like ten minutes. Can we just sit here and not make it about the garden?”

A brief recalibration moves across his face. “All right.”

“Look, I need to say something,” you start, and you hadn’t planned to start saying anything at all, but the storm and weeks of careful distance have apparently reached some sort of threshold. “About the fact that you come here every morning and we work together, and talk about my grandmother, and your arm, and roses, and yet… you still sit across the table from me like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to be in the room or not.”

His jaw does the small ticking thing while he chooses his next words very carefully.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to be…” He stops, then starts again. “There’s a line.”

“What line?”

Bucky exhales, slow. “You hired me to do a job. You were grieving’, no, you are grievin’. There’s a power in that, in me bein’ here every day while you’re in the middle of somethin’ that hard, and I have no interest in bein’ the kind of man who takes advantage of a situation because he—”

“Bucky, I kissed you.”

There it is, words laid on the table along with any dignity you might have left. Bucky looks at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, stripped of its usual careful management. Whatever he’s feeling, however, he’s trying hard to not let it show.

“I know.”

“And you stepped back.”

“I know that too.”

“I’m not asking for an explanation.” (You are, a little.) “I just… you said it wasn’t a good idea, but every day you come and you drink my tea and talk to me and notice everything while not saying anything and I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with you, with the fact that you didn’t want that.”

Rain is at its peak now, the downpour making the world outside the window entirely abstract and the kitchen feels like the only room left on earth.

Bucky has both hands around his mug, flesh and metal, and he’s looking at them rather than at you.

“Look… it’s not that I didn’t want to. That wasn’t the problem.”

“Then I don’t think I understand what the problem is.”

His expression does something complicated that you don’t find the vocabulary for. It isn’t closed, by any means, and that’s the thing that stays with you afterward, turning it over in the sleepless stretch of the night. It isn’t the face of a man who doesn’t feel anything. It’s the face of a man who feels something but has decided, for reasons you don’t have access to yet, that the feeling isn’t safe to act on.

The storm moves on eventually, and Bucky goes back outside as soon as the rain eases, checking the rose stakes just as he said he would.

Nothing, technically, changes in the following days. Nothing you can give a name to, anyway.

Bucky still comes at seven. The truck sounds the same on the gravel, the door swings open and closed with its own strange creak. Coffee gets made sometimes, other times tea (never again the lemonade). Work gets done.

But something shifts anyway.

He talks less. There’s no way to read it as a punishment, because it isn’t one, or as sulking. It’s not that. Afternoons on the porch steps, which had become part of the day you oriented toward without admitting it, still happen, but they’re shorter, and the conversation stays closer to a surface level. You talk about the garden and what needs to be done next week.

There’s nothing else that stretches into deeper roots, like the time he told you about how he lost his arm. Never again does he ask anything personal about you. Never mentions your grandmother again. Whatever personal territory he had slowly opened over weeks closed again as a quiet act of privacy.

It hits harder than you had expected it to.

Because he is scrupulous about the distance, about leaving every day at the same time, leaving no room for hope of a longer evening. There’s no more pause at the truck door before getting in, a small delay that wasn’t forgetfulness. He just leaves, now, and you stand on your porch watching him go.

And then comes an ordinary day when something breaks open.

It’s a regular Friday. You have been inside most of the morning, working through the last of your grandmother’s paperwork at the kitchen table, the administrative aftermath of a life that keeps arriving in envelopes even months after the fact.

You bring Bucky coffee after lunch, and when you come around the side of the cottage you find him crouched at the base of the climbing rose, admiring something fascinating: it’s blooming.

Pale red buds cracked open at the tips, three or four of them along the highest cane, reaching toward the afternoon light. You stand there with the mug in your hands, looking at the roses while something rises in your chest. This is the beginning of something. A second chance.

Bucky rises to his height next to you and you hand him his coffee without looking away from the roses. The quiet distance that has been maintained for weeks is gone, dissolved in the warmth of this moment, because there is no architecture of caution that holds up against the first bloom of something you’ve rebuilt together.

When you finally turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you.

And that’s really all it takes, comically. That is the entire mechanism of it, managed silence and dormancy coming apart at the seams with one look too full of things he has been keeping behind professionalism and boundaries.

This time, Bucky’s the one who closes the distance between the two of you.

His mouth finds yours without hurry, without the frantic quality of something held back too long. He moves with intention, giving you every opportunity to see it coming, and his hand comes up to your face, warm, rough-palmed, cupping your jaw too quickly like he has thought about this a hundred times already.

You stop thinking, because what else is there to think but the touch of his lips on yours?

The paperwork on the kitchen table and the Wednesday night phone call that tore your life apart all recede to somewhere very far away, and what remains is only this. The smell of earth and roses, the solid pressure of him under your fingertips when your hands steady themselves on his chest.

He kisses you the same way he tends to things, with attention that isn’t performance, letting the kiss exist completely in itself without rushing toward anything else. Flesh thumb moves once along your cheekbone, tongue presses against the entrance of your mouth and allows itself in because you let him, and his metal arm snakes around your waist and brings you closer because you let him.

Your fingers curl into the worn fabric of his shirt while time does something strange. Loses its forward momentum and simply rests, hanging, until you decide to make it move again.

There’s nothing to say to improve the silence when he pulls back only a few inches, forehead dropping to yours. Morning birds are suddenly very loud, and the fountain is running, and the roses are blooming right there, and his breath is slow and warm against your mouth, and…

Tasting the way your mind runs ahead of your thumping heart, Bucky squeezes your hip gently, bringing you back to him. You're thinking about your grandmother's handwriting on the back of the business card.

He listens to the earth.

He knows how to listen to you, too.

“I tried,” he says, very quietly. Rough at the edges, like he’s been struggling to keep the words down. “I want you to know that. I tried real hard.”

“I know,” you say against his mouth. Deep in your gut, you know what he means. Tried to stay away.

“Kept tellin’ myself that it wasn’t right. That you were grievin’, that you’d come here to heal somethin’ and I was just the man hired to fix your garden, it wasn’t my place to—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt, fingers tightening around his shirt and leaning that much closer again that you’re almost kissing when you speak. “Come inside with me.”

Hesitation is gone when he follows you inside, through the back door and into the dim warmth of the cottage. Walking together through the hallway, Bucky closes the distance and doesn’t let go of you the whole time, while heavy steps sound on the floor and you walk him with a very specific location in mind.

He kisses you differently when you get there. Outside, by the roses, it was a start. Now, walking past the door of your bedroom, his right hand finds your face again, with the same instinct, but he exhales against your mouth and kisses you harder. Desperate, a man who pushes his lips against yours like he has never wanted to kiss anyone else in his entire life. Kisses your mouth and the soft place at the corner of it, and the line of your jaw when he pulls back, then your temple, then back to your lips again because stopping seems impossible.

Your hands find his shoulders, the dark hair at his nape, and every point of contact registers with a vividness that makes the last months feel like an absurdity. Like you had both kept yourselves from drinking water on the premise that you weren’t sure you deserved to be thirsty.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and draws you toward him, keeping you standing between his legs as he stares up at you. His right hand moves with certainty when he reaches for one of your wrists and brings it to your lips, kissing the skin. Blue eyes watch his own fingers move across your skin before they close, feeling you warm and real and present, and he keeps having to relearn this fact from the beginning every few seconds, because a part of him has not yet fully accepted that you are here and that you are letting him do this.

His left arm, however, stays where it is.

At his side, against the bed. And of course you notice it, so you reach for his left hand anyway while you move to sit on his lap, straddling him. Half of him freezes; his right hand moves over your collarbone, dips under your shirt to trace your shoulders. His left side, in the meantime, feels like it’s been dipped in a bucket of ice-cold water.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” You turn the metal hand over in both of yours, the articulated joints and cool weight of it, and you kiss it slowly, dragging your lips over every ridge, mapping every inch of the metal. Under your touch, Bucky almost crumbles, breathing unsteady, and you swear you almost feel him shaking.

“…Fifteen years. I haven’t… I never trusted it enough. The calibration for—” He’s looking for the word, but can’t seem to locate it in any comfortable dictionary while your lips trace his hand like it’s sacred. “This. I don’t know what I’m doin’ with this hand when it comes to this.”

“You found the green inside the rose cane,” you remind him again, just like the last time you talked about his arm. “Pulled the lavender out without breaking it.” Both your hands bring his metal palm flat against your face, warm skin against cool metal, and you watch his blue eyes build up a storm. You hold very still so he can feel that you are not afraid, that there’s nothing in you rejecting any of him. “You already know how.”

Metal fingers move then, slowly, tracing the hinge of your jaw, and he watches them, or watches you, reading the feedback, adjusting. You barely move at all, except for a shiver that runs through your spine when the metal touches the back of your neck, but the fingers quickly curling in his hair to pull him closer are enough indication that this shiver has nothing to do with fear. Fifteen years, and some things still aren’t figured out. You feel more than inclined to help him.

Both his arms move to wrap around you and he pulls you close, pressing his mouth to your hair before he lays you down.

His right hand moves through your hair, across your ribs through your shirt, learning you with the patience he gives everything, and his metal hand follows (more carefully, but follows nonetheless). The cool metal traces the same path a heartbeat later, fingertips gliding like he’s afraid the warmth of your skin might burn him if he presses too hard.

It’s strange to be on your back on the bed that used to be yours as a child (you were never brave enough to take over your grandmother’s bedroom, but you did manage to move out of the guest bedroom), the quilt soft and familiar beneath you, while Bucky is above you. But the strangeness doesn’t make you falter, not even when his flesh hand slips under the hem of your shirt and spreads, palm flat against the bare skin of your stomach.

He finds the bottom of your shirt and lifts it, inch by inch, and when the fabric clears your head, he sets it aside carefully before returning both hands to you. Flesh and metal cradling your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as if the shape of you is a miracle he never expected to hold.

His voice says things while he worships you, words that he has been carrying too long in his chest. That he had felt it early, earlier than made sense, that he’d genuinely tried to stay away, that he believed he was doing the right thing because you were in the middle of grieving.

“I kept thinkin’ that if I just kept my head down long enough it’d go away. That I could go home and sleep it off like a cold,” he says, his mouth at your temple. Then leans down and presses his mouth to the center of your chest, right over your heart.

He kisses lower, open-mouthed, while his hands keep moving, always touching. The right hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants, easing the fabric down with a care that makes your breath catch. The metal hand helps, fingertips hooking the other side, sliding the material away as though he’s afraid even the brush of denim might mark you. When you’re bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels for a moment, just looking. Both hands rest on your thighs and he strokes upward in perfect unison, reverent drags of fingers that leave trails of heat and coolness in their wake.

“You’re so beautiful. I never let myself believe I’d get to touch you like this.”

Open mouth follows the path his hands have already started, kissing the curve of your breast, the soft plane of your stomach, the dip of your hip, while his fingers never stop. They trace over the hollow of your throat, then come down over your sternum, finding your breasts and pushing the fabric of your bra aside. His flesh hand cups one breast with impossible gentleness, thumb brushing over the peak until you arch into him, sighing his name. It hardens under his touch and he looks at you smiling, like he’s proud of his achievement, or maybe just in awe that his rough hands still have enough soft touch in them to make you feel good.

Either way, you barely notice when he settles between your legs, still not rushing there either. He kisses the inside of your thigh first, both hands moving to cradle your hips and spreading you open, then higher, until his nose is tickling the space between your thigh and your panties, where a wet patch has formed. Metal fingers curl around the soft fabric and push it down your legs in a gentle motion, and then without warning, without fireworks, his mouth finds you, warm and delicate.

“Bucky…” You sing his name in a soft melody, legs closing around his head instinctively, but his metal hand curls around your thigh and pushes it open again, not forcefully, but with enough firmness to keep you in place. His tongue speaks a new language into the wetness of your cunt, licking every whisper of your wetness, a stripe, then smaller hits, then focusing on your clit until you are almost begging for mercy.

You thread your fingers into his dark hair and pull, and mercy is not an option when he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your bones. Tug, pull, push, legs shaking around his head as he throws both your legs over his shoulders and goes to town as if staying alive depended on it.

‘Bucky’, you call again, needier this time, a dying whine on your lips, and he closes his eyes as if savoring the sound, but never relenting.

Even when your hips start to buck and your fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair, Bucky stays right where he is, a devoted lover, too focused on your pleasure. The flat of his tongue drags up the center of you in a long stripe, then circles your clit with patient pressure until something starts to burn behind your eyelids: not stars, maybe an all-out supernova.

“Bucky, oh my god,” your voice cracks in the middle and he answers by sliding his metal fingers into one of your hands, pulling it from his hair and instead lacing your fingers together against the mattress. In eating you out he never takes more than you can give, as if he knows exactly what the limit of your pleasure is, but he toes it with every lick until he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, soft, warm, until you can almost swear your slick is now a mix of your wetness and his own drool.

You come hard, sudden and overwhelming, like you haven’t in a while, in maybe too long, with his name on your mouth sounding more like a pathetic plea. It’s been a minute since your voice sounded like this for anyone. It’s been a minute since you’ve allowed yourself to feel anything at all. Bucky doesn’t pull away until you’re trembling and soft and breathless, and even then he only replaces the warmth of your cunt with other skin for his mouth to touch as he kisses up your body with slick-covered lips.

 “Still with me?” he whispers against your stomach, kissing the sweat away.

You nod, heart thundering in your chest. “That was… you’re… God. Bucky.”

A chuckle slips past his lips, which is just as surprising to you as anything else happening today, because when have you ever heard this man this carefree in all the months you’ve spent together?

“I’m not God. But it’s good to know I still got what it takes to please my woman.”

That makes you pause, only a little, and you move the one hand still in his hair to press over his heart.

“Is that what I am now? Your woman?”

Bucky looks up from your stomach, eyes finding yours in the dim afternoon light, blue and steady.

“If you want to. I’ll take whatever you want to give me.” His right hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “A friendship. A warm bed. Somethin’ in between. I’m not a man who needs a lot, but I’m not gonna pretend I don’t have a preference.”

“And what’s your preference?”

“You,” he says, too simply. “All of you. In my arm, next time I go to town to get some supplies. So I can take you to see a movie, or out for dinner, or both if you want. In my bed, so I can pull from you every night the same faces you just did.”

That makes you chuckle, and you realize you are still more out of breath than you thought.

“I like your preference,” you whisper to him. “I think it's mine, too.”

Bucky Barnes, a man on the edge of his own composure, finally pushes himself up and reaches for the buttons of his shirt, but his fingers are clumsy, the tremor of want making a simple task all too difficult. Through the haze of your recent pleasure, you reach up, covering his hands with yours.

“Let me.”

You undo them one by one, and as the fabric falls away, the breadth of him is almost overwhelming. Years of hard work have carved muscle into his frame, but there are scars, too, old ones, pale and faded, mapping stories across his skin. There’s a line where the flesh meets metal on his left shoulder, almost screaming at you, but you don’t react, don’t even flinch. Instead, your fingers trace the edge of it gently, the same way you touch any other part of him, and you lean up to kiss the scarred skin. Bucky is attempting to kick his boots off when you do, and you feel him stagger right there, as if it’s too unexpected, too soon despite it being on his body for fifteen years now.

You wait for the anger, for him to ask you to stop. Instead he exhales slowly, sheds his pants and boxers and lies down over you, mattress dipping under your combined weight. His body against yours is a revelation; strong and thick, radiating heat that rivals the summer sun.

You open your arms and he comes to you, settling between your legs with a care that very few men have ever shown you. Between your bodies, you feel the hard length of him, pressing not all subtly between your folds, not yet pushing in, but resting there. Blue eyes meet yours again, his brows furrowed in what seems to be a man deeply lost in thought. One of your hands reaches up, strokes the spread of his cheek.

“You are incredible. So beautiful,” he whispers against your temple, closing his eyes as he inhales the scent of your hair.

“You’ve said,” you reply, letting humor make the moment feel less heavy. Bucky grips your thighs a little harder.

“Don’t mock an old man laying his heart out to you,” he says back, the same amount of lighthearted fun in his tone, but you know he means it, deep down.

Before you have a chance to reply, he leans forward and kisses you deeply as he lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. He doesn’t push in right away, instead just rocks gently while your mouths work together, sliding through your slick folds and coating himself. You moan against him and he swallows it in a breath, and that’s when he finally presses forward, inch by careful inch. Soft praises are whispered against your lips when he pulls back, and he moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, but your body still struggles to keep up, given how sensitive you still are.

Bucky moves with soulful patience, metal hand buried in the pillow next to your head and flesh hand gripping your hip, and every thrust feels like a question that is answered with the way you wrap your legs tighter around his waist every time, feet digging into the small of his back.

“You’re okay?” he gasps, searching your eyes for any trace of discomfort. Is the metal too cold, is he too heavy?

“I’m okay,” you breathe. “I’m okay, Bucky, keep going.”

The thrusts start slow, metal arm braced beside you, fresh hand cradling the back of your head with his fingers threaded through your hair. He angles his hips just right, grinding against that stop deep inside you that sets sparks lighting up behind your eyes. You meet him thrust for thrust, hands roaming where they can reach, nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, his shoulders, holding on to his biceps and he kisses your neck, your collarbone, mouth open and wet.

The pace stays unhurried, passionate in its restraint. Every slide of his cock drags deliciously, building heat low in your belly, and soon enough you can feel another orgasm begin to coil, slower this time. But Bucky’s control is fraying, obvious in the way his breaths turn ragged, in the slight stutter of his hips. It’s been too long for him, and you’re too warm, too wet, too many years of self-imposed winter, and the sound of your voice calling out his name is a catalyst he can’t fight.

His teeth graze your shoulder, eyes blown wide.

“I can’t… fuck—” he chokes out. “I’m gonna—”

He realizes he’s at a point of no return before he’s ready to be. With a frustrated groan, he braces himself with his metal hand and pulls out, the friction of the exit making you cry out in protest. Hot stripes of cum spill across your stomach in thick pulses, painting your skin as he weakly strokes himself through it with a shaky hand. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open on a silent gasp.

When the last spasm of his body fades he slumps forward, landing on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry, that was… I swear I can last longer, just… has been a while…,” he rasps, breath still coming in harsh pants. “I didn’t even—I wanted to ask you where… where you wanted it and I—”

“Inside,” you say, breathless but slightly deadpan.

“… What?” His voice is tentative, as if he’s sure he’s misheard you through the gaze of his own orgasm.

“If you had asked, I would have told you to come inside me.”

Bucky exhales, though there’s barely oxygen left in his lungs after you’ve punched it out of him with those words.

“Do you wanna fuckin’ kill me?” he breathes against your mouth, and it would sound like half a laugh if he wasn’t almost breaking apart.

That’s when you feel him moving again, right hand slipping between your bodies and tracing feather-light patterns over the sticky mess on your stomach before gathering it on his fingers. Two thick fingers are now shiny with it, and he brings them down between your legs without hesitation, rubbing them over your swollen clit in one slow circle. Immediately, your hips jerk, a sharp gasp punching out of you.

Bucky doesn’t tease, just pushes those two fingers inside you in one smooth stroke, feeding his own release back into your cunt. The wet sound it makes is obscene in the quiet room, mixing your arousal with his release, his fingers stretching you open around them as they curl and search for that same spot his cock had hit not too long ago.

“Bucky,” you whimper, thighs trembling around his wrist.

His eyes are locked on where his fingers disappear inside you, dragging his cum deeper with every thrust of his fingers. “Promise I’ll fill you up proper next time. Just take my fingers for now.”

A third finger is added to the others, stretching you fuller, and his thumb finds your clit again, circling in time with the curl of his fingers. Pressure builds fast, too fast, burning hot in your belly. Every time your slick drools from inside you, he coats his fingers in it and fucks it right back inside you, making it messier.

It hits you not long after like a storm crashing over your garden, all too overwhelming and sudden, pulling you under. Your cunt clamps down around his fingers and you come with a loud cry and Bucky doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking you through every spasm, drawing it out while he murmurs soft praise against your neck until you’re oversensitive and still clenching around him like your body refuses to let him go.

You don’t know this yet, but tonight you’ll fall asleep in his arms, and it’ll only be the first of many nights.

A year later

You and Bucky have finished the garden. Well, sure, Bucky has told you enough times that gardens are never truly done because living things require continued attention and presence, the willingness to show up before the heat peaks and stay past the point of easy. But it at least looks like itself again, the place it was always trying to be underneath all the strangling vines.

On a Tuesday afternoon, you are standing in front of the fountain with your second cup of tea of the day when Bucky comes around to meet you, cap on backward, shirt damp from the exertion of honest work.

“Finished your tea without me,” he says by way of greeting.

"I made you a cup. It's on the porch."

Bucky doesn’t move toward it. Instead, his hands slide firmly around your waist and with a sudden huff of effort, he hoists you clean off the ground. He doesn’t just lift you, he sweeps you into a wide twirl and the garden blurs into a smear of lavender purple and rose red.

“Bucky!” you gasp, laughing as your feet dangle and your head is thrown back with the afternoon sun dancing through the trees. Eventually he sets you down again, then steals you a breathtaking kiss.

“Had to get you out of your mind. You had that look.”

You raise an eyebrow, still feeling a bit dizzy. “What look?”

"The one where you're thinkin' something and decidin' whether to say it."

You huff in fake disapproval before you start making your way back to your porch, Bucky following right behind.

“I don't have a look,” you say just as you sit on the first few steps, watching the garden ahead of you.

“You have about twelve looks.” He comes to sit beside you, close enough that his shoulder presses against yours. “I’ve memorized all of them. That’s number four.”

“Bucky, you did not catalogue my looks.”