Mistress of All Things Geeky

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.

Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.

He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.

"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.

He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."

His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."

His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.

"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee

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The only good thing about a mission was that it ended. And when it ended, Bucky can come home to you.

The door clicked behind him. He exhaled properly, maybe for the first time in three days, and let the quiet settle over him. He shed his jacket, his boots, and followed the strip of warm light under the bedroom door without thinking. Muscle memory by now, this particular walk. You were on your stomach, one leg bent, cheek soft against the pillow, mouth barely open the way it only went when you were properly under. Completely gone. One hand curled slack beside a book lying pages-down on the bed, spine cracked, the way books shouldn't be left if you cared about them. 

He'd seen this exact scene before — you falling asleep mid-read, the lamp still on — and his move was always the same: turn the light off, climb in behind you, sleep for ten hours. He almost did. His hand reached for the book to set it aside when his eyes caught the open page. He sat down slowly on the edge of the mattress because his legs stopped cooperating. The prose wasn't fancy. It didn't need to be, it was blunt about what it was describing. A man with both hands pressed to his girl's lower belly while he worked himself deep, telling her she was going to take every drop, that he wasn't stopping until he'd filled her up past overflowing. That's it, pretty girl, take my cum, let me breed this tight little cunt till it takes, want you so full of me you can't think, wanna see your belly swollen with my babies. The woman in the story was begging for it, wet and completely broken, while he kept his palm flat over her stomach. 

Bucky's hand tightened around the spine until the cover bent. He turned the page and found a star drawn in pencil in the margin. Your handwriting. Neat and small, beside the passage where the man pulled back just enough to watch his cum leak from her before pressing it back inside — not wasting a drop, gorgeous, every bit of it stays right here where it belongs. A star. He sat with that for a moment. Two moments. Maybe a full minute of just sitting there with the lamp warm on his hands and your soft breathing behind him. He knew this want. He'd been sitting on it for months — the need to just stay, every time he was buried inside you and the pull of it got so loud it took actual effort to talk himself back. The responsible thing. The right thing. Pull out. Don't push it. Don't put that on her. And then watching the mess of it on your skin and thinking about what it would mean to not. To keep it all where it was supposed to go. How many showers he'd stood in thinking about your belly. What you'd look like. How soft you'd go. How it would feel to press his palm there and know. To him, this wasn’t some random story anymore. Apparently his girl has been falling asleep to fantasies of getting claimed and filled until she carried his baby, the same urges he’d been swallowing down every time he pulled out and spilled across your skin instead, not wanting to push too far and scare away that sweet softness you always seem to give him.

He turned another page. Found another star, this one beside the line where the man cradled his girl's tits as he asked about nursing from her.  He closed the book and looked at you. All the love he felt towards you multiplied with the awakened hunger, hands itching to wake you right then, to show you how perfectly those pages matched the way he wanted to ruin you for anyone else. He stood up, stripped down. Shirt, pants, everything. He was not getting into bed in three-day mission clothes, even if his brain was only half working. 

He looked down at himself. Already half-hard, his cock thick against his thigh, wet at the tip just from reading. He'd been on missions that didn't break him this fast. He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, hissed at his own slickness smearing his palm and stroked just to get a handle on it.  He put his hand on your hip. "Baby." He shook you gently. "Wake up for me." The sound you made was small and personally offended by the concept of consciousness. You burrowed deeper. "Baby." He rubbed your hip. "Open your eyes." Slowly, you did, blinking like a deer caught, as you found him in the warm lamplight and your face just opened. All of it, the sleep-blur gone in a second, replaced by that warmth, that automatic reaching, your arms coming up before you'd even finished registering what you were looking at. Like some part of you knew it was him before your eyes did, and your whole body moved toward him on instinct. He gathered you in. He would never in his life stop being leveled by this, the way you reached for him like that, all open and unguarded, not one defensive thing in you when you saw him. He tucked his face into your hair and breathed. "You're home," you mumbled against his neck. No matter what, the images from the book spilled over, now all he saw was you and him, those dirty promises echoing. "I'm home." His lips found your temple. "Came home and found you sleeping like you haven't got a single bad thought in your pretty head." He felt your breath catching, your fingers going still in his shirt. "Left your book right out here for me." "It's just a book." You spoke into his skin, pressing closer into him, fingers digging into his shoulders with a restless energy, soft sounds vibrating through you that only made him harder "Pages worn soft from reading it." "Bucky —" "Little pencil stars in the margins." He pulled back just enough to look at your face. The flush was already climbing your throat, your eyes sliding sideways from his. He could see you trying to determine exactly how much he'd read. "My sweet girl." He shook his head slowly, as he watched you bite your lip. "Sleeping like an angel… with her breeding kink book on the nightstand." A mortified sound left you as you tried to press back into his chest. He let you, his mouth curving, his arms pulling you in. "Don't," you said, muffled by him. "I'm not doing anything." "You're laughing at me." "I'm not laughing." He really was, a little. He pressed his lips to your hair to hide it. "I would never." He rubbed your back, felt you slowly start to relax against him. "I've been pulling out," he said, into your hair. "This whole time." You went completely still. "Every single time," he continued. "Being responsible. Doing right by you. While you've been in here starring passages about being filled up and bred." He felt your fingers curl in his shirt. "I've been pulling out for nothin', baby." A long pause where you just nuzzled again and breathed. Then very quietly your voice came. "I didn't think you'd want —" "I think about it every time I'm inside you." He said it simply. Just the plain truth of it sitting between you. "Just — thought it would scare you. Thought I'd push you away." He pressed his lips to your forehead. 

He continued when you didn't reply, "so here we both were, keeping our mouths shut like absolute idiots." You looked up at him with an expression he could never quite name, somewhere between wanting and completely undone. He kissed you before either of you could ruin the moment with more words. Slow and thorough, hands cupping your face. You made a soft sound against his mouth that had always gone straight through him. Clothes came off fast, what little you had on was gone, and he was already bare. He settled between your thighs and looked at you properly. Your cunt was weeping before he'd even touched you. Slick and swollen, soaking the sheets, and he dragged two fingers through your folds and brought them to his mouth while holding your gaze the entire time. "You were dreamin' about it." He could still taste you on his tongue. "Weren't you? Dreaming about me filling up this tight little pussy." A broken whimper came as you turned your face into the pillow. "Baby." He tapped your thigh gently. "Look at me." Reluctantly, you met his eyes, warmth spreading to your ears. He circled your entrance without pushing in, felt you clench around nothing, as he listened to the sound it pulled out of you. "Don't get shy now, sweetheart. Tell me what you want." "Please —" "Please what baby?" "Fill me up. Please, Bucky, please just fill me up, I need it —" Your hand raised to hide your face, which he softly pulled away.  Bucky pushed in slowly. Your nails found his biceps before he was halfway there, digging crescents into the thick muscle. He worked into your dripping cunt inch by inch, feeling every clench and flutter, the wet sounds of it loud in the quiet room. 

When he got himself fully seated, he held there, both of you just breathing each other in. His palm pressed flat to your lower belly. "Feel that?" He pressed down gently and watched your eyes go soft. "That's me, baby. Right here." He pressed a little firmer and your breath punched out. "That's where it's staying. Every load, from now on." He pulled back slowly and drove in, as he watched your mouth fall open. "Never pulling out. Not wasting a drop. Gonna fill this pretty pussy up and keep her that way." "Bucky —"  "I know, baby." He started moving, finding a rhythm. "I know. We've been idiots." You came apart under his hands easily, wound up and desperate, scratching at his back, your thighs locking around his waist. Your cunt was soaking him, drooling around his cock with every thrust, the slick sounds of it filling the room. "I know you love swallowing." You made a soft, small sound when he said that. "And I love watching you do it. Love seeing my cum on your stomach, on your tits." He palmed your breast, taking your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, feeling you jolt under him. He did it slower the second time, watching your face. "But that's done. From now on every single load goes right here." He ground his palm down over your lower belly. "Load after load, until you're round with my babies and everyone can see what we've been doing." "Yes — please —" "These tits." He thumbed your nipple again and your back bowed off the mattress. He felt you gush around him. "They're gonna fill up, you know that? Get so heavy and full." He kept his palm there, felt your pulse jumping under your skin. "Gonna let me drink from them." His thumb dragged slowly across your nipple again and your whole body shuddered in a shock. "Aren't you?" A gasp spilled from your lips, barely a sound. "Aren't you, baby?" "Yes," you gasped. "Yes, god, yes, anything you want —" "Atta girl." He sucked a mark into your throat and felt your cunt clench and flood around him, soaking him straight down his thighs. He kept his palm on your belly. Couldn't stop touching you there, the soft warm plane of it, the thought of it round and full of him. "Gonna put a baby right here." He spread his fingers wide. "Take such good care of you. You and our baby both, I promise you that." "More — please — Bucky—" He hooked your knee higher and drove in harder, making you cry and scratch at his skin.  His metal hand reached up, curving gently under the back of your neck and tilted you forward. "Look how good you're taking me." You looked down. He watched your face while you watched his cock move in and out of your puffy, soaked cunt, the slick mess of you coating every inch of him. Your thighs were dark and wet, your pussy drooling around each thrust and clinging to him when he drew back. He could see the drag and pull of it from here. Watch the way your cunt stretched open and tried to keep him every time he moved. "Look at her," he marveled. "See how she takes me? Sucking me in like she's been starving." He drove in to the hilt and held himself there, watching your head drop back. "Did I starve her? Hm?"

"Bucky —"

"Tell me." He rocked into you, slow enough to be punishing. "Did I keep her empty when she wanted to be full?"

You whined in response, clinging to his arm. He pulled back slowly, and pushed back in. "That's done, babygirl." Your sounds had gone to pieces, his name breaking apart in your mouth. He worked you harder and felt you winding up, getting impossibly tight around him. "You'd make such a good momma." The words fell out of him without planning. He pressed his face into the curve of your neck. "Gonna make this belly round and take care of you through every bit of it. Every part. I mean that. You want that, sweet girl?" The headboard rattled at his pace, as you openly scratched at him harder, head lolling to one side, soft mewling sounds threading through each exhale.

"Say it baby. Come on, sweetheart."

"Please — I'm so close —"

"I know, baby… I know. Say it first."

"Make me a mommy —" It tore out of you. "Please, Bucky, please — make me a mommy—" That pushed him to the edge, and he came, hard and sudden, hips slamming forward and holding while his cock pulsed in long thick ropes inside you. You came apart with him, cunt clenching in tight rippling waves, whole body shaking, a broken sob of his name leaving your mouth. He felt you your pussy milking every last drop, as he kept grinding in, palm pressed hard to your lower belly, like if he just kept his hand there "Take it — take all of it — every drop, baby —" He was still rocking into you in slow, sloppy thrusts when he felt himself going soft, working the last of it out. You were limp and shaking underneath him, hands slack in his hair. He pressed his face to your neck and breathed until he could. He lay there with his softening cock still inside you, palm warm over your belly. You nuzzled your face against his jaw. The room smelled like sex. He pressed his lips to your cheekbone, your temple, the side of your mouth, anywhere he could reach. Told you between each one how good you were, how beautiful you'd be, how he'd meant every word. When he finally slipped free, it was reluctant, genuinely, physically reluctant, a resistance he had to push against. As he looked down, slow, thick stream of his cum leaked from your swollen, puffy cunt, running down your inner thighs. He pressed two fingers gently at your entrance before he'd even made a decision about it. Your whole body twitched. "Bucky." "Shh." He pushed it back inside, slow but thorough, and pressed his fingers there when he was done. Just held it there. Keeping the warmth of you against his palm, plugging you, not letting any more of it go. "I know what you're doing," you said. "I know you do." He didn't move his hand though. A small, helpless sound slipped out of you. You pressed closer into his chest, as he brought his other hand over your shoulders to rest on your lower belly. Both of them just stayed there — one cupping you from below, one warm and flat on your stomach. He nuzzled into your hair. Pressed his lips to your forehead. He's wanted this for so long, and he's going to be good at this no matter what. "You're not moving your hands," you said eventually, voice drowsy, sated, barely there. "No," he said. "Either one." "No." You made a sound that was too tired to be an objection and pressed your face into his chest. His thumb drew a slow circle on your belly and didn't move. 

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He’s never been a smoker, but if he were, would that really be worse than being addicted to benzos? It’s not like American Spirits or cotton candy flavored vapes would drive him to steal from his job.

Yeah, yeah. Cancer. Lung cancer, esophageal cancer, all the cancers. Gum disease and tooth decay. He is still a doctor, even if it took him a long time to start feeling like one again. He knows the risks. And that is exactly why he hasn’t tried filling the void with nicotine.

He works out just enough to be able to say that he does and it not be a complete lie, but he’s never understood how people can get addicted to exercising. He understands the science behind it, but every time he steps on a treadmill, it just feels like an opportunity to think too much about every mistake he’s made in the last few years.

Video games have never really been his thing. He’s still paying off his stint in rehab, so betting and gambling are off the table. Alcohol, of course, is out of the question for obvious reasons.

When he hit one hundred days of sobriety, he really thought he was in the fucking clear. He let himself breathe a little for the first time in a long time, thinking he had finally learned his lesson.

Never did it cross his mind that he could become addicted to a person. Least of all one that he isn’t even supposed to like.

Least of all you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

“This is a really fucking bad idea.”

Frank grunts, bottoming out as he fills you so full of him that it takes your breath away.

He stills, looking down at you in the glow of your living room television. His hands were on you the second your apartment door clicked shut - the two of you didn’t even make it down the hallway to your bedroom before you were pulling him onto the couch by the collar of his scrubs, his lips chasing yours with a degree of desperation that you might have found laughable if it weren’t for the fact that you had to bite back a moan the second that his tongue slipped between your lips.

He huffs a half breathless laugh. “We can stop if you want to, but I’m already inside you, so it’s a little late to realize this is a bad idea.”

You wiggle your hips, grinding down where his body meets yours. His eyes roll shut at the sensation, his muscles tensing beneath where your fingers grip his biceps.

“Didn’t say that I wanna stop,” you breathe. “Just said this is a bad idea. It’s called an observation.”

Frank snorts, retaliating by hiking one of your legs over his hip to deepen the angle. You hiss, your walls clenching around him. “You didn’t seem to think it was a bad idea when you were drenching my face a few seconds ago.”

You aren’t surprised in the least that his argumentative nature carries over into sex, but the dirty mouth on him does take you by surprise.

“So, what?” You hum, part challenge and part genuine curiosity. “You don’t think this is a bad idea?”

He shakes his head. He snakes a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. “It’s definitely a bad idea. I’m just finding it really hard to give a shit right now.”

You whimper at it all - the rough timbre of his voice, the the soft pad of his thumb brushing over your clit, the way he somehow still smells like musk and allspice even after working a full twelve hours in the emergency department and how his kiss-swollen lips glisten from his time spent between your thighs.

Come morning, you’ll regret this. Twelve hours from now, when you can’t concentrate on a routine intubation because you’re having flashbacks of pretty cerulean eyes peeking up at you as he brought you to climax with only his tongue, you’ll regret this. When you can’t take two steps tomorrow without the ache between your thighs reminding you where he’d been, you’ll regret this.

Probably should’ve thought about that before deciding that the best way to cope with stress of an exceptionally shitty day was by kissing him in the empty parking garage and inviting him back to your place, but you’ll deal with the aftermath of that when he’s no longer buried half a foot inside you.

You take his chin in your hand, stilling his face in front of yours. “Just so we are clear, this is a one time thing.”

Frank looks like he’s fighting the urge to laugh, a familiar, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know you’re the one who kissed me and practically ripped my clothes off, right?”

Your hands ghost over the planes of his shoulders and up his neck before settling at the base of his skull where your fingers thread through the short locks of his hair. “Don’t let it get to your head. You were the closest conventionally attractive man I could find after that shitshow of a shift. Don’t confuse convenience with desire.”

He cocks a brow. “What I’m hearing is that you think I’m attractive.”

You roll your eyes, pulling your hands away from his hair and playfully shoving his shoulders. You don’t bother denying it, though. He is attractive. Annoyingly, irritatingly, frustratingly attractive.

“I’m serious. One time, Langdon.”

He doesn’t verbally respond right away. Instead, he leans down, closing the space between your lips and his. You taste yourself on him, sweet and salty with a hint of the gum he had been chewing when you first kissed him in the parking garage. It’s slower than the first time, and the second, and the third, making heat bloom where he’s hard inside you.

He pulls back just enough to murmur the words against your lips.

“One time.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Two months ago, Frank Langdon kissed you and swore that he was only going to fuck you one time.

Two months ago, he lied through his teeth.

The good news is that you’re as big of a liar as he is.

Because one time turned to two, and two to three, and now the Pittsburgh winter has turned to spring and he’s forgotten all about that broken promise.

He knew before the words had fully left his lips that they were bullshit. How could he mean them when your kiss tasted like watermelon lip gloss and being bare inside you made him feel the best he’s felt since he got sober?

But still, he tried. For a whopping seven days, he tried his hardest.

One week. That’s all it took for him to feel like he was going to lose his fucking mind if he didn’t touch and taste you again.

Then, in a moment of weakness - the kids were at Abby’s, he’d spent his day off cleaning his entire apartment in an attempt to keep himself busy, he’d already gone to an NA meeting earlier that afternoon, and he couldn’t get this one specific sound you had made when he nipped at the column of your throat out of his head - he did something he’s never done before.

He texted you.

Are you off work yet?

Short and vague, but you’re far from being dumb. He was confident that you could read between the lines without him having to spell it out for you.

Much to his relief, you replied before he could overthink the simple text message.

Keeping track of my work schedule now?

He scoffed to himself, smirking down at his phone. As if you haven’t worked the same set schedule the entire time he’s known you. At least, that was his excuse for knowing you’d be leaving work at approximately that time.

You replied fast. I take it that you are off?

He stared down at the screen as you typed, grateful that technology doesn’t allow you to see him waiting for your response in real time.

Leaving now. But if you’re about to say what I think you’re going to say, then you should know that I have been both puked and peed on today.

That should have deterred him, but it didn’t. In fact, it only further encouraged him, because you didn’t immediately tell him to fuck off like he halfway expected you to.

I happen to have a shower.

Then, before you can type a rebuttal, he sends a second text with his address.

You didn’t even reply, but twenty-three minutes later you knocked on his front door.

(It goes without saying that yes, you insisted on showering, and yes, he insisted on joining you, and yes, he ate you out until your legs turned to jelly and he had to help hold you up).

After both of you were thoroughly spent, he expected you to say something similar to the first time - when he had you pinned to your couch, balls deep inside you, and you told him that it would be a one time thing. He expected you to insist that what just happened would not be happening again, that it was a mistake for you to come over, and that he should lose your number entirely.

So it took him by surprise when you got out of his bed, put your clothes back on, and said, “it goes without saying that this stays between us, right? If this is going to be a thing, the last thing I want is Perlah and Princess spreading it all over the hospital.”

“Please,” Frank had scoffed, pulling his own t-shirt over his head. “Like I want the entire emergency department making a bunch of ridiculous bets about us. Trust me, this stays between us.”

And that was that. There was no further discussion of what exactly this is, but Frank knows.

He knows what it is, and he knows what it isn’t. For two months now, you’ve been on the same page. He comes to your place, or occasionally, you’ll go to his. One time, you even rode him in the backseat of his dad mobile, as you had referred to the midsize SUV.

But work is off limits. You have made that abundantly clear by acting indifferent to his existence anytime a coworker or patient is within ten feet of you, which happens to be damn near always. When the two of you are at work, he pretends like he doesn’t know that you clench around him every time he tells you how well you’re taking him or where your birthmark is located.

As soon as he walks out of those hospital doors, though, all the pretending comes to a stop.

It most often happens after long shifts, when one or both of you needs to decompress and not think of whatever horrors had been witnessed that day. But every now and then, like that day you and Frank both broke the initial agreement of this being a one time thing, he’ll find himself alone with thoughts of you that are a little too loud and unrelenting.

So instead of only thinking about the way your breathy, fucked out voice sounds saying his name when you’re on the verge of coming apart, he calls and hopes that you answer.

And, for some reason that Frank refuses to let himself dwell on, you always do. He knows that there will inevitably come a day that you don’t.

But he doesn’t let himself dwell on that, either.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

“Meet me in the empty on-call room in fifteen minutes.”

The words are murmured low enough for only him to hear. He glances up from his charting, utter disbelief on his face. He opens his mouth to question you, but you’re already walking away.

You’re weak. Spineless as a damn jellyfish, really.

And it’s all Frank Langdon’s fault.

If he didn’t kiss you like you’re the air he needs to breathe, go down on you like you’re the last thing he’s ever going to taste, and fuck you like he’s trying to ruin all other men for you, then it wouldn’t be so embarrassingly easy for you to go back on your word.

But here you are. Going back on your word. Again.

The first time it happened - when he texted you his address a little over two months ago and you wasted no time driving to his apartment even after telling him and yourself that you would not be hooking up with him again - you forgave yourself. You allowed yourself the small comfort of knowing it was him that reached out. It was him who caved first, even if you had thought about doing so every day since you first slept together.

But this time? Telling him to meet you in an empty on-call room in the middle of the day at work? Where any of your coworkers could potentially catch you? This boundary being crossed is all on you.

You must have a competence kink. That’s the only logical explanation for why you’re willing to let this happen right here, right now.

Your watch reads 2:17. He’s two minutes late.

Two more minutes. If he isn’t here in two minutes, then you’re leaving this room and forgetting that you ever even considered doing this.

The door creaks open and he slips in with only twenty seconds to spare.

“Wasn’t sure if you were actually going to come,” you hum from where you’re perched on the edge of the mattress.

Frank locks the door behind him. He still looks as confused as he did when you first told him to meet you here, but there’s now a hint of amusement on his features, too.

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh, slowly walking towards you with his hands shoved in his scrub pockets. “I came as quickly as I could. My patient in Central 14 pulled up WebMD on his phone to try to argue about his diagnosis so I got a little tied up with that.”

You snort. “Don’t you love when they do that?”

“So…” he drawls, eyes glancing around the small room, empty save for the two of you. He comes to a stop directly in front of where you sit on the bed. “You gonna tell me what we’re doing in here right now?”

You look up at him from beneath your lashes. “What do you think?” Then, before he can answer, your hands go to the waistband of his pants. You don’t look away from his face, blue eyes dilating and pretty lips parted in surprise.

“Seriously?” He breathes, looking around the room again as if there’s anyone around to catch you in the act. “Here?”

You shrug, tugging his pants down just enough to expose the soft patch of dark curls below the waistband. “What can I say? Watching you perform that closed cervical reduction really did something to me.”

He blushes. Even with the curtains closed and only a small bedside table lamp illuminating the room, you can see pink bloom across the apples of his cheeks.

“That’s all it takes to make you stop avoiding me like the plague while we’re here?” He scoffs low. “A closed cervical reduction?”

You hum a laugh. “Sorry, does it hurt your feelings that I don’t spend my shifts fawning over you like every early-to-mid twenties female that walks into this place?”

Frank chuckles lowly. “Not quite.” He cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as he leans down far enough that his lips hover just above yours. “You might not fawn over me, but you’re the one who got me alone just so you can give me head.”

Under normal circumstances, you’d keep going until you get the last word. But right now, you have a list of patients who need tending to and a boss who has already been on your ass about patient satisfaction scores today.

And as much as it physically pains you to admit, he isn’t wrong.

“Mm-hm,” you hum in agreement. “I did. Now are you going to let me or not?”

With your fingers still hooked into the waistband of his pants and boxers, you pause. It’s not like he’s ever said no to receiving head from you before - and the unmistakable bulge behind the fabric of his scrubs would normally be enough of an answer - but he is just now finding his way back into Robby’s good graces, so the risks here may outweigh the reward.

He exhales a shaky laugh, his nose brushing against yours as he nods slightly. “If I ever say no to that, page neurology, because something is very wrong with me.”

You roll your eyes, pretending you aren’t slightly charmed by the dorky remark. “Sit down, then.”

The two of you trade places. He lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, and with help from you, his scrubs and boxers fall to a puddle at his feet. You spread his thighs gently with your palms, nestling yourself between them. You take his hard length in your hand, giving a few languid strokes as you look up at him.

“I mean it, you know,” you murmur, voice uncharacteristically earnest. For a moment, you drop the sarcastic facade. “The closed cervical reduction was very impressive. You were incredible.”

He swallows thickly, his cock twitching in your hand as he stares down at you in the dim lighting. Despite the truth to your words, you expect him to brush the compliment off with a cocky grin and smartass retort that undercuts the rare instance of genuinity between you.

Instead, he leans forward without a word, takes your face in his hands, and crushes his lips against yours. He tilts your head slightly, sweeping his tongue across your bottom lip to encourage you to open up for him. You can’t help but lose yourself in the effortless familiarity of his kiss that you’ve grown to crave more than you ever thought possible.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t release the careful hold on your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. “Means a lot coming from you.”

For one impossibly long second, the two of you stare at each other until the sincerity of the moment starts to feel suffocating.

And because you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to do with that, you swallow it down and do what you came here for.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank sees you before he finishes parking his car next to the ball fields.

At first, he thinks he’s seeing things. It must be someone who looks like you - someone with the same hair color and skin tone as you, who just so happens to be roughly the same height - because it couldn’t possibly actually be you.

Why the hell would you be at a Pee Wee soccer game bright and early on a Saturday morning?

He knows exactly why he’s here - it’s one of Penny’s last games of the season and between a pain in the ass custody arrangement and an even bigger pain in the ass work schedule, Frank has only been able to attend a few of his daughter’s soccer games this spring season. He would have missed today’s game, too, if Robby hadn’t agreed to him switching a couple shifts around and Abby hadn’t been willing to let him take Penny for the day during her week with the kids.

You don’t have children, though. He’s sure enough of that. There’s no way you wouldn’t have said something about having a kid at some point during your time spent together these last few months. He’s been over to your place enough times to have noticed toys scattered around the living room or sippy cups in the sink or tiny clothes left lying on the bathroom floor.

But as Penny sprints ahead to join the rest of her teammates and Frank crosses the field to where all of the player’s families sit in lawn chairs, he realizes that his eyes are not playing tricks on him.

Even from behind, he knows it’s you. He’s spent enough collective hours memorizing the curves of your body to recognize you anywhere - even wearing something so different than what he normally sees you in: scrubs or nothing.

He comes to a stop a couple feet behind you to take you in. It’s an unseasonably warm day, with temperatures already in the mid 70s before nine o’clock in the morning, and you’re dressed to match the weather. His gaze trails from your polished toes that peek out of your sandals and up the expanse of your legs before settling on the sun-kissed skin of your shoulders.

You’ve yet to notice his presence as you wave to a kid in the distance as all of the players start to take their positions on the field. “Good luck, Holly!”

He smirks, his eyes darting back and forth between you and the little girl with curly pigtails.

“Who’s Holly?”

You jump as if you had been electrocuted, your head snapping to look in his direction. He can’t see your eyes well because of your sunglasses, but he can clearly picture the look of surprise on your face.

“Jesus, Frank. What are you doing here?”

He snorts, coming to stand beside you, as he brushes off the fact that you called him Frank instead of Langdon. “My daughter is playing. What are you doing here?”

“My niece is playing.”

He looks back out to the field - your niece, Holly, you had called her - is standing right beside Penny. They’re wearing matching jerseys. Same team.

“Huh. I didn’t know that you have a niece.”

Now it’s your turn to snort. You cross your arms over your chest with a shrug. “We don’t exactly spend very much time talking about our personal lives, do we?” You glance around, seemingly looking for something - or someone. “Where’s Abby?”

“Oh,” Frank clears his throat, sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants just so he has something to do with them. “It’s Abby’s week with the kids, but she let me take Penny for the day. She’s uh…she’s not here. She’s spending some quality time with Tanner today.”

You nod, your posture relaxing slightly. He isn’t sure if he’s just imagining things, but he can’t help but think you look a little relieved to hear that his ex wife isn’t here.

Not that he’d blame you for not wanting to see the ex wife of the man you’ve been casually fucking on a regular basis for months now. He definitely wouldn’t want that, either, and feels extremely relieved himself that Abby isn’t here to witness this interaction.

“That was very nice of her,” you say after a beat of silence with a small smile. “I’m sure Penny is happy that you’re here with her.”

Frank glances around now. You had been standing alone when he approached you, and you don’t seem to be here with anyone else. “So, is Holly your sister’s…or brother’s…kid?”

He mentally curses how fucking awkward he sounds. He knows what the most intimate parts of you taste like, knows what you sound like when you come for a third time in a row because of him, but he doesn’t know how to ask you a straight forward question about your personal life.

But he wants to. He shouldn’t, but he does. He wants to know if you have siblings, and how many, and if you have other nieces or possibly nephews. He wants to learn things about you because he asks and you answer or because you volunteer the information freely.

He wants to know what you do after a hard day at work, when you aren’t doing him after a hard day at work. He wants to know things because you want him to know things. Not just the shit that he observes at work (like how you take your coffee) or during the ten minutes that he lays in your bed after finishing inside you (like that you have a white noise machine that is basically always on).

“She’s my brother’s,” you answer, looking away from him to watch as Holly, Penny, and a few other girls all sprint after the soccer ball. For a second, he thinks you’re going to leave it at that, but then you continue. “He and Holly’s mom are going through a pretty nasty breakup. He only has Holly on weekends right now, and he works a lot, so…I’m just trying to help him out a little.”

“Ah,” Frank hums, surprised by the answer for more reasons than one. “Yeah, that’s tough. I know firsthand how…messy that kind of thing can get.”

“Yeah,” you agree with a sigh. “It sucks. But it’s probably for the best. They weren’t good together. I’m just hoping they can learn to co-parent for Holly’s sake.” You pause, eyes cutting back to him. “Seems like you and Abby do a pretty decent job with that.”

He has to refrain from laughing at that. He exhales slowly through his nose, gaze drifting back to the field. There’s a lot he could say in response to that - about lawyers and custody hearings and the same arguments that he doesn’t know if he and Abby will ever stop having - but if he starts then he might not stop, and he highly doubts you care to hear all of that. You’re here to watch your niece play soccer. Not listen to your fuck buddy trauma dump about his divorce.

“We try,” he settles on instead. “It’s still a work in progress, but we’re figuring it out.” Then, so you don’t feel pressured to respond in any particular way, he glances down at the lawn chair that he brought, still folded and tucked between his arm and side. “You uh - you want to sit? I brought a chair.”

He unfolds the chair, not giving you the opportunity to object as he takes a seat on the still slightly dewy grass right next to the chair.

The rest of the game continues with the two of you sitting side by side, watching the girls in an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable kind of companionship. He cheers for Holly, and you cheer for his daughter just as much.

You even introduce herself to her when Penny runs over to where Frank sits for a sip of water. As his coworker, of course. Because that’s what you are, even if the relationship title rubs him the wrong way for reasons he won’t let him think about for long enough to have to be honest with himself.

Still. It’s nice. Much different than how time with you is normally spent - working together to save someone from a pulmonary embolism, or naked between bedsheets - but this doesn’t feel wrong. It’s unexpected but pleasant, Frank thinks.

He tries not to think about how you feel about it, instead focusing on Penny chasing and kicking the soccer ball (sometimes in the wrong direction, but she’s four, so it’s cute).

When the final whistle blows, the swarm of four and five year olds erupts into excited shrieks. Penny and Holly spot the two of you at the same time and sprint over - Penny with her white tube socks stained green with grass and Holly with hair falling out of her pigtails.

Holly reaches you first, practically launching herself into your lap. “We won! We won! Did you see how far the ball went when I kicked it?”

“Of course I did,” you answer cheerfully. “You were amazing. I’m so proud of you. You did so great too, Penny.”

Before he has a chance to recover from the way the softness in your voice made his chest tighten, Penny starts jumping up and down, chanting daddy, daddy, daddy.

“Daddy, can Holly go with us to get ice cream?”

Oh. That’s right. He had promised his daughter ice cream after the game.

“Uh—” Frank hesitates, just for a second, glancing over at you. With your sunglasses now resting on the top of your head, he can see your wide, slightly panicked eyes. “We…we don’t know if Holly and her aunt already have plans, sweetie,” he says gently, not wanting to disappoint her but also giving you the out that he’s almost certain you’ll take.

But Holly is already looking up at you with pleading eyes. “Please, please, please can we go get ice cream?”

You let out a small laugh, eyes darting between Holly and Frank. He offers a small smile of his own, shrugging as if to say the ball’s in your court.

“Why not?” You sigh. “Sure. Ice cream sounds good to me.”

Frank might not show it in the same way that the girls do - with wild cheers and shrieks of laughter - but he’s just as pleased that you said yes.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

More and more often, you find yourself wishing that you met Frank Langdon when you were younger.

Not because you wish you met him before he got married or before he had children or before he fell into addiction. None of that deters you, actually.

Maybe it should. It probably should. But it doesn’t.

No, you wish you met him when you were still an optimist. When you still welcomed love with open arms and wore your heart on your sleeve and believed that everyone you met had as good of intentions as you do.

You wish you met him before your past tainted the mere idea of relationships and romance and trust.

You know it’s irrational. Things are the way that they are for a reason. If you had met him in med school, you probably would’ve thought he’s such a douche that you never would have even entertained the idea of kissing him.

But sometimes you still can’t help but wonder…

If you had met him at a different time, would there be more days like today? Early morning sunshine and soccer games and ice cream instead of late night booty calls that turn into mornings where you still wake up all alone, breathing in the scent he leaves behind on your pillow?

It’s fun to imagine that things could be different.

Then you remember the hurt and the heartbreak that comes with loving, and you shut those thoughts down. Back to sporadic, unplanned hook-ups and the illusion of control that they give you.

You suppose you can still allow yourself to sniff the scent of him that lingers after he leaves your bed, though.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

There’s a gradual shift in your and Frank’s dynamic over the weeks following Holly and Penny’s soccer game and the subsequent ice cream date that somehow ended in you and Frank sharing a chocolate soft serve.

It’s so subtle that at first, the changes don’t register as out of the ordinary.

You’re a little more reluctant to put your clothes back on and leave his place after sex. You stop ignoring each other at work, even exchanging jokes at the nurse’s station. He compliments you openly when you do something impressive with a case, not caring who might overhear the praise. When it’s his day off, you’ll randomly text him to tell him about something crazy that he missed at work. He starts opening up more - about his recovery, about his divorce, about his children. Not all at once. Just little pieces of his life bit by bit that you weren’t privy to before.

And you open up to him, too. Without realizing it. Without even meaning to.

It slips out by accident. You can’t even recall exactly what you’d been talking about at the time, but you tell him that he’s the first person you’ve slept with since your ex.

Your ex that you broke up with nearly two years ago.

He’d looked surprised when you revealed that. But he didn’t laugh, or say anything to tease you. He just turned to lie on his side, propped his head in his hand, looked down at you lying beside him, and asked you the same question that you’ve asked yourself on more than one question but have never answered.

“Why me, then? If you waited that long to…be with someone again. What made you kiss me in the parking garage that night?”

You stare up at him for a moment before answering, your fingers teasing his chest hair. “I’m not really sure,” you answer honestly. “Maybe I thought you were having as shitty of a day as I was, and that you looked like you needed someone as badly as I did. Maybe I thought it would be a good thing for both of us.” You pause. “Or maybe I just thought you looked like you’d be good in bed.”

He exhales a shaky laugh. One hand rests on your hip, fingers drawing lazy circles across your skin. It’s too dark to tell with only the moonlight from your open curtains illuminating the room, but if you had to guess, you would say that he’s blushing. It takes practically nothing to make him blush, a fact that you often take full advantage of because you think he looks pretty when he blushes.

“And were you right?”

“About which part?” You murmur, your hand stilling against his chest.

He gives a half shrug, hesitating just long enough for you to know exactly what he’s asking without him saying it. “The part about me being good in bed,” he says instead, with no trace of his normal humor in his voice.

“Frank.” You cup his face in your hand, swallowing down the answer to the question he won’t ask. “You know you are.”

It wasn’t a lie. He’s more than good. He’s the best you’ve ever had, and that’s exactly why you’re blind to the most damning way the lines begin to blur.

What started as stress relief, as a coping mechanism for a shit day, turned into something that started to feel less like an escape from reality and more like something that feels terrifyingly like love.

Just coworkers with benefits turned friends with benefits don’t stare into each other’s eyes during sex like they’re trying to see into each other’s souls. They don’t touch you, hold you, and kiss you like you’re their lifeline. Like you’re the air they need to breathe.

They definitely don’t call you baby when they’re telling you to come for them.

But then Frank goes and does just that.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank’s hips slam into yours, repeatedly hitting that sweet spot deep inside you that makes you croon his name against the sweat-slicked skin of his throat.

You weren’t supposed to come over tonight. He had come to your place last night, and the two of you have never hooked up two nights in a row before.

You’ve also never hooked up when his children are sleeping in their bedrooms just down the hallway.

But he called you, right as you were leaving the hospital, and told you that he wants to see you. That he misses you. He even said please in a low, sleepy voice that made heat bloom down your spine.

And you pictured him - skin flushed and dewy from his shower and dark gray sweats hanging low on his hips - and then next thing you knew, you were driving the route to his apartment that has become as familiar as the route to your own.

He noticed you were tired as soon as you walked in. Laid you down in his bed, undressed you, and kissed down your body until stopping between your thighs, where he spent even more time than he usually does - so much time, in fact, that your legs were shaking around his head when you pulled him up to you by the tops of his arms and all but begged him to fuck you.

And he did. Is.

Sounds of flesh on flesh and his bed frame creaking fill the room as your nails scrape down the skin of his back and his teeth dig into the meat of your shoulder, the familiar fiery coil in your core dangerously close to snapping again.

“Frank,” you breathe, voice unrecognizable. “Fuck, I’m close. I need - I’m gonna—”

He gently shushes your incoherent babbling, slanting his lips over yours with a sloppy, open mouth kiss that makes you cry into his mouth.

“I know,” he grunts low and breathless when he pulls away. Skilled, slender fingers find the swollen bundle between your folds, coaxing you to climax. “I can feel it. Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight. You’re so close, just let go for me, baby.”

The foreign pet name falls from his lips so effortlessly that it sends you over the edge - warms you from head to toe, white-hot pleasure coursing through you as he fucks you through your orgasm and his own.

Baby, baby, baby.

You barely register the fact that he pulls out and collapses beside you on his mattress, his thigh brushing against yours.

Every nerve in your body vibrates with the typical post-coital blend of oxytocin and serotonin but the bliss is background noise to the word he’d murmured so pretty against your skin.

It flashes in your mind like a neon sign. Baby.

Suddenly, everything leading up to this moment begins to play like a highlight reel.

The touches that linger for a split-second too long, the random texts throughout the day, the just because kisses that don’t necessarily lead to sex, your favorite vending machine snack randomly appearing on your desk at work when you’re having a hard day, how you know his go-to take-out order by heart, baby, baby, baby—

You bolt upright, cutting Frank off in the middle of a sentence that you hadn’t registered a single syllable of. You throw your legs over the side of the bed, reaching down to pick your underwear and scrubs up off the floor.

“Uh—” He lets out a soft, confused laugh. “You okay?”

You pull your shirt over your head, unable to bring yourself to look at him. “Yeah,” you say, your voice unnaturally high. “It’s just late. I’ve got work in the morning, so I should get going.”

“O…kay,” he draws the word out, obviously unconvinced. “You sure that’s all it is?”

You jump up, yanking your pants into place. “Yep. Just tired.”

He’s silent for a moment, as if trying to gauge the sudden shift in your demeanor. Then, he clears his throat. “I mean, if you’re tired, you can sleep here. Probably shouldn’t drive—”

“What the hell are we doing, Frank?”

He pushes himself up on one elbow, eyebrows knitting together. “What are we doing?” He repeats. “Same thing we’ve been doing for the last few months, I thought.”

You’re shaking your head before he can finish the sentence.

“It’s not the same. It’s not the same and you know it.”

He sits up straighter, blue eyes boring into you like he’s trying to read your mind. It feels like an eternity before he speaks again, and when he does, his voice is low and restrained. “Where is this coming from?”

You make a vague, exasperated gesture with your hands. “It’s coming from…all of it. You call two nights in a row and I come running. People at work are starting to talk because we barely even try to hide it. Your kids are sleeping right down the hall and you’re offering to let me spend the night—”

“Okay, okay,” he interrupts gently. He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. You’re right,” he admits. “Things aren’t exactly the same. Haven’t been for a while now.” He pauses, the intensity of his stare keeping you glued to the spot where you stand next to his bed. “I just don’t see why that’s a bad thing.”

Your chest constricts at the way he doesn’t try to argue. Doesn’t get defensive, just wants to understand.

“Because it was never supposed to be…this.” Your gaze drops to the floor. “It was supposed to be casual. No strings attached. No feelings. But now?” You look back up to find him still staring at you, jaw clenched. You mentally will your voice to stay level, but emotion still slips through. “Cuddling all night then having breakfast with your children in the morning? Calling me baby like I’m yours? That’s not casual, Frank. That’s—”

He cuts you off with an incredulous laugh. “That’s what this is about?” He pushes the covers off of him, grabbing his underwear as he jumps out of bed to yank them on. “Me calling you baby?”

You’re silent as he walks over to you, stopping when his still bare chest is just inches from yours. He looks at you, unblinking, as he waits for you to answer.

You stare up at him, offering a small shrug. “Tell me it didn’t mean anything. Tell me it just slipped out and meant nothing and I’ll let this go.”

He lets out a breathy, humorless laugh and shakes his head. “I’m not going to lie so you can stay in your comfort zone,” he says, voice dangerously low. “It wasn’t just a slip. I called you baby because that’s what you are to me. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but at least be honest with yourself about why it upsets you.”

His words hit you square in the chest, knocking the air from your lungs and causing you to take a small, involuntary step back. “And why exactly do you think it upsets me?”

He leans in slightly, his eyes darkening. “Let me ask you this. Are you really that pissed off that I called you baby? Or are you upset that me calling you baby made you come harder than I’ve ever felt you come?”

You laugh at that. Cackle, really. Louder than you probably should at this hour when his children are sleeping with only walls in between you.

“Wow,” you exhale. “Okay.” You nod. “You’re a dick, and I am leaving.”

You don’t wait for a response before you’re grabbing your tennis shoes and bag off of his floor, not even bothering to put the shoes on your feet before storming out of the bedroom and making a beeline for the front door.

You’re aware of footsteps trailing after you, of Frank calling your name in a desperate whisper-shout, but you don’t stop. You aren’t thinking, you aren’t processing what just transpired, you just want to go back to your place, scream into a pillow, and hope that when you wake up in the morning, your heart is no longer doing gymnastics in your fucking ribcage.

“Please,” he breathes, his hand blanketing yours over the doorknob when you go to turn it. “Hear me out for just a second, okay?”

You don’t look up. His palm feels like wildfire against your skin and your brain is screaming at you to yank your hand away but you’re frozen in place.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he starts, voice a notch above a whisper. “If you want to leave, you can leave. But I can’t let you walk out of here thinking that this is still just sex to me. It was at first. I don’t know exactly when that changed for me, but it did. And I think it did for you, too.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. All of the words that you know you should probably say pile up in your throat.

I can’t be what you want me to be. I don’t know how.

I’m scared of hurting you. I’m scared of getting hurt.

It’s easier for me to shut down than to admit how I really feel.

I don’t remember how to let someone in. I wish I could.

For you, I wish I could.

You swallow them all down.

But you don’t tell him he’s wrong, either.

“I’ll see you at work, Frank.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Though the cravings have yet to subside, Frank is now a month sober from the exact thing his therapist had warned him about in the earliest days of his recovery.

Unlike when he got clean from benzos, this specific brand of newfound sobriety isn’t his choice. It’s yours.

He would never choose this for himself.

But still, he has surprised himself. Hasn’t reached out, no matter how much he has wanted to. Hasn’t texted you, no matter how many drafts he’s typed and deleted. Hasn’t called, even though it has killed him inside to watch your name get lower and lower in his call history. He’s given you space at work and has only talked to you when it pertains directly to a case.

He’s hated every fucking second of it, but he can officially say that he is thirty days clean. If the past thirty days have taught him anything, though, it’s this: he’d happily fall back into old habits, if only you’d give him the chance.

Because it isn’t the sex that he misses most. The sex doesn’t even crack the top ten things he thinks about when he’s trying to fall asleep at night.

It’s the way you’d occasionally forget a hair clip or chapstick on his bedside table and he’d find little pieces of you when you weren’t around and smile. It’s the way he’d get a text from you when he least expected it. It’s the way you’d ask about his children, and make a point to celebrate his recovery milestones even when he didn’t.

And now he’s here, thirty days without you, and one thing has become abundantly clear to him: he didn’t fall back into addiction, he fell in love.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The news comes on a random Tuesday.

Temple University Hospital. Philadelphia. An internal medicine based fellowship you had impulsively applied for the night after you slept with Frank for the last time.

You had already made peace with the fact you weren’t going to get it. Didn’t think you even stood a chance, really, and you were okay with that. You had already been offered a pediatrics fellowship here in Pittsburgh, anyway.

Then the email appears in your inbox on a random Tuesday morning while you’re at work.

Suddenly, you have what most doctors approaching the end of their residencies don’t have: options.

And because you can’t talk to the one person you most (selfishly) want to talk to about it all, you talk to Cassie, instead.

“Wait. Temple?” She exclaims. “As in Philadelphia? I didn’t even know you had applied! What happened to pediatrics here in Pittsburgh?”

You sigh, taking a seat on the concrete curb in the ambulance bay. “It was really last minute. I didn’t say anything because I really didn’t think I’d get it. And as for the peds fellowship…” You shrug. “I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

“Oh my god,” she laughs, sitting down beside you. “That’s amazing. Do you know how hard it is to get into that program? They’re crazy selective.”

You force a smile. “I know.”

Cassie’s smile falters into concern. “Why does it seem like you aren’t thrilled about this?”

“I am,” you answer way too quickly, hugging your knees. “I’m just…surprised, that’s all. It’s big news.”

She stares at you as if you’re a patient who’s lying to her about how much pain they’re in. “You sure that’s all?”

Before you can bullshit a response, the automatic doors to the hospital slide open, and the very reason that you find it impossible to jump for joy right now steps outside.

He’s saying something to an EMS worker, completely oblivious to you watching him from across the bay, but the mere sight of him makes your heartbeat stutter and palms go clammy.

“I’m sure,” you force out, your eyes still glued to Frank. “It’s just…”

“Just…?” Cassie prompts, then follows your gaze. A few seconds of heavy silence pass between you before the pieces click into place. “Oh.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “Yeah. Oh.”

She clicks her tongue. “So that’s why you submitted a last minute application for a fellowship in Philly.”

You can’t deny it. Not when you know she’s right. Not when you’re staring right at him with every feeling you’ve been trying to bury since the very first time you kissed him bubbling to the surface.

“I really fucked things up, Cass.”

You finally look away from him, your eyes burning with the threat of all of the unshed tears that you’ve refused to let spill for the last month.

“Between you and Langdon?” She asks gently.

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I completely shut down the second things started to get real. He told me how he felt and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I feel the same. I just ran like I always do and…”

“And now you’re thinking about running to Philadelphia.”

Again, you can’t even deny it. Not in any way that would be halfway convincing.

“Temple would be a great opportunity,” you mumble instead, looking down at your shoe.

Cassie purses her lips. “It would be,” she agrees. “But moving five hours away isn’t going to magically erase your feelings. You have great opportunities here, too. And I don’t just mean peds.”

She nods in Frank’s direction. You glance back over to where he still stands chatting with the EMS worker. At the same moment, he looks up and his blue eyes meet yours.

You exhale, hoping that he doesn’t have a hidden talent for reading lips. “I don’t know if he even wants to talk to me at this point.”

She snorts. “Please. If the way he’s been moping around like a dejected puppy for the last month means anything, then you have nothing to worry about.” She pauses. “Look, if you really want to go to Philly, then I’ll help you pack. But if you’re gonna go, go for the right reasons. Not because facing your feelings scares you more than the thought of moving three hundred miles away.”

You hate that she’s right. But not as much as you hate the fact that you know she’s right, and still might take the easy way out, anyway.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

What hurts Frank more than anything is that he doesn’t hear the news directly from you.

He isn’t supposed to hear it at all, actually. He only finds out because he happens to be standing a few feet away at the nurse’s station, and Victoria’s voice carries.

“I heard about your fellowship offer from Temple,” Victoria practically sings. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you. Internal medicine, right?”

Frank doesn’t even look up from his tablet at first. He isn’t sure who Victoria is talking to, but he has no reason to believe it’s you. You didn’t apply to any fellowships in internal medicine. You’ve always been interested in going into emergency pediatrics—

“Oh—” Your nervous laugh causes Frank’s eyes to shoot up. Your back is to him, so he can’t see your facial expression. “Yeah, thanks,” you tell Victoria, your voice an octave higher than it typically is.

He doesn’t register the rest of the conversation because of a shrill ringing in his ears that makes him bolt to the restroom.

It’s been one month since his last legitimate conversation with you, and now you’re moving to Philadelphia? For a fellowship in internal medicine, which you’ve never expressed interest in during all the years you’ve worked together or months you slept together?

And you didn’t even tell him yourself. He heard it from Victoria talking so loudly that patients in fucking triage probably heard the news.

Not that you owe him anything. Of course you don’t have to run your life decisions by him. He was just blindsided is all.

Blindsided, and more devastated than he probably has any right to be.

He wishes he could be as happy for you as Victoria is. But no matter how much Frank works on himself, no matter how much time he spends in therapy or how many self-help books he reads, he’s always been a selfish man when he’s in love.

But you aren’t his to be selfish over. He knows this. He’s painfully aware of it every time he sees you at work and every time he feels your absence when he’s alone at night.

So when he sees you walking to your car in the parking garage after work that night, he tries to do the right thing even though it feels wrong.

“So, Philly?”

You come to a halt beside your car, slowly turning around to face him. You purse your lips in the way that Frank knows that you normally do when you’re nervous, adjusting your bag over your shoulder.

“You heard about that, huh?”

Frank stops a couple feet away from you, one hand on the strap of his backpack and one crammed in his pants pocket. “Yeah, Javadi doesn’t exactly whisper.”

“Ah,” you breathe. Then, with a small laugh, “No, I suppose she doesn’t.”

An awkward beat of silence passes between you as it dawns on Frank that this is damn near exactly where he stood months ago when you first kissed him. The realization makes his gaze flash to your lips.

God, what the hell is he doing?

He clears his throat and starts to take a step back. “Well, I just wanted to say congratulations. Temple will be really lucky to have you—”

“I haven’t decided anything yet,” you interject quickly, the words nearly running together. “I just found out yesterday so I…I don’t really know what I’m going to do yet.”

Frank hopes that his face doesn’t show the sudden relief he feels to hear of your indecision.

“But I’m sorry you found out that way,” you add in a smaller voice, not meeting his eye. “I was going to tell you, once I made a decision.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says softly. “You don’t owe me anything. I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not here.” He pauses and adds the words that taste like bile when they leave his mouth. “Even if it’s not with me.”

But goddamn, do I wish it was, he thinks.

A storm of different emotions flicker across your face in the span of about two seconds. For one of them, Frank thinks you might step toward him.

But it’s just wishful thinking, or maybe the shitty parking garage lighting.

“Thank you, Frank.”

Anything else he could possibly say would be solely for his own benefit, so he nods.

And he doesn’t want to risk ruining the moment, knowing there’s a chance that he may not have many more with you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The words on the screens in front of you bleed together.

The email you received yesterday morning from Temple University Hospital is open on your laptop screen. The iPad in your hands displays UPMC Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh’s website.

You’ve scanned and scrolled as if the answer you’re searching for will appear in bold letters across one of the screens, but since you got home from work a few hours ago, the only decision you’ve succeeded in making is chamomile over peppermint tea.

You thought taking a hot shower might help you clear your mind. All that resulted in was remembering all of the times that you ended up at Frank’s or he ended up at yours after work and you’d shower together, washing off the long day with your hands and lips on each other the entire time.

After cutting your shower short, you figured eating something other than a protein bar would help you gain at least a little mental clarity - but then you opened your fridge to see leftover takeout from the Italian place down the road that you know Frank likes, and completely lost your appetite.

The following hours weren’t much different.

Put on body lotion - remembered how much Frank loved the smell of it. Turned on music - the first fucking song that played on shuffle was by an artist that Frank introduced you to. Searched through a pile of laundry for a cardigan - found a t-shirt Frank accidentally left at your place over a month ago that you can’t bring yourself to give back to him.

He’s still everywhere. It’s been a month and he’s still occupying spaces that he hasn’t been in weeks. In your apartment and in your brain and in your heart.

And to top it all off, the words that he had said to you in the parking garage tonight won’t stop replaying in your head.

I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not here. Even if it’s not with me.

But what if it is? What if it is here? What if it is with him?

You sigh, rubbing your eyes, but it does little to improve the quality of the words on the screens in front of you. Maybe, if you put on your reading glasses, everything will become clear to—

Your hand freezes on a piece of paper in your bedside table drawer as you’re searching for your glasses.

A bright blue, wrinkled sticky note. You don’t even have to flip it over to remember what it says but you do, anyway.

Stop overthinking. You made the right call. You always do.

Also, stop scowling.

Frank’s handwriting. He’d scribbled the words, crumpled the paper up, and flicked it at you across your desks while charting after a particularly brutal trauma that he knew you were beating yourself up over.

It had been the first thing to make you smile that whole day. It was a reminder that you desperately needed at that moment. And it was from Frank. Of course you kept it.

And now here it is. At the exact moment you so desperately need that reminder once again.

Stop overthinking.

So that’s exactly what you do. You stop overthinking, and do what you should have done a long time ago.

He’s probably already asleep, but you put on your shoes.

There’s a voice in the back of your mind telling you that you’re probably too late, but you grab your car keys and make the short drive to his place.

And there’s a tight ball of anxiety in the pit of your stomach that begs you to turn around, but you raise your hand and knock on his front door.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank is convinced that he must be dreaming.

He didn’t actually hear a knock and open his front door to you standing outside at midnight.

There’s no way this isn’t his subconscious playing some cruel joke on him. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve appeared in his dreams, but it is by far the most realistic he’s had. He can feel the chill of the night wind as it blows the familiar scent of your body lotion in his direction and it is all so, so lifelike.

It doesn’t register that he is very much awake and you are very much here until you speak.

“Shit.”

It’s the first word out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you huff. “Are the kids here right now? I hope I didn’t wake them up. I didn’t really think this through. I just got in my car and drove here before I could chicken out because I’m tired of chickening out and—”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, stepping over the threshold of his doorway. He almost reaches out and touches you, but stops himself at the last second.

You’re here. You’re actually fucking here right now. It’s the middle of the night and you’re in your pajamas and slippers and he has no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re here.

“What’s going on?” He asks gently, unable to keep obvious concern from his tone. “It’s…after midnight. Is everything okay?”

You nod. “Everything is fine. I’m sorry to freak you out. I just…I told you that I was going to tell you whenever I came to a decision.”

Frank stares at you, his mouth slightly agape. You did say that…approximately five hours ago.

The shock and the hope he had initially felt upon realizing that you’re standing on his front porch is quickly replaced with dread at what you might say next.

He swallows, his voice rough. “So…you made a decision, then? About Philadelphia?”

Another nod, followed by a smile that he can’t quite read. “Philly sounds great. I mean…the Eagles, the Liberty Bell…cheesesteaks.” Your shoulders lift in a small shrug. “And the internal medicine program at Temple would be a really great opportunity.”

Frank drops your gaze, bracing for what surely comes next.

“But Philadelphia does not have the guy that I love.”

His eyes shoot back up. You’re staring at him, eyes wide and closer to tears than he thinks he’s ever seen from you. Before he can speak, you take a step closer and he forgets how to breathe.

“It doesn’t have you.”

Frank knows it defies all science and logic, but he swears the entire city freezes around you two right then and there.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt before his brain has a chance to catch up. “Frank, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have walked out on you like I did. I shouldn’t have shut you out, I shouldn’t have taken this long to get my head out of my ass—”

“Hey—” he tries gently, but you’re on a roll now.

“—and I should have told you that you were right. It wasn’t just sex to me, either. I don’t think it ever really was. And I get it if I’m too late. I get it if you can’t give me another chance. But I’m not going anywhere, I’m done running away from what I feel, and if I have to prove every day that I love—”

That’s it. He won’t listen to another word.

Not that he doesn’t love the sound of them coming from your lips because goddamn, he does. Every word, every apology, every promise you’re willing to give, Frank will take.

But he can’t just stand here and watch the way your hands are starting to shake and listen to your voice begin to tremble when every part of him that has missed you for the last month screams at him to pull you close, so that’s exactly what he does.

It only takes a fraction of a second for you to process that his lips are moving against yours.

Your hands fly to his hair, his own dropping from your face to your waist to pull you flush against him. You gasp into his mouth, a pretty noise that Frank is happy to swallow down. It takes no time at all for the kiss to turn fervent, a clash of tongue and teeth that makes him grateful that it’s the dead of night and all of his neighbors are asleep.

“—you,” you finish when you reluctantly break apart, your breath warm against his lips. “I love you.”

The three words are everything he’s been waiting to hear since the first night you kissed him. He just didn’t know it at the time.

“I love you, too, baby,” he murmurs low. A smirk forms on his kiss-swollen lips. “It is okay that I call you that now, right?”

You let out a sound that is half laugh, half sob at the words. You grab his face in your hands and pull him down again for one more kiss, this one shorter but just as sweet.

“Please,” you sigh, smiling up at him. “Because you weren’t wrong about the effect it has on me.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

"Figures?" she repeated.

"Moves. Dosido, allemande, swing… You ain’t need to worry about the names. Just watch what everyone else does and follow my lead when we're together."

They reached the lines, and he positioned her across from him in the women's row. The space between them was maybe six feet, close enough that she could see the way his eyes tracked her, the slight curve of his mouth.

Around them, other couples were settling into place. She recognized Nell and Tom a few positions down, Sarah and her husband closer to the front. Even some of the older couples had joined, Carl and Agnes Hayes among them.

A man with a fiddle stood near the corner. Someone else, one of the loggers she didn't know by name, called out, "Everyone ready?"

A chorus of affirmatives rose from the group.

"Alright then," the caller said, raising his voice to carry over the chatter. "We'll start with an easy one for the newcomers. 'Petronella'. Everyone knows it?"

Most people nodded or called out agreement. She stayed quiet, her heart beating faster.

The fiddle started, a lively, bouncing tune that made her want to tap her foot even before anyone moved.

"Forward and back!" the caller shouted.

The lines surged toward each other, then retreated. She followed a half-beat late, watching the women around her.

"Forward and back again!"

This time she moved with them, stepping forward until she was close enough to see the amusement in Bucky's eyes, then back again.

"Dosido your partner!"

She hesitated -what the hell was a dosido?- but Bucky was already moving toward her. He circled around her right side, his shoulder passing close to hers, then around her back. She turned instinctively, following the motion, and ended up facing him again from the same spot.

"Good," he said, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.

"Right-hand star!" the caller shouted.

The couples moved into groups of four, her and Bucky with the pair beside them. Everyone extended their right hands to the center, forming a star shape, and began walking in a circle.

She focused on keeping her footing, on not stepping on anyone's skirts or boots, on trying to anticipate what came next.

The figures kept coming: swing your partner, promenade, ladies chain. She stumbled more than once, turned the wrong direction during an allemande, and completely missed a move she didn't catch the name of.

But Bucky was always there. Guiding her with a hand at her waist, a look, a subtle gesture. And when she got it wrong, he just grinned and pulled her back into position.

Around them, people were laughing. Not at her, she realized, but just... enjoying themselves. The music, the movement, the chaos of so many bodies trying to stay in sync.

And she was laughing too.

Eventually, the caller shouted, "Swing your neighbor!"

Before she could process what that meant, Tom Johnson was there, catching her hand and spinning her in a quick circle. She caught a glimpse of Nell being spun by the man on her other side, laughing at something he'd said.

And then she was back in line, slightly breathless, and Tom was grinning at her before returning to his own partner.

The music kept going, relentless and cheerful.

"Down the line!"

The top couple -the pair at the head of the formation- joined hands and skipped down between the two rows while everyone else clapped. When they reached the bottom, they formed an arch with their arms, and the next couple ducked under and repeated the pattern.

She watched, trying to memorize the sequence, and realized with growing certainty that eventually, it would be her and Bucky's turn.

"Progression!" the caller shouted.

The lines changed. She moved up one position, and suddenly the couple she was facing wasn't Bucky anymore; it was a man she didn't know, one of the other loggers, with a weathered face and a friendly gap-toothed smile.

Her stomach dropped.

It was irrational. She knew it was irrational.

"Forward and back!"

She moved automatically, but her eyes searched for Bucky. Found him one position down, now facing a woman she recognized from the food tables. Younger, maybe her age, with dark hair and a bright smile.

He caught her gaze for a brief second and gave her a small nod.

You're fine. Keep going.

She forced herself to look away, to focus on her own partner.

"Dosido your partner!"

She circled the stranger, keeping her expression neutral, trying not to think about how different it felt to move around someone who wasn't Bucky.

The man was polite. His hands, when they touched hers during the star, were dry and work-roughened, impersonal. He smelled like tobacco and woodsmoke.

Not Bucky.

The figures continued, right hand star, left hand star, swing your partner.

When the stranger's hand settled at her waist for the swing, it felt all wrong. Too light. Too careful. As if she were made of glass instead of flesh and bone.

The stranger spun her competently, released her right on time, and she ended up back in her spot in line.

She counted the steps in her head, willing the progression to come faster.

Around her, people were laughing, enjoying themselves. The music played on, relentless and cheerful.

She didn't look down the line. Didn't want to see Bucky's hands on that woman's waist, even in something as innocent as contradance.

One more figure, she told herself. Maybe two.

"Dosido your corner!"

She circled the woman beside her -Sarah, she realized- and Sarah gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. Did it show on her face? How much she wanted to be back across from her own husband?

"Progression!"

The lines shifted again, and she was back across from Bucky.

His eyes found hers instantly, and something in his expression, maybe the flatness of his stare, suggested he hadn't enjoyed the last progression any more than she had.

"Miss me?" he asked, just loud enough for her to hear as they stepped forward and back.

"Terribly," she said, and she meant it more than he probably realized.

His expression changed, something possessive and serious flickered across his face before smoothing into a grin. But she'd seen it. That flash of... what? Satisfaction? Relief?

"Good," he said, and there was an edge to his voice that made her stomach flip.

"Swing your partner!"

He caught her around the waist and spun her, and the difference was immediate.

Faster than the stranger had moved her. Closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through all the layers of fabric between them. His hand at her waist was firm and sure, pulling her into the turn with confidence that made her head spin.

She laughed as the room blurred around them.

This. This was right.

His hand, and the way he moved her, like he knew exactly how her body would respond. When they stopped, she was dizzy. Not from the spinning… or not just from the spinning.

She wanted to say something, but the music was already moving into the next figure, and the caller's voice rose above the noise.

"Down the line!"

Bucky squeezed her hand once before they separated to let the top couple skip through.

But she felt that squeeze all the way through the rest of the dance.

----

The contradance ran several more rounds until the fiddle player finally lowered his instrument with a flourish as the last notes faded. The room erupted in applause and laughter, people fanning themselves, reaching for water, catching their breath.

She was breathing hard, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cold outside. Her face felt warm. From the exertion, from the punch still in her system, from the way Bucky had been looking at her every time they'd come back together in the line.

"Well done," he said, appearing at her elbow with a cup of water. "For someone who ain't know what a dosido was an hour ago."

She took the water gratefully, drinking half of it in one go. "I stepped on at least three people's feet."

"Maybe four," he corrected, grinning. "But who's countin’?"

She swatted his arm lightly, and he caught her hand, holding it for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go.

She felt that small touch like a spark.

Around them, people were milling about, some heading outside for air, others clustering near the drink table. The fiddle player was conferring with someone about the next set.

Then a voice rose from near the front of the room. Clear, refined, and just a touch condescending.

"Perhaps we might try something a bit more... refined? A waltz, maybe?"

She turned to see the mayor's wife standing with the banker's wife, both of them looking perfectly composed despite the heat of the room. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in their fine dresses.

There was a beat of silence.

Then someone -one of the loggers- let out a low whistle. "Ooh, fancy."

Laughter rippled through the crowd, but it wasn't mean-spirited. More like amusement at the incongruity of it, waltzing in a frontier town hall after contradance.

"I think that's a fine idea," Agnes Hayes said, her tone diplomatic but with a hint of mischief. "If the fiddle player knows one."

The fiddle player shrugged. "I know a few."

"Well then," Carl Hayes said, offering his arm to Agnes with exaggerated formality. "Shall we, my dear?"

More laughter. But people were starting to pair off, couples moving back toward the cleared space. The atmosphere had changed, less raucous, more curious. Like they were all in on the joke but willing to play along.

Bucky turned to her. "You know how to waltz?"

"I do," she said. "Do you?"

"Enough to get by." He held out his hand. "Come on."

She took it, and he led her back onto the floor.

The space felt different now. More intimate, even with all the other couples gathering around them.

The fiddle started a slower, lilting melody.

Bucky's hand pressed at her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder. Their other hands joined, held at a proper height.

Appropriate. Exactly the way she'd been taught.

But it didn't feel proper.

Not when it was him.

"Ready?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, and then they were moving.

It was completely different from the contradance.

No shouted instructions. No changing partners every few bars. No chaos of bodies moving in patterns around them.

Just the two of them, turning in slow circles, her skirts brushing against his legs with each step. She'd forgotten what this felt like. The waltz. One-two-three, one-two-three, the rhythm so ingrained she didn't have to think about it.

But she'd never done it like this.

Back home, the few times she'd danced at all with instructors, they had kept her at arm's length. Maintained the proper distance. Looked over her shoulder or past her, never quite meeting her gaze.

Because looking at her meant seeing her eyes. Meant acknowledging the girl with the devil's mark.

But Bucky was looking right at her.

His hand at her waist was warm and solid. Not tentative or careful like the lessons. Not performatively correct like the rare partner who'd been obligated to dance with her.

The room moved around them. Other couples turning, the fiddle playing, voices low, and occasional laughter.

But it all felt distant. Muffled, like there was a bubble around just the two of them.

"You've done this a lot?" she asked quietly.

"Once or twice." His hand at her waist pressed slightly more firmly, guiding her through a turn. "You're good at this."

"I had lessons," she admitted. "My parents thought it was important."

"For findin’ a husband?" There was no judgment in his voice, just curiosity.

She felt something twist in her chest.

"For being... acceptable. Refined." She met his eyes, saw him watching her carefully. "They thought if I could dance well enough, carry myself properly, be accomplished in all the right ways, maybe someone would overlook... the rest."

She didn't need to specify what "the rest" was.

"Not that it mattered much in the end," she added, trying to keep her voice light.

His expression changed, a shadow passing over his face. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly at her waist.

"Their loss," he said, and there was an edge to his voice.

Like she was something worth having. Worth wanting.

"Hey," he said quietly, and she realized she'd missed a step.

She forced herself to focus. One-two-three. Follow his lead. Don't think about-

"You alright?" he asked.

"Yes," she managed. "Just... thank you. For saying that."

"It's true," he said simply. "Anyone who couldn't see that you were worth knowin’ was a damn fool."

She blinked hard, once, and concentrated very carefully on the next turn.

Around them, other couples were dancing. Some with skill, others fumbling through the steps. Carl and Agnes were surprisingly graceful. Tom and Nell were arguing quietly about whose fault it was that they kept going off-count, but both were smiling.

And somewhere in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Mary Collins watching them with a certain assessment that made her want to stand up straighter. Made her hyperaware of every imperfection, the way her hair was probably coming loose from its pins, the fact that her dress, while nice, was nothing compared to what some of the wealthier women wore.

Her shoulders tensed.

"Don't," Bucky said quietly.

She looked up at him. "Don't what?"

"Worry about what she thinks."

His thumb brushed against her waist. Just once, barely perceptible through all the layers of fabric and boning. But she felt it. Felt the deliberate pressure of it, the casual possessiveness.

"You're doin’ fine," he continued, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"I wasn't-"

"You were." He turned them smoothly, and she had to focus to keep the count, to not stumble when her heart had just kicked up for reasons that had nothing to do with the dance. "And for the record, you look better in that dress than she does in hers. Even with the torture device underneath."

A surprised laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "Bucky."

"What? It's true." His eyes held hers, steady and warm. "You think I ain’t noticed you could barely breathe at lunch?"

"It's not that bad."

"It's ridiculous," he said flatly. "But you look beautiful anyway."

Beautiful.

He'd said it out loud, where anyone could hear.

Her foot faltered -just barely- and she felt herself lose the rhythm.

His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her back into the count without missing a beat.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

She forced herself to keep moving, to keep her feet following the pattern even though her mind had gone completely blank.

When was the last time someone had called her that? Had anyone ever called her that?

Her mother had called her ‘handsome’ once. A diplomatic word. A word that meant ‘presentable enough.’

Her brother had never commented on her appearance at all, except to remind her to keep her hair neat, her posture straight, her expression neutral. "Don't draw attention," he'd said.

And the men back home -the few who'd been forced into her company at social gatherings- had looked everywhere but at her face.

But Bucky was looking.

And he'd called her beautiful.

"Thank you," she managed.

The music swelled, and he turned them again, the movement bringing her marginally closer. Still proper, still acceptable by any standard.

But it felt intimate anyway.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice low, meant only for her.

Then, after a pause, quieter still: "Though if I'm bein’ honest, watchin’ you dance with others earlier made me want to end the whole damn thing."

Her eyes snapped to his.

He was watching her with a mix of amusement and frustration and something darker.

"Jealous?" she asked, testing the word.

His jaw worked for a moment, like he was deciding whether to admit it.

"Concerned," he said finally. Then, with a slight grimace, "And yeah. Maybe a little jealous."

The admission chased away the last remnants of nervousness about being here, about being watched, about what people thought.

"It's just contradance," she said, but she was smiling now. "Everyone dances with everyone."

"I know that." His hand flexed slightly at her waist. "Didn't make it easier to watch."

She wanted to say something. What, she wasn't sure. Something about how wrong it had felt to dance with anyone else. How she'd counted every second until the progression brought her back to him.

But the words stuck in her throat.

The music began to wind down, and when it ended, they stood there for a moment, still holding each other, neither quite ready to let go.

His hand was still at her waist. Hers still on his shoulder.

She could feel his breath, see the rise and fall of his chest, and the way he was looking at her.

Then someone started clapping, and the spell broke.

He stepped back, releasing her waist but keeping hold of her hand as they moved off the floor with the other couples.

But his thumb traced a small circle against her palm before he let go.

"Ready to head home?" he asked quietly.

She glanced around the room, at the people still laughing and talking, at the fiddle player tuning up for another set, at the warmth and noise and life of it all.

Then she looked back at him.

"Yes," she said. "I'm ready."

----

They made their way toward the door, weaving through clusters of people still talking, laughing, showing no signs of slowing down. The fiddle had started up again -another contradance by the sound of it- and she could hear the caller's voice rising over the music.

Near the food tables, she spotted Nell and Sarah gathering their empty dishes. They didn’t waltz, it seemed.

"We're heading out," she said, catching Nell's attention.

"Already?" Nell glanced toward the dance floor, then back at her with a knowing look. "Party's still going."

"Bucky has work tomorrow," she said. "He could use the extra rest."

Nell's eyebrow rose slightly, but she didn't push. "Of course."

"Actually," Sarah said, "we were just saying we should all meet up in town sometime. Make a day of it, errands and such."

"That sounds lovely," she said, genuinely pleased at the idea. "When were you thinking?"

"Maybe Thursday?" Nell suggested. "We could do our shopping, then grab something at the ‘hotel’ dining room. They've got decent coffee."

"Thursday works," she agreed. "I'll be there."

"Good." Nell squeezed her arm briefly. "It was nice having you here today. Really."

"Thank you," she said. "For everything."

Nell just smiled, and the meaning was clear: don't mention it.

They said their goodbyes, collected their now-empty crate and clothes from where they'd left them, and headed outside.

The afternoon air was cold, the sun already low on the horizon. Late November meant the days were short, and they'd be racing the sunset to get home before full dark.

She pulled her winter cloak around herself while Bucky shrugged into his coat.

The street was quieter now than it'd been at midday, most people still inside the hall. A few men stood outside the saloon, smoking and talking in low voices.

Bucky helped her up onto the wagon seat, his hand steady at her elbow even though she didn't really need the assistance. Her legs were tired from dancing, but she was steady enough.

He swung up beside her and gathered the reins, clicking his tongue to get the horse moving.

----

The sun was low, maybe two hours of good light left. They'd make it home before full dark if they kept a decent pace. No reason to rush…

Except he wanted to.

Had wanted to since the moment she'd pinned that brooch to her dress this morning and smiled at him like he'd given her something precious instead of a piece of cheap white copper from a camp peddler.

Maybe since before that. Since she'd stood in their cabin in nothing but her chemise and asked him to lace up that damned corset, and he'd had to keep his hands steady and impersonal when all he'd wanted was to do something else.

Two months. He'd waited two months.

He could wait another hour.

The road stretched ahead, familiar and rutted. He kept his attention on it, on the horse, on anything other than the woman sitting beside him.

She was quiet. Watching the landscape, her hands folded in her lap. The brooch caught the late afternoon light every time she shifted.

He'd been watching her all day. Couldn't seem to help it.

Watching her navigate the food tables with the other women, her shoulders straight and her chin up, even though he knew she'd been nervous. Watching her laugh with Nell Johnson and Sarah Calhoun like she'd known them for years instead of hours. Watching her move through the contradance, stumbling sometimes but trying, always trying.

Watching her dance with Tom Johnson during that partner swap, and feeling something ugly and possessive in his gut.

She was his wife. His.

And some rational part of his brain knew that was the whole point of contradance: everyone danced with everyone, it didn't mean anything.

But the irrational part, the part that had spent two months sleeping next to her and touching her and learning what made her gasp and arch against him, that part had wanted to walk across the floor and pull her back to his side of the line where she belonged.

He'd managed not to.

And then the waltz.

He'd danced before, enough to know the steps, enough to not embarrass himself. But he'd never danced with her. Had never had to reconcile the woman in his arms in public with the woman who came apart under his hands in private.

The way she'd looked up at him when he'd called her beautiful…

He shifted on the seat, adjusting his grip on the reins.

Focus. Road. Horse. Home.

Behind the seat, the wool blanket was folded where he'd stashed it that morning. The temperature had dropped since they'd left town, and it would only get colder as the sun set.

He glanced at her. She'd pulled her cloak tighter, but her hands were hidden under the fabric. Cold, probably.

"Hold these a second," he said, passing her the reins.

She took them without question, and he twisted around to grab the blanket. Shook it out and put it over both their laps, securing it around her legs.

His hand lingered on her thigh.

He told himself it was to make sure the blanket was firm. That the weight of his palm pressing through her skirt and petticoat was purely practical.

He let his hand rest there for a moment before he took the reins back and focused on the road again.

But he'd felt her reaction. The way she'd gone very still. The slight hitch in her breathing.

He didn't examine why he'd done it. Didn't want to admit, that every time she looked at him today with those mismatched eyes, it got a little harder to remember why he was waiting.

The wagon hit a rut, jostling them both.

She winced, her hand going to her side.

He glanced at her. "You alright?"

"Fine," she said. "Just this damned corset."

Damned corset was right.

He'd watched her struggle with it all day. The way she'd shifted in her seat during lunch, trying to find a position that didn't dig the boning into her more than necessary. The way she'd taken shallow breaths during the waltz, the tight lacing restricting her.

"That thing's coming off the second we get home," he said.

It was a practical statement. She'd been uncomfortable all day, and he'd get her out of it as soon as they were through the door. Help her unlace, let her breathe properly again.

That was all he meant.

But then, in a voice carefully neutral, she murmured, "I thought you were tired."

He turned to look at her and blinked.

Her expression was composed. Almost innocent. But her eyes…

She knew exactly what she was saying, knew exactly what she was implying.

And she wasn't drunk. He'd made sure of that back at the hall, which meant this wasn't the punch talking, this was her.

That something in him that had been held carefully in check all this time finally snapped.

"I ain’t tired."

He saw her swallow. Saw the way her fingers tightened slightly in the folds of her skirt under the blanket.

"Oh," she said, and it came out breathier than she probably meant.

He turned his attention back to the road, but his hands were tight on the reins.

The cabin was still twenty minutes away. Maybe less if he pushed the horse a bit.

Twenty minutes.

He could manage that.

----

The cabin came into view as the last light faded from the sky.

Bucky brought the wagon to a stop near the door, setting the brake before climbing down. He moved around to her side and offered his hand.

She took it, letting him help her down. Her legs were stiff from sitting, and she was acutely aware of how quiet everything was out here compared to the noise and warmth of the town hall.

Just the two of them now.

No music. No voices. No crowd to buffer the tension that had been building between them since they'd left town.

"I'll get the horse settled," he said, his voice low. "Get the fire goin’."

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and headed for the door.

Inside, the cabin was cold and dark. They'd put out the fire before leaving that morning, and now the chill was everywhere.

She moved by memory more than sight, finding the tinderbox on the mantle and kneeling by the hearth. Her hands were steady as she arranged the kindling and struck the flint.

Steady hands. That was good. That was important.

Even if the rest of her felt like it was vibrating with nervousness.

The spark caught. A small flame, then growing, casting light across the room.

She added larger pieces of wood, watching the fire build, feeling the first hints of warmth beginning to push back the cold.

I thought you were tired.

I ain’t tired.

The words replayed in her mind, his voice rough and certain in a way that had made her stomach drop and heat pool low in her belly all at once.

She'd started this. On the wagon. With that comment about the corset, maybe earlier in the hall. And now-

Behind her, she heard the door open and close. Bucky's footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the floor.

She didn't turn around.

Just stayed there, kneeling by the fire, watching the flames, very aware that her heart was beating faster than it should. That her palms were damp despite the cold. That every nerve in her body seemed to be standing at attention, waiting.

The warmth she felt on her back wasn't from the fire. Then, his hand was on her shoulder.

The touch was light, almost gentle. But she felt the weight of intent behind it.

"Stand up," he said quietly.

She rose slowly, brushing her hands against her skirt, and turned to face him.

The firelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his stubbled jaw, the way his gaze held hers.

Not like he'd looked at her during the waltz, warm and admiring.

This was different, darker. Hungrier.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. She could hear her own breathing. Could hear his.

Then his hands came up to the clasp of her cloak.

His fingers worked the fastening, and she realized her hands were hanging uselessly at her sides. Should she be helping? Doing something?

But before she could move, he pushed the heavy fabric off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her with a soft whump.

One layer gone.

His eyes tracked down her body -taking in the dress, the brooch still pinned at her collar, the way the firelight played across the dark fabric- before coming back to her face.

"Turn around," he said, his voice rough, and she complied slowly.

She felt him step closer still, close enough that when he exhaled, she felt it against the back of her neck.

Then his hands came around her from behind, reaching for the front of her bodice.

She stood very still.

The brooch came first. His fingers found the clasp, worked it open with surprising gentleness. She heard it, the soft sound of metal on wood as he set it on the shelf above the fireplace. Then his fingers returned to the top button, and she felt him work it free carefully.

Then the next button.

And the next.

He moved down her bodice slowly, each button releasing with a soft pop of fabric. She could feel his fingers brushing against her chest through the dress with each one, could feel the way his breath warmed the exposed skin at the back of her neck.

The dress began to loosen, falling open down the front.

She wanted to say something. Do something. But her voice had abandoned her, and all she could do was stand there and feel.

Feel his hands, his proximity. The way her body was already responding to nothing more than his fingers working buttons.

When he reached the last one at her waist, his hands went to her shoulders, and he pushed the dress down her arms in one smooth motion.

The fabric slid away, catching briefly at her elbows before falling past her wrists. It pooled at her waist where the skirt was still fastened, leaving her upper body in nothing but the corset and her chemise beneath it.

The cool air hit her bare arms, raising goosebumps.

Or maybe that was just him.

His hands moved to the ties at her waist, and she felt the skirt loosen, felt its weight slide down her hips, and then the whole thing was falling to the floor in a heap of dark fabric around her feet.

She stepped out of it instinctively, and he kicked it aside without ceremony.

Now she was standing in her corset, chemise, petticoat, and stockings.

Still mostly covered.

But it felt like being naked.

His hands came to rest on her waist, and she felt his thumbs press against the boning through the fabric.

"This thing," he said, his voice low and rough near her ear, "has been drivin’ me mad all day."

She didn't know what to say to that.

Then his hands moved to the laces at her back.

They loosened with swift, deliberate tugs, so different from the careful tightening she'd asked him to do that morning. Each pull released more pressure, let her body expand a little more, let air flow a little easier.

She felt the exact moment the corset went from "tight" to "loose."

Felt herself able to draw a full breath for the first time since dawn.

The relief was immediate and overwhelming.

"Better?" he asked, his voice close to her ear, his hands still working the laces.

"Yes," she managed.

The laces went slack, and his hands slid to her waist, and he pulled the corset away from her body entirely.

She heard it hit the floor somewhere behind them.

Now there was just the thin cotton of her chemise between his hands and her skin.

Just one layer.

She could feel the heat of his palms through it. Could feel the way his fingers spread across her sides, spanning her waist.

"All day," he said quietly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, "I've been watchin’ you in that thing."

His hands tightened slightly.

"Watchin’ you barely able to breathe. Watchin’ you try to hide how uncomfortable you were." His thumbs traced upward along her sides, a slow, deliberate path. "Watchin’ other men lookin’ at you."

Oh.

"And all I could think about," he continued, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "was getting you home and gettin’ you out of it."

His hands slid higher, brushing the underside of her breasts through the chemise.

"Gettin’ you under me."

Heat flooded through her, sharp and overwhelming and so intense she felt dizzy with it.

Her hands came up instinctively, gripping his forearms where they crossed in front of her. Needing something to hold onto. Needing to ground herself.

She felt the muscle shift beneath her fingers. Felt the strength in him, barely leashed.

"Bucky-" Her voice came out thin.

She tried to turn in his arms -wanted to see his face, needed to- but he held her still, keeping her facing away from him.

"Not yet," he murmured against her ear. "I'm not done."

His hands left her sides, and she heard the rustle of fabric behind her.

Then she felt his fingers at the ties of her petticoat.

The knot came free easily, and the weight of the fabric loosened around her hips. He pushed it down, letting it fall to pool around her feet.

She stepped out of it, and he kicked that aside too.

Now she was down to her chemise, drawers, and stockings.

His hands came back to her waist, but this time they didn't stop there.

They slid upward, slowly, deliberately.

Her pulse was pounding now. In her throat. In her wrists. Between her legs.

His hands cupped her breasts through the chemise, and a sound escaped her lips. Small, involuntary.

Evidence that she was still breathing. Still present. Still capable of response.

"You know what you did to me today?" he asked, his voice rough against her ear.

She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words.

His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and they hardened instantly against the fabric, sensitive and aching.

"Tellin’ me I look good," he continued, his hands working her slowly, deliberately. "Askin’ if I'm uncomfortable with the unexpected."

Another brush of his thumbs, circling, more deliberate this time, and she felt her knees go weak.

"Dancin’ with me like that." His mouth moved to her neck, pressing a kiss just below her ear that made her shiver. "Lookin’ at me like you wanted me to drag you out of there and take you home right then."

Had she looked at him like that?

Yes, she had.

"And then," his voice dropped even lower, "you went and taunted me on the way back."

I thought you were tired.

She'd known what she was doing when she said it. Had seen his reaction. Had felt the change in the air between them.

Had wanted it.

"I told you," he said, his mouth moving along the curve of her neck, his hands still working her breasts with maddening slowness, "that if you kept sayin’ things like that, I'd stop bein’ patient."

He turned her then -finally- spinning her to face him with his hands on her shoulders.

The firelight caught in his eyes, and what she saw there made her stomach drop and heat spike through her all at once.

Want. Raw and undisguised, and so intense it was almost frightening.

"I'm done bein’ patient," he said quietly.

Then he kissed her.

Nothing like they'd shared in the dark over the past two months. The slow and deep ones where he'd let her set the pace, let her pull back when she needed to.

This was different.

This was him unleashing everything he'd been holding back.

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, probably dislodging what few pins had survived the dancing, and he angled her where he wanted her.

His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that made her knees genuinely weak. His tongue slid past her lips, tasting her, claiming her, and she felt the full force of two months of restraint finally breaking.

She grabbed onto his shoulders -partly for balance, partly because she needed something solid to hold onto- and felt the muscle shift beneath his shirt.

He was still fully dressed.

Coat, shirt, suspenders, trousers, boots.

Every layer intact.

While she stood there in nothing but her chemise and drawers.

The disparity should have made her self-conscious. Should have made her want to cover herself, to hide.

Instead, it made her feel... like he couldn't wait long enough to undress himself. Like getting his hands on her was more important than anything else.

He assaulted her with deep, demanding kisses that left no room for thought. Just sensation. Just the slide of his tongue against hers, the press of his body, the way his hand tightened in her hair when she made a small sound against his mouth.

She felt him move, felt his other hand slide to her hip, and then he was walking her backward.

She went willingly, blindly, trusting him to guide her even though she had no idea where they were going.

Her rear hit something solid.

The kitchen table.

His hands went to her waist, and then he lifted her and set her on the surface.

The height brought them closer to level, and he stepped between her legs without breaking the kiss, his hands resting on her thighs.

The chemise rode up slightly. She could feel the rough fabric of his trousers against the inside of her knees, could feel how close he was, how little separated them now.

He finally pulled back, but only far enough to drag his mouth down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat.

She tilted her head back, giving him access, and tried to catch her breath.

Failed.

"Bucky-" His name came out ragged.

"Still too many damn clothes," he muttered against her skin, his hands finding the hem of her chemise and pulling it up.

She lifted her arms automatically, and the thin cotton slid up her body, and he tossed it aside without looking.

The cool air hit her bare skin, and suddenly she was acutely, overwhelmingly aware that she was sitting on their kitchen table.

Topless.

In nothing but her drawers and stockings.

His hands came up to cup her breasts, palms warm, slightly rough, achingly gentle despite the hunger in his eyes.

Her hands fell to grip the edge of the table, needing something to hold onto.

His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and the sensation shot straight through her. They were sensitive. Had been sensitive since he'd touched them through the chemise, but now with nothing between his hands and her skin, it was almost overwhelming.

She made a sound -small, desperate- and his eyes flicked up to her face.

"That's it," he said quietly. "I wanna hear you."

Then his head dipped, and his mouth closed over one nipple.

The heat, the wet slide of his tongue, the firm suckles, made her back arch involuntarily. Her hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.

He'd done this before. Many times over the past two months. Had learned exactly how she liked to be touched, how much pressure to use, what made her gasp, and what made her squirm.

But it felt different now.

More urgent. Less restrained.

Like he'd finally stopped measuring every touch. Stopped holding himself back.

His mouth worked her deliberately, while his hand cupped her other breast. Then he switched, giving the same attention to the other side, and she felt her head fall back, felt her eyes close.

Felt herself stop thinking entirely.

His mouth moved lower.

When he reached her stomach, she felt a flash of self-consciousness cut through the haze of sensation.

Her belly wasn’t perfect.

But he didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't care.

Just kept kissing his way down, his hands sliding to her thighs, spreading them wider.

Wait.

Wait.

"Bucky," she managed, her voice shaky. "We- we eat here."

He lifted his head just enough to look at her. The heat in his eyes made her clench between her legs.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough and dark and full of promise. "And I'm about to."

Before she could process that, his hands were hooking into the waistband of her drawers.

"Lift up," he said.

She did, automatically, and he pulled the fabric down and off, taking her stockings with them in one motion. And then she was completely bare.

Sitting on their kitchen table.

It wasn’t the first time he'd done this, not even close. But always before it had been in bed, almost in the dark or the early morning light. Horizontal.

This was different.

She was exposed. The firelight played across every inch of her skin, and she could see everything: his hands on her thighs, his shoulders between her legs, the intent in his eyes as he looked up at her.

"Bucky, this is-"

"Relax," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "Let me."

One hand stayed on her thigh, warm and grounding. The other moved upward, and she felt his thumb brush through the soft curls between her legs. A slow, deliberate touch. Not quite where she ached for it, but close enough to make her tense.

He did it again, then his thumb pressed lower, parting her, opening her to his gaze. She made a sound -half protest, half something else entirely- but he was already leaning in, and any coherent thought became impossible.

The angle was different like this. Better. He didn't have to hunch or strain the way he did in bed. Could kneel there comfortably, with better access to every part of her.

And he was taking full advantage of it.

His tongue worked against her deliberately, finding all the places he'd learned over the time together. The spots that made her gasp. Made her hips try to shift closer even though there was nowhere closer to go.

"Stay still," he murmured against her, and she felt the vibration of his voice as much as heard it.

She tried. She really did.

But then his fingers joined his mouth -one sliding inside her, then another- and she couldn't help the way her body arched. Couldn't help the way her hand flew to his hair, gripping tight.

"Easy," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Need you ready for me."

The words cut through the haze.

Ready for me.

Not just for this. Not just his mouth and hands.

Something more.

His fingers moved inside her in a slow, maddening rhythm, curling, stroking, finding spots that made her whole body tighten. His mouth stayed focused on that bundle of nerves that made her see stars.

She was already close. Could feel the pressure building, that familiar tightening low in her belly.

But he pulled back.

Not completely. Just enough to look up at her, his eyes dark and intent, his mouth wet.

"This time," he said, his fingers still moving inside her in that slow, devastating way, "I'm not stoppin’ here."

Her brain struggled to process the words through the haze of sensation.

Not stopping here.

"You understand?" he asked, curling his fingers inside her in a way that made her whole body jolt.

She understood. She'd known, really. Since the wagon. Since he'd said I'm not tired in that rough, certain voice.

This was it.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

"Say you understand," he repeated, and there was something almost gentle in his voice despite the hunger in his eyes.

Like he needed to hear her say it. Needed to know she knew what was happening.

That she wanted this.

"I-" Her voice came out thin. She swallowed and tried again. "Yes. I understand."

Something changed in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction.

"Good," he murmured.

Then his mouth was back on her, lips closing around her sensitive bud, tongue working deliberately while his fingers moved deeper, faster inside her.

She tried to hold still as he'd told her. Tried to keep quiet even though sounds kept escaping her, small gasps and broken moans that she couldn't suppress.

Her thighs were shaking. Her whole body tensed, balanced on the edge of something overwhelming.

"Let go," he said against her.

As if she had a choice.

As if she could do anything else.

One last suckle and it hit her like a wave, sudden and complete and so intense she forgot where she was. Forgot everything except the sensation crashing through her, the way her body clenched around his fingers, the sound that tore from her throat.

He worked her through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping until the aftershocks faded and she was left trembling, boneless, utterly undone.

Then he pulled back, pressing a kiss on her mound before rising to his feet.

She was still trying to remember how to breathe when his hands came to her waist.

"Come on," he said quietly, helping her down from the table.

Her legs were unsteady -actually unsteady, not just weak-kneed- and she had to grip his arms for balance.

He held her steady, patiently, waiting until she found her footing.

Then his hand slid down to take hers, and he turned toward the bed.

"Go on," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'll be right there."

She went, crossing the short distance on shaky legs, hyperaware of her nakedness. Of the cool air on her skin.

Behind her, she heard the thud of his boots hitting the floor.

One. Then the other.

The sound of his coat hitting the floor. The slide of suspenders being pushed off his shoulders.

The rustle of fabric as he pulled his shirt over his head.

She reached the bed and turned around, unable to help herself. Needing to see.

He was down to just his trousers now, the firelight playing across his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach.

All that "more" of him she'd complimented that morning.

And the way he was looking at her made her forget everything except the fact that she wanted this.

Wanted him.

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