have some Bucky POV... as a treat 💕
warnings: alpha/beta/omega dynamics, period-typical homophobia, period-typical sexism, implied/referenced child abuse, age gap (18/22), possessive behavior, sexual tension, scent marking, mating cycles/in heat (mentioned), designation discrimination
INTO EACH LIFE: chapter 3.5 (bucky pov)
Thursday Evening, April 1942
The docks had been murder today.
Bucky rolled his shoulder, feeling the deep ache where he'd caught that crate wrong around noon. Miller had been riding everyone's ass about quotas, about the war effort, about how every delayed shipment meant dead American boys.
Like they didn't already know.
Like half the crew wasn't counting days until their own numbers came up.
But it was Thursday, which meant washing the salt and sweat off in the communal showers, changing into his decent shirt—the blue one that brought out his eyes, according to Dolores McNamara—and heading to that art studio in Brooklyn Heights where Steve pretended he wasn't sweet on his drawing instructor.
Except Steve wasn't in the classroom.
"He went upstairs," Miss Carmichael said when Bucky poked his head in, not looking up from her easel. "About an hour ago."
Because Steve Rogers, who wheezed at the very thought of walking to the corner store most days, had suddenly developed a fondness for unnecessary exercise. Bucky took the steps two at a time, trying to ignore the way his gut twisted with something that felt suspiciously like worry.
Steve had been different lately. Happier, maybe. Definitely secretive. Disappearing after class instead of waiting for Bucky like he had for the past two years.
Second floor—more classrooms, all empty. Third floor—storage, dust motes dancing in the late evening light. Fourth floor—
He could hear Steve's voice now, drifting down from above. Talking to someone. Low, careful, with an undertone of warmth that Bucky hadn't heard since Sarah Rogers died.
Fifth floor. The door to the roof was propped open with what looked like a shoe. A nice shoe. Polished (scuffed) leather, and definitely not Steve's.
"Stevie? You hidin' all the way up here?"
The words were already leaving his mouth when the scent hit him.
It was like walking into a wall. Like being struck by lightning. Like drowning in honey and copper wire and rain-soaked cotton all at once. His knees almost buckled, his hand shooting out to grip the doorframe hard enough to leave splinters.
But not any Omega. Not the powder-soft sweetness he knew from Ruby's or the gentle floral notes that drifted through Becca's clothes when she came home from school. This was something else entirely. This was electric. This was alive. This was—
The thought came from somewhere deep, somewhere primal, somewhere that didn't give a damn about logic or timing or the fact that he didn't even know who—
He stepped through the doorway before he could stop himself, body moving on pure instinct.
"So this is where you've been hiding out."
Thank Christ his voice came out steady, all practiced Brooklyn charm. Thank Christ for years of pretending confidence he didn't feel, because right now his entire nervous system was staging some kind of revolt. Every breath brought more of that impossible scent, coating his throat, sinking into his skin, rewiring his brain with each inhale.
And the source of it—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
A boy. Young, couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen, sprawled on wet concrete like he'd been arranged by some Renaissance painter with a sadistic streak. Dark hair plastered to his forehead. White shirt transparent with rain, hanging open to reveal golden skin that seemed to glow in the dim light. Sharp face tilted toward the sky, all angles and defiance even in repose.
Beautiful didn't cover it. This was something beyond beautiful. This was—
The Omega's eyes snapped open, and Bucky’s world tilted off its axis.
"Shit," Steve muttered, fumbling with his watch, looking guilty as hell. Like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or like someone caught hoarding something precious.
The Omega—and God, he was young, definitely still in school from the look of that Institute-issued blazer—sat up slowly, blinking like he'd been pulled from a dream. Sleep-soft and rumpled, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles.
"Who's 'at," he mumbled, voice rough with sleep, and Bucky's stomach clenched hard enough to hurt.
"Wait, 'wanna see the picture," the kid protested, reaching drowsily towards Steve's sketchbook. The gesture was so young, so unguarded, that Bucky felt simultaneously protective and predatory.
Like he wanted to wrap the kid up and keep him safe. Like he wanted to unwrap him and see what other sounds he could make.
Steve fumbled with excuses about unfinished work while Bucky tried to remember how to breathe without drowning. Every inhale brought more of that scent—honey and ozone and the underlying sweetness that meant available, unmated, perfect for you.
The Omega sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the ground. "Unfair."
"C'mon, Dorian Leigh, lemme walk you home," Steve said, fond and familiar in a way that made something ugly twist in Bucky's gut. How long had this been going on? How many Thursdays had Steve been coming up here, spending time with this creature who smelled like every bad decision Bucky had ever wanted to make?
The kid started to sit up properly, fixing his clothes, and then—
The scent exploded. Want and shock and underneath it all, the sweet-slick smell of arousal hitting like a baseball bat to the skull. The Omega's lips parted, a soft sound escaping that might have been a whimper, and Bucky knew—knew with a certainty that terrified him—that the kid was feeling it too. This impossible, overwhelming pull.
"You're Bucky," the Omega accused, like Bucky had committed some terrible crime by existing. "Steve's Bucky."
The possessive in his tone made Bucky want to laugh. Or growl. Maybe both. Steve's Bucky. Like he belonged to anyone but—
No. Stop. This was Steve's friend. Steve's secret Thursday friend who was definitely too young and definitely off limits and definitely not his to claim.
"I'm Stevie's Bucky, alright," he managed, forcing his voice light, teasing. Normal. Like his hindbrain wasn't screaming ours ours ours with increasing volume. "And you're Stevie's...?"
He let his gaze drift down, cataloguing because he couldn't help himself. The rain had turned that white shirt into something obscene, clinging to lean muscle, revealing shadows and hollows that Bucky wanted to map with his tongue. The way the kid's chest rose and fell too quick. The way his thighs pressed together like—
Slick. The kid was already—Christ, from looking? From Bucky's voice? The new wave of scent hit like a punch to the gut, and Bucky had to lock his knees to keep from stalking across the roof and finding out exactly how wet this stranger was getting for him.
"Tony. I'm Tony. Not—not Stevie's Tony, just... just Tony."
Tony. The name lodged itself behind Bucky's ribs like shrapnel. Tony who stuttered when he was flustered. Tony who smelled like he'd been created specifically to drive Bucky insane. Tony who was definitely too young for the thoughts currently racing through Bucky's mind.
"Nice t'meet ya, gorgeous."
The endearment slipped out without permission. Two years of practice with pretty Omegas, of knowing exactly what to say and when to say it, and his brain chose now to malfunction. But the way Tony's whole body reacted—spine arching slightly, scent spiking impossibly sweeter, cheeks flushing that perfect pink—
Yeah. He wasn't taking it back.
"Leave 'im alone, jerk," Steve sighed, but there was something else in his voice. Something sharp. “He's not one 'a your conquests. He's my friend."
The words stung more than they should have. One of his conquests.
Like Bucky was some kind of predator who collected Omegas for sport. Like he hadn't been perfectly content with uncomplicated Saturday night dances and the occasional necking session in dark corners. Like he'd ever felt anything close to this overwhelming need to—
"Just makin' an observation. A pretty obvious one at that." Keep it light. Keep it casual. Don't let Steve see how badly your hands are shaking.
"Don't be an idiot. Tony's not like that."
Not like what? Not like the Omegas who fluttered their lashes at Ruby's? Not like the ones who pressed close during slow songs and whispered suggestions in his ear?
No, Tony definitely wasn't like that. Tony was something else entirely. Something that made Bucky's teeth ache and his hindbrain howl.
"Um." Tony was struggling to his feet now, still fumbling with his shirt buttons, movements uncoordinated and graceless. He stood too fast, swayed like a newborn colt, and Bucky moved without thought.
Pure instinct. Hands finding those narrow hips, steadying him, and Christ almighty.
The contact was electric. Literal sparks under his palms where rain-soaked fabric clung to skin. Tony's fingers twisted in Bucky's shirt, clutching like a lifeline, and for one perfect moment they were pressed together. Tony's face against his chest. Tony's scent in his nose, concentrated and overwhelming. Tony's body fitting against his like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
This close, he could catalog everything. The flutter of Tony's pulse against his chest. The way his breathing hitched. The heat of him, fever-warm even through wet clothes. The barely audible whine that vibrated through Tony's throat when Bucky's thumbs pressed into his hipbones.
Mine, his hindbrain snarled. Ours. Keep him. Protect him. Claim—
"Hey, easy there," he managed, voice coming out rougher than intended. Like he'd been gargling gravel. Like he was barely holding himself back from doing something stupid.
"Sorry!" Tony gasped, pulling away, and letting go was physically painful. Actually painful, like tearing off skin. Bucky's hands burned where they'd touched him, nerve endings misfiring, sending wrong wrong wrong signals to his brain.
"Don't worry 'bout it. I've spent half my life keeping this kid on his own two feet." He gestured at Steve. Forcing himself not to reach out and pull Tony back against him where he belonged.
"Right," Tony said awkwardly, and there was something about the way he said it—young and uncertain and trying so hard to appear unaffected—that made Bucky's chest tight. "Well, I should... go. It's late and I—"
He didn't finish, but his scent did it for him. Arousal and embarrassment and something else, something lonely that made Bucky want to bundle him up and take him home.
"Of course, Tony," Steve said, voice soft in a way that made Bucky irrationally jealous. How many Thursdays had they spent up here together? What did they talk about? Did Steve make him laugh? "I'll walk you home. Buck, wait here. I'll be back soon."
"Where ya headed?" Bucky asked, ignoring Steve completely. He watched Tony slip on his shoes—one had been holding the door, the other abandoned across the roof—and tie his blazer around his waist. Hiding the evidence of his arousal, and wasn't that just precious.
Like Bucky couldn't smell it.
Like the whole neighborhood couldn't smell it.
"Brooklyn Institute for Omegas," Tony said, shy about it. Almost ashamed.
The Institute. Of course. Same place Becca went, with its high walls and strict curfews and rules about everything from hemlines to how many minutes an Omega could spend talking to an Alpha through the gates. Bucky hated that place. Hated what it did to his sister, turning her from a firecracker into someone who course-corrected to keep her eyes downcast and speak in careful, measured tones.
And now Tony was there. Tony with his sharp tongue and sharper scent, locked up behind those walls like—
"C'mon, Stevie. I told the McNamara twins we'd meet them at Ruby's. We can drop 'im off on the way."
Because he needed more time. Needed to understand what was happening to him. Needed to memorize every detail of Tony's face in case this was the only chance he got.
The walk to the Institute was twenty minutes of exquisite torture. Tony walked between them, stumbling occasionally on absolutely nothing, and every time Bucky's hand shot out to steady him. Just his elbow. Just his shoulder. Just enough contact to keep that sweet scent spiking, to feel the way Tony shivered at each touch.
Steve filled the silence with chatter about art class, about his week, deliberately excluding Bucky from whatever inside jokes he'd built with Tony over their Thursday meetings.
It should have bothered him more, but Bucky was too focused on not doing something stupid. Like pulling Tony into the nearest alley. Like pressing him against a wall and finding out what other sounds he could make. Like—
"This is me," Tony said suddenly, stopping in front of those familiar iron gates.
The school loomed behind them, all brick and shadows and windows that looked like eyes. Bucky knew this place. Had walked Becca here dozens of times, had argued with the house mother about visiting hours, had seen what it did to the Omegas locked inside. The way it tried to sand down their edges, make them palatable, presentable, proper.
Tony didn't look proper. Tony looked like trouble in an expensive blazer, like every rebellious thought Bucky had ever had, like—
"Thanks for walking me," Tony said, glancing between them. "You didn't have to."
"Course we did," Steve said gently. "What kind of gentlemen would we be otherwise?"
Tony's smile was small but real, and it transformed his whole face. Made him look even younger. Made Bucky want things he had no business wanting.
"The kind that show up on time to meet their dates?"
Dates. Right. The McNamara twins. Dancing.
Normal Thursday things that suddenly seemed about as appealing as a root canal.
"They'll wait," Bucky said, not looking away from Tony. "Or they won't. Plenty of dances in the sea."
"Fish," Tony corrected, and his scent did something complicated. Pleased and confused and still so much want it made Bucky's teeth ache. "Plenty of fish in the sea."
They stood there for a moment, the three of them, suspended in possibility. Steve kept shooting Bucky looks that clearly said stop it, Tony kept fidgeting with his sleeves, and Bucky kept breathing through his mouth and pretending it helped.
"I should go," Tony said finally. "Before—yeah. I should go."
Before curfew. Before the house mother came looking. Before Bucky did something stupid like ask when he'd see him again.
"Thursday?" Steve blurted out. "If you want. The roof, I mean. If you're not busy."
Tony's whole being lit up like Times Square. "Yeah?"
"Course. Bring that engineering book. Dissertation. Whatever."
"You actually want to hear about thermodynamic equilibrium?"
"Why not?" Steve shrugged, but Bucky could see how pleased he was. How proprietary. "Sounded interesting when you weren't insulting Howard Stark."
"I'm always insulting Howard Stark. It's a hobby. Keeps me grounded."
Bucky filed that away to examine later.
When he could think past the distracting fog of want Tony need Tony mine mine mine.
"Thursday, then," Tony said, and gave them both a little wave—awkward, so utterly endearing—before disappearing through the gates.
Bucky stood there staring after him until Steve's elbow connected with his ribs.
"Ow." Bucky rubbed the spot, affronted. "What was that for?"
"Your eyes were about to fall out of your head." Steve was already walking, that particular stride that meant he had Opinions. "Figured I'd help you keep 'em in their sockets."
"Very considerate of you." Bucky fell into step beside him, trying to shake off the feeling that something fundamental had just shifted in his world. Like tectonic plates grinding together, rearranging the landscape while he wasn't paying attention.
They made it about a block before Steve spoke again.
"So." The word hung in the air, loaded with meaning. "That was Tony."
"Was it?" Bucky kept his voice light, innocent. "I hadn't noticed."
"Uh-huh." Steve's sideways glance could've stripped paint. "S’that why you looked like someone hit you with a two-by-four? Not noticing?"
"I'm just tired, punk. Long day at the docks." Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets, casual as Sunday morning. "Your friend seems nice, though. Very... aromatic."
Steve actually stopped walking. "Aromatic? That's what you're going with?"
"What? He smells good. Like..." Bucky pretended to search for words. "Vanilla. Maybe some motor oil. Is that a new cologne they're selling at Macy's?"
"You're unbelievable." But Steve was fighting a smile now, the way he always did when Bucky played dumb. "Three weeks I've been meeting him up there. Three weeks of peace and quiet and actual conversation, and then you show up—"
"You've been holding out on me, Rogers." Bucky clutched his chest dramatically. "Secret rooftop rendezvous? What would your mother say?"
"She'd say you're deflecting." Steve started walking again. "And she'd be right."
"I'm not deflecting. I'm asking about your mysterious friend who smells like he bathes in vanilla and sin."
"What? I'm being descriptive. You're always saying I should appreciate art more."
Steve's laugh was reluctant. "He's not art, you ass. He's a person. A very young person who doesn't need you sniffing around him like—"
"Like what?" Bucky waggled his eyebrows. "A lovesick puppy?"
"I was gonna say tomcat, but sure, let's go with puppy. More accurate anyway, given how your tail was practically wagging."
"My tail was not—" Bucky stopped. Regrouped. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" Steve's voice went deceptively mild. "So you didn't practically tackle him when he stumbled?"
"He was falling. What was I supposed to do, let him brain himself on the pavement? You'd never forgive me."
"Looked like falling to me." Bucky examined a thread on his slacks with great interest. "I have excellent reflexes. Cat-like, some might say."
"Some might say you needed an excuse to get your hands on him."
"Some might say you're awfully protective of your rooftop friend." Bucky glanced at Steve, noting the slight flush on his cheeks. "Something you wanna tell me, Stevie?"
"Yeah." Steve met his gaze squarely. "Stay away from him."
The playful atmosphere cracked like ice under pressure. Bucky's smile faltered. "Steve—"
"I mean it." Steve's jaw was doing that thing where he was trying not to show how much something mattered. "He's—he's not like your usual dames, Buck. He's different."
"I noticed that, thanks." The words came out dryer than intended. "The part where he smells like lightning wasn't exactly subtle."
"Lightning?" Steve's eyebrows climbed. "I thought it was vanilla and sin."
"It's a complex bouquet."
"Buck." Steve stopped walking again, turning to face him properly. "I saw your face. Saw how you looked at him."
"And how's that?" Playing for time. Playing the part of Bucky Barnes who didn't get knocked sideways by pretty Omegas with sharp tongues.
"Like you wanted to eat him alive." Steve's laugh had no humor in it. "Christ, Buck, the pheromones coming off you both—I thought I was gonna need a gas mask."
"He just smells good, is all." Even to his own ears, it sounded pathetic. "Really, really good. Scientifically good, actually. Someone should study it."
"Right." Steve started walking again. "That's why you looked physically pained when he walked through those gates. Scientific interest."
"Could be." Bucky aimed for nonchalant, missed by miles. "Maybe I'm developing a sudden passion for chemistry."
"The only chemistry you're interested in is the kind that'll get you in trouble." Steve kicked at a loose stone. "He's seventeen, Buck."
Bucky’s expression must have done something complicated and horrified, because Steve sighed. “Eighteen next week. Not that it changes anything.”
“I mean, it does a little.”
“He’s a kid.”
"So are we, technically." Bucky aimed for casual, missed by a mile. "In the grand scheme of things."
"Exactly. Practically babies ourselves."
"What? I'm just saying, the math isn't as bad as it could be."
"That’s some pretty lenient math.”
"I know, alright? I know." Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face. "You think I don't know how this looks?"
"Do you?" Steve's voice went sharp. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my best friend went into some kind of Alpha trance at the first whiff of—"
"I did not go into a trance."
"You gripped that doorframe so hard you left splinters."
"The wood was already damaged."
"Your pupils dilated so much you looked possessed."
"You called him gorgeous within thirty seconds of meeting him."
"I call everyone gorgeous. I called Mrs. Kowalski gorgeous last week."
"Mrs. Kowalski is seventy-three and smells like cabbage."
"And she's gorgeous for her age."
Steve shook his head, but he was smiling again. That particular smile that meant he was exasperated but fond, the one Bucky had been earning since they were seven years old.
"You're impossible," Steve said.
"Unfortunately." Steve glanced at him sideways. "But seriously, Buck. He's... there's something about him. Something fragile under all that attitude."
"I noticed." And he had. That undercurrent of loneliness in Tony's scent, the way he'd clutched at Bucky like he was drowning. "No friends at school?"
"Not that he mentions. No roommate either." Steve's jaw tightened. "Doesn't talk about family much, but when Howard Stark comes up..."
"Could be. He’s got opinions. Strong ones. The kind that come from experience."
The protective instinct that reared up in Bucky's chest was violent enough to make him stumble.
"Easy there, caveman." Steve steadied him with a hand on his elbow. "Your Alpha's showing."
"Shut up." But Bucky took a breath, tried to tamp down the urge to find whoever had put that bitter note in Tony's voice and introduce them to his fists. "He really doesn't have anyone?"
"Just me. And now..." Steve trailed off meaningfully.
"And now me." The words came out before Bucky could stop them. Possessive. Certain.
"I know, alright?" Bucky ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I know he's too young. Too smart. Too everything. You think I don't know this is a bad idea?"
"I can't." Simple. Honest. Terrifying. "I physically can't, Steve. It's like—like gravity. Like my bones are magnetized and he's true north."
"That's the most romantic bullshit I've ever heard come out of your mouth."
"Shut up." But Bucky was smiling despite himself. "It's not romantic. It's... biological."
"Biological." Steve's voice was desert-dry. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"You got a better word for wanting to climb someone like a tree within five minutes of meeting them?"
"Steven Grant Rogers." Bucky pressed a scandalized hand to his chest. "Your mother raised you better than that."
"My mother also raised me to protect innocent Omegas from wolfish Alphas with pretty eyes and grabby hands."
"My hands are not grabby. They're... helpful. Steadying."
"Buck." Steve's voice went serious again. "You’ll ship out soon. Maybe next month, maybe next week. What happens to him then?"
The question hit like cold water. Deployment. The war. All the reasons this was spectacularly stupid.
"I don't know," Bucky admitted.
"Yeah." Steve's smile was sad now. "That's what I thought."
They made it to Ruby's eventually, the familiar neon glow doing nothing to lift the strange weight that had settled over the evening. The McNamara twins were there, holding court near the bar, but for once, Bucky couldn't summon his usual charm.
"There you are!" Dolores—definitely Dolores—attached herself to his arm. "We thought you'd forgotten about us."
"Never, doll." The endearment felt wrong in his mouth now. Too practiced. "Just got held up."
He bought drinks. Made conversation. Danced when asked. But his mind stayed five blocks away, wondering if Tony was in his room. If he was thinking about Thursday. If he was touching himself to the memory of Bucky's hands on his waist—
"You're distracted," Dolores said during a slow song, pressing closer.
"Long day at work," he lied.
She hummed, running a hand down his chest. Her scent was roses and powder, exactly what an Omega was supposed to smell like. Soft. Sweet. Uncomplicated.
"I can help with that," she offered. "If you want."
A week ago, he might have taken her up on it. Now the thought made his skin crawl.
"Rain check?" He stepped back, gentle but firm.
She pouted but moved on to other prospects. Bucky found Steve at their usual corner table, nursing a beer and sketching on a napkin.
"That was quick," Steve said without looking up.
"Since when are you not in the mood for a pretty dame throwing herself at you?"
"Since about an hour ago." Bucky slumped into the chair across from him. "Go ahead. Say it."
"Say what?" Steve's pencil scratched across the napkin, too harsh.
"Whatever lecture you've been composing in your head."
"No lecture." Steve finally looked up, and his expression was carefully neutral. Too neutral. "You're a grown man. You can make your own mistakes."
Bucky’s gut twisted. "Steve—"
"What do you want me to say, Buck?" Steve set down his pencil with deliberate care. "That it's fine? That I'm happy my best friend is sniffing around my seventeen-year-old friend like he's in heat?"
"I'm not—" Bucky stopped. Because he was. They both knew it.
"He's been hurt," Steve said quietly. "I don't know how or by who, but someone broke something in that kid. And now you're gonna—what? Add your name to the list?"
Bucky looked away, jaw flexing. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Steve went back to his sketch, violent strokes across the paper. "Tell me how this ends, Buck. Tell me the version where Tony doesn't get his heart broken when you ship out."
Bucky had no answer for that. They sat in uncomfortable silence while the music played and couples danced and the space between them felt wider than it had in years.
"For what it's worth," Steve said finally, not looking up, "I think he felt it too. Whatever it was."
"Yeah." Steve's smile was thin. "So congratulations. You've got chemistry with a kid who doesn't need any more chemistry in his life. He needs stability. Friends. Time to grow up without some Alpha breathing down his neck."
"Do you?" Steve stood abruptly, leaving his half-finished beer. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've already decided Thursday can't come fast enough."
He wasn't wrong. Bucky followed him out, the weight of Steve's disappointment heavier than any punch.
Walking home, the silence stretched between them like a chasm.
"So," Bucky said finally, because he was an idiot who couldn't leave well enough alone. "Thursday."
"Don't." Steve's voice was tired.
"Four o'clock. He shows up at four." Steve didn't look at him. "Do whatever you want with that information. You will anyway."
"Look, Buck." Steve stopped at their building entrance, finally meeting his eyes. He looks resigned. "You want my blessing? You're not getting it. You want me to pretend this is some grand romance and not you taking advantage of a lonely kid? Not happening."
"I wouldn't take advantage—"
"You already are." Steve's jaw ticked. "He looked at you like you hung the moon. You know what kind of power that gives you?"
The words stung because they held truth. "That's not who I am."
"No?" Steve's laugh was humorless. "Then stay away from him. Prove me wrong."
They climbed the stairs in silence. At his bedroom door, Steve paused.
"When this goes bad—and it will—I'm not choosing sides." Steve's voice was tired. "I'm telling you that now. He's my friend. You're my friend. When you hurt him, I'm not choosing."
"Yeah." Steve disappeared into his room. "We'll see."
Bucky stood in the hallway, Steve's words echoing in his ears. When, not if. Like it was already written. Already decided.
In his own room, he lay on his narrow bed and stared at the water-stained ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Tony. Sprawled on concrete. Lips parted. That devastating scent wrapping around him like a noose.
He'd met hundreds of Omegas. This wasn't special. This wasn't different. This was just biology screaming louder than usual. It would pass. It had to pass.
But even as he tried to convince himself, his traitorous mind was already counting: Thursday. Four days. Four o'clock.
Steve was right. He was already lost.
"Fuck," he said to the empty room.
Thursday couldn't come fast enough.
