PED RI CCIARDO 🙃

You had decided to play along with it. You didn't want to mess anything up. So, you thought pulling back was the best thing you could do. Maintaining a small distance, letting him leave when he wanted to, not choosing to pick at all the things that had been bothering you... but you just couldn't understand why he wouldn't communicate with you. This had never been a problem. You were in the healthiest relationship you had ever known. Yet every opportunity you gave him was shut down, saying he was fine.  

But it took one thing to break your silence.  

It was a Tuesday night after the very interesting Mexico GP. You were finishing dinner together as per usual. Max had been talking about the stream he had just done, laugh slowly coming to a stop when he realised you weren't responding as much. His hand reached over the table, resting on yours. "Hey, are you okay?" He asked.  

You blinked, looking up from your empty plate and at him. You took in the concerned expression over his face. It was strange. You hadn't seen it recently. The deep look in his eyes nor the small frown on his face. You painted a tight smile on your face and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Fine. You were saying?" 

He furrowed his brows at your response. "Schat, you've been like this all week. Sitting far away from me, smiling less... you were even at the back of the podium on Sunday. What's going on?" 

Your jaw clenched. You had done that. Standing at the back of the crowd in Mexico with his father because you had truly been at a loss. And with his father muttering some unkind words under his breath, you couldn't find the courage to go the front. But that wasn't the point. He had noticed. Just like you had. And he had waited a week to ask. A whole goddamn week. While you had been asking him what was wrong for weeks.  

You breathed out slowly, grabbing your plate, and standing up from the table. "Can we not do this right now? I just want to go to bed." 

Max watched you head towards the kitchen, standing up after you. "No. I want to talk about this. If something's wrong, I want to know so I can help," he exasperated, putting his plate into the sink before turning to you, hand resting on his hip. His brows were low as he tried to figure out what was going on.  

The laugh falling from your lips was sharp yet dry. "Oh, so now you want to talk?" You hummed. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" He retorted, baffled at your snarky tone. You never sounded like this. So... mean. It was unusual. Unsettling.  

You stared at him blankly. Max was smart. You knew that. He knew it. But God, he could be so dumb. And it made your blood boil. "What's that supposed to— I'm sorry, what do you call the past few weeks? All those hours on the simulator, training instead of resting and spending time with me or the pets. You have dinner, you go to bed, or you race. I mean God, you barely even look at me anymore!" 

Max blinked, taken aback by your confessions, mind instantly trying to decipher the memories you had brought up. The look on his face was as if you had attempted to hurl a knife into his heart because that's exactly where your words had landed. He hadn't realised he had been doing all of that. He had just gotten so caught up and he didn't want to bring you into this mess...  

"T-That's not true! It's just with the championship and everything—" 

You chuckled sorely, dull eyes staring back at him. "Ah yes... the championship. I never thought that would be the thing to drive a wedge between us," you sighed bitterly, shaking your head with disbelief.  

His championships had always been a source of happiness for the both of you. At least for the most part. It symbolised your celebration, his hard work and efforts, and your pride. It made all the difficulties through the year worth it. But you had gotten through it together. But this year... that wasn't the case.  

"A wedge?" He queried with incredulity. He swallowed, shaking his head frantically. "There's no wedge. You know how my father is. He's been pestering me about this since those points came to me. I... I don't want to let him down. You know how it is." 

You raised your hands in the air, looking at him puzzled. "How am I supposed to know that if you don't tell me?" You huffed, letting your hands fall to your side.  

"I thought you'd know!" 

You fell silent at his exclaim, watching a familiar flush of red take over his face. He was tired. You were tired. You chewed in the inside of your cheek before speaking. "I'm not a goddamn mind reader, Max," you hissed, swallowing at his small flinch when you mentioned his name. "This doesn't work if I'm the only one talking." 

Max's heart ached at your words. His brain buffered as you stepped away, inching towards the front door, grabbing the keys from the hook next to it. He furrowed his brows. "Where are you going?" 

"I need some air," you muttered. 

"No, come on, schat. Let's talk about this. We can fix this," Max exasperated, already walking over to you but you had already closed the door. His feet stood still, planted on the cold marble floors of his penthouse. He sighed, blinking away the small sting in his eyes. He turned to the feel of fur curling up against his leg, Jimmy and Sassy peering up at him like they knew. "She'll be back," he whispered, half trying to assure them and himself.  

You weren't sure where you were going. You just needed to be out of the house. Max was right. You could fix this. But you had to leave before you said something you'd regret. You weren't thinking straight. You couldn't when you were angry.  

The cold air of Monaco blowing past you attempted to calm you down as you walked through the streets, arms folded and tucked into one another, brain busy mulling over what had already been said between you and Max. 

To an extent, you understood Max. Jos... well he was Jos, surprise, surprise. Tough and happy to be cruel if it reaped its benefits. At the start of the year, a fifth championship was sort of out of the question. The car hadn't been great. Even with an encouraging win in Suzuka. But things had changed since then. The McLarens had fallen victim to the inevitable: fighting against one another. And with a garage that couldn't communicate with them, Max's name had suddenly entered the conversation. And his father was pressing him.  

You knew he had his differences with his father. That's why he was able to talk to you about him. Someone who hadn't grown up with that man and he could just vent or complain to—anything to just reduce the stress. But this time he hadn't. No, instead he had let it hurt your relationship. And that pained you the most.  

It had been a few weeks, but it was enough to miss Max even when he was right in front of you. It was like living with a stranger or an assigned roommate. Alive with the most minimal presence to show for his beating heart.  

Had you not asked enough? Should you have gone beyond his "I'm fine" and pushed him a little bit more? Maybe it had been your fault as well... for not trying hard enough. For giving him too much space.  

You sighed to yourself, shaking your head. Maybe you should just go and talk to him like he said. Perhaps this was enough air.  

About to turn on your feet, a sharp, echoing beep erupted into the air. Not a beep. A honk that set the hairs on your body straight up and the adrenaline spiking through the roof. You only caught a glimpse of the silver car, flashing by your eyes in an instance. And in seconds, you were on the floors of Monaco.  

Max's chest fell gently, relief pouring into him when he saw your name sprawl across the screen of his phone. You had been gone for almost an hour; the evening sky was darkening. The panic had been settling within him. But here he was, sliding right, already lightly smiling. He breathed out, rushing his words, "Schat, thank God, I'm so glad you called. I was getting worried—" 

"Is this Max?" 

He paused, brows furrowing at the unfamiliar voice on the phone. An odd flare in his chest began to gnaw away at him. "Yes? Who is this?"  

"Bonsoir Monsieur, I'm calling from the Princess Grace Hospital Centre. You were listed as Miss ___'s emergency contact." 

Max could feel his heart lurch in his chest, brain instantly stuttering as his fingers tightened around the phone. Even his pets inched towards him like they knew something was wrong. "W-What's going on? I-Is she okay?" He queried, arm already extending to grab his jacket while panic flooded into his voice.  

"She's fine," the stranger quickly reassured, though it did nothing to calm him. "She accidently came in contact with my car and has a few injuries." 

He breathed harshly, grabbing his own keys from the key hook. He swallowed thickly, swinging the door open as he muttered, "I'm on the way." 

Max's eyes darted rapidly around the various rooms and corridors, the bleak white daunting him with every movement he made. The lady at the front had said you were technically discharged which was absolutely ridiculous in his opinion. So, apparently, you were roaming around, injured to God knows what extent. Or as you'd probably like to say, "I'm just keeping you on your toes, Max." 

But he had found you, sitting down on a chair next to some other patients, casually watching the show they had put on like he hadn't been stressing out for the past fifteen minutes. He breathed slowly, blue eyes cautiously raking over your body. His heart clenched at the bandages. They were sporadic. On your arm, leg, hand, and a few thin strips on your cheek.  

You could feel those eyes lingering on you, capturing your attention away from the screen. A tight smile sprawled onto your face as you stood up from your chair, legs already automatically moving towards him despite the ever-present wince on your face. Christ, you had rolled your ankle real good.  

Max was already darting towards you, hand out to stabilise you against him before he curled his arm around your waist, keeping you close. He could see your eyes hesitant flicker to him, questioning and wondering. But he said nothing except for, "Let's go." 

The walk to the car was silent. Perhaps good for the both of you, giving you the time to think about what to say. You knew the quietness of Max was nothing compared to the simmering worry settled behind those eyes.  

He got you into the car first, gently tucking you in and putting your seatbelt on for you. His face was stern, not slipping just yet. Once he was satisfied, he was walking around the car, opening the door, taking a seat before he closed it shut—the echoes screaming in this thick silence.  

You chewed your lip while you rubbed your fingers together. You took your small glances at him, debating on whether to speak first. You wondered if he'd scold you first or not. To be honest, you couldn't tell. You often reprimanded him each time he crashed or spun out in the car. But only out of fear. Because the worry had been eating you alive. And you were sure that's exactly how he was feeling.  

So, you opted for the root of humour. "Hey, at least I'm not like dead," you murmured with a small shrug, teetering smile on your face.  

Max stilled, turning his head so slowly, you could see every micromovement; the furrow of brows, the disbelief in his eyes, and his parted lips. "That's so not even funny," he retorted firmly. He sighed, grabbing your arm gently, pads of his fingers lightly grazing over the bandages.  

"Max, I'm fine. Seriou—" 

"Shut up," he huffed, chest aching at the peeks of drying scabs underneath the white fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath, biting down on his lip. He flitted his eyes back to you. "I was so worried," he whispered, voice cracking. "With how you left. I told myself it was fine. You'd come back. And then you didn't." 

You blinked, feeling your eyes grow hot. You pressed your lips together, trying not to fully break down.  

"I thought.... I thought..." Max rasped, voice becoming raw by the second.  

"Stop. Just don't complete that sentence," you heaved, sniffling as you curled your fingers around his, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. You had been in his position before. Too many times, for your liking. With every crash or collision, your reaction never differed. You only seemed to breathe when you watched him come out of the car.  

Max stayed silent for a moment, breathing in deeply. He brought your hand to his lips, grazing your knuckles with his mouth as he thought about what to say. "I'm sorry," he said after some time, still quiet but firm. "I should've told you about my dad. You asked me and I shut you out. I didn't want to worry you—and that's not an excuse. But you're right. It's created a wedge. And I'm sorry." 

You smiled gently, feeling the small press of his lips against your knuckles. "I think I was just concerned because you aren't normally like this. You usually tell me everything," you laughed softly.  

"I know," he nodded, regretful frown on his face. "Just don't leave like that again, schat. Please. I don't ever want my last words to you to be 'We can fix this.' They should always be 'I love you,'" he pleaded.  

You swallowed thickly, nodding in return. "Promise," you whispered, reassuring him with a firm smile. You flickered your eyes at the dark sky, trying to think of a solution. "I just don't get why your dad is being like this. So... invasive." 

He raised a brow at you, gently resting your hand in his lap, thumb slowly rubbing circles into your skin. "You have met him, right?" He queried, making you roll your eyes. He heaved soon after. "I don't know. Things are just different this time, I guess," he shrugged. 

You hummed to yourself, narrowing your eyes as an idea came to mind. "Should I talk to him?" You suggested, turning back to him.  

Max gave you a pointed look. "Not that I'm against it... but are you sure you're up for that?" He chuckled.  

You grinned, "You know he loves me more than you right?" 

"Okay..." He pursed his lips, a smile still threatening to sprawl onto his face. "I feel like that's bit of a stretch. But since you're hurt, I'll let it go," he compromised.  

You gasped so hard that it had you instantly wincing, small scrapes on your cheeks stinging. "That's it! I could guilt trip him!" You exclaimed, eyes wide in a way that borderline made your boyfriend worry.  

"Did they give you any medication? Because I think you need them," Max muttered. 

"Max!" 

“Online dating,” Bucky muttered, stabbing a fork into the takeout container on his lap. “I tried it, but it was a disaster, Sam. You swipe left, you swipe right… I feel like I’m making decisions about people like I’m picking produce. It wasn’t like this in the ‘40s.”

Sam didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah, in the ‘40s all you had to do was show up and girls tripped over their own feet.”

Bucky glared. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Buck, please. Steve told me you were the original pretty boy of Brooklyn,” he laughed, scoffing with amusement. “Don’t rewrite history just because you’ve lost game.”

“People actually talked back then,” Bucky grunted, “We courted. It took time. Now it’s all emojis and ‘wyd.’ What the hell does that even mean?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It means: what are you doing.”

“I know what it means,” Bucky rolled his eyes.“I’m just saying…. It feels impersonal. And half the time we stop talking before we even get to dinner.”

“Maybe because you open conversations like you’re writing your memoir,” Sam said. “You sent that one girl five paragraphs on your favorite plums.”

“They were good plums.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but it seemed like the universe would cut him off.

Knock knock knock.

Both men jumped. Then came the voice.

“James!” Mrs. Carmichael, the old lady who lived next to him, shouted through the door. “Turn that infernal game down! Some of us are trying to sleep before our arthritis medication kicks in!”

Bucky looked at the clock. 

It was like, 6 p.m. And it wasn’t even that loud.

Bucky groaned and got up, dragging himself to the door. He cracked it open just enough to see the elderly woman in her robe and slippers, her scowl carved so deep, he wondered how long it had been since it was permanently etched into her mouth.

“Sorry, Mrs. Carmichael,” Bucky said. “Sam’s really into the—”

“I don’t care if Sam is into it. Turn it down!” she huffed, wagging a finger. 

Bucky sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

She eyed him another moment, then shuffled back toward her apartment muttering about “handsome men with no manners.” Bucky shut the door.

Sam burst out laughing. “She still lives next door? Oh man, I remember when she tried to get you evicted for using your vacuum cleaner.”

“She’s gonna live there till she dies. And that’s assuming that she can die.” Bucky hopped on the couch and went back to sulking. 

Sam watched him for a moment, eyebrows furrowing. He knew his friend had always been grumpy in the 21st century… but he can’t remember the last time Bucky even tried to date. That effort must’ve counted for something. Right? 

“You know… I might know someone,” Sam started. “Someone who’s not into emojis. She’s sweet. Real sweet.”

Bucky stiffened. “Are you setting me up on a date?”

Sam shrugged. “If you want. I think you’d like her. More importantly, I think she’d actually like you.”

Bucky scoffed, staring at the floor. “I doubt it. I’m… a lot.”

“C’mon, man.” Sam leaned forward. “She’s the kind of person who could brighten a dungeon. You’re the dungeon. She’ll balance you out.”

Bucky cracked the smallest smile. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam patted, grinning. “Trust me. She’s gonna adore you.”

Bucky wasn’t so sure.

—

Bucky spent the entire subway ride rehearsing how not to sound like an idiot.

Sam’s voice echoed in his head: She’s easy to talk to. Just don’t scowl like you’re interrogating her.

He tried to relax his face. It felt wrong, almost unnatural. Apparently, according to Joaquin, he had a ‘resting bitch face,” whatever that meant.

The café Sam set you up on was cosy, warm, and smelled like cinnamon. Bucky stepped inside and immediately spotted you at a booth by the window: bright smile, sunny sweater, waving at him like he was an old friend instead of a stranger.

His stomach did something embarrassing.

“You must be Bucky!” you said, standing up and offering your hand like you genuinely couldn’t wait to meet him.

He shook it. “That’s me.”

You laughed softly. “Sam showed me your picture. He didn’t show you mine, did he?”

“I—I didn’t ask.” (He absolutely should have asked. He would’ve stress-panicked less if he knew you were this gorgeous. Or maybe he would’ve panicked more. Who knows?)

You sat back down, folding your hands in front of you. “Sam talks about you all the time. He said you two were watching football and yelling at the TV when your neighbor threatened to evict you?”

Bucky groaned. “He told you that?”

“We go to the same gym,” you said with a little shrug. “He shares a lot during cooldown stretches.”

“Yeah, he shares too much in general,” Bucky said, and managed to pull out a genuine chuckle this time.

You laughed again, like you thought he was charming instead of off-putting. Bucky didn’t know what to do with that.

The waitress came by, and you placed your order with cheerful confidence. Bucky panicked and just echoed whatever you picked.

You talked after that. About little things, stories from work, a funny moment at the gym, how Sam always stretches like he’s performing for an invisible audience. And Bucky… listened. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because for once, listening didn’t feel like a chore. It felt as natural as breathing.

Every time he did speak, even if it was just a small “mmm” or a hesitant answer, your eyes warmed like something important had come out of his mouth. 

It had been a long time since someone looked at him with interest, without fear or pity. 

Your hands wrapped around your coffee cup as your laughter spilled quietly into the air. Your ankle brushed his by accident and he went still, not out of fear, but because a hopeful part of him had opened its eyes. 

He liked how you made the world feel lighter.

He liked the way you filled silences with warmth, not noise.

He liked… you. Immediately. More than he’d expected or prepared for.

When it was time to go, you slipped into your coat, still smiling (always smiling) and Bucky realized he didn’t want the moment to end. Not the cinnamon-scented room, not your sweet voice, not the warmth in his chest he’d thought he wasn’t capable of anymore.

“I had a really, really good time,” you said, meeting his eyes sincerely. “If you ever wanted to do this again… I definitely would.”

And Bucky felt his heart flutter under his ribs.

“Yeah,” he managed. “I’d like that.”

You gave him one last bright smile and your number before stepping out into the crisp evening, the bell on the café door chiming behind you like a promise.

Bucky stood there a long moment before pulling out his phone to text Sam:

She’s… nice.

Sam replied instantly.

Nice?? That’s it?? Did you at least smile???

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

He just looked out the window at the spot you’d disappeared around the corner and let his mouth, slowly, tug upwards. 

Eventually, he typed back:

Yeah. I smiled.

—

Date two was Bucky’s idea.

He texted you a simple “Coffee? Same place?” and immediately regretted the lack of emojis, punctuation, of anything. But you showed up with the same bright smile anyway, excited just to see him.

This one felt easier.

You talked about your week, your favorite silly shows, Sam’s terrible gym playlists. Bucky found himself watching your hands when you talked, the way they moved gently through the air like you were painting your words.

He told you a little more about himself this time. Nothing heavy, just small glimpses, like jazz records he liked, a diner he missed, and that he never understood why people thought biscotti was edible (he always got crumbs stuck in his teeth. You, on the other hand, didn’t mind it.)

You laughed, and Bucky realised he didn’t mind being teased by you. Not at all.

When you said goodbye, you touched his metal arm lightly.

He felt the warmth for hours.

—

After a whole week of texting and adorably calling in the middle of the night, you pulled the trigger on the third date. 

You took him out on an evening walk, warm air, ice cream dripping down your fingers as you both wandered down a quiet street.

Bucky walked close enough that your shoulders brushed sometimes. Close enough that he noticed how you smelled sweet, like clean laundry and just as comforting.

You talked less tonight. It wasn’t awkward, just… peaceful. You pointed out pretty windows, he made small comments, and every silence felt like a blanket, not a void.

When the walk ended at your corner, you stood together, streetlights glowing above you.

“I had fun,” you said, voice smaller than usual.

“Me too,” he answered, and it came out lower than he meant.

You stepped closer. He froze, not out of fear, but because he didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to misread, didn’t want to ruin the warmth that had grown between you.

But you just tipped your face up and whispered, “Bucky?”

“Mhm?”

“Can I?”

He barely got out a nod before your lips met his. You kissed him like you knew he needed slow, not fast; soft, not deep.

His heart did a wild backflip behind his ribs.

When you pulled back, he was still half-leaning toward you, like gravity was confused.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you whispered.

—

Bucky didn’t go home right away after you kissed him goodnight.

He needed… a minute. Maybe more than a minute. His heart was still beating too fast, his lips still tingling, and his head felt strangely clear and warm at the same time. Like you had cracked open a window in a room he didn’t know was stuffy.

He ended up walking a few blocks before pulling out his phone.

Sam was usually up late, but Bucky hesitated anyway. He typed, deleted, typed again.

You awake?

Sam responded within ten seconds.

Yep. Did you ruin it?

Bucky rolled his eyes at the screen, but the smile tugging at his mouth wouldn’t go away.

He typed back.

No. I… actually wanted to say thanks.

Another quick reply.

???

Bucky exhaled slowly. Then he called him.

Sam picked up on the first ring. “What’s up?”

Bucky stopped under a streetlight, staring at the pavement like he could make sense of the last two hours by studying it. “Just had the third date.”

“Oh, that’s what this was about,” Sam sounded way too proud of himself. “How did it go?”

“It was good.” He swallowed. “I haven’t…Sam, I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

Sam went very quiet. 

Bucky continued. “She’s… kind. She smiles at me like—like I’m someone worth smiling at.”

“Buck,” Sam chuckled, something like relief threading through his voice.

“There was a moment,” Bucky said softly. “We were walking. And she just… slipped her hand into mine. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And for a second, I forgot to be nervous.”

“Oh damn,” Sam whispered. “You’re in deep.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I think I might be.”

He leaned back against a closed shop door, watching the city glow. His chest felt full, and it was a new feeling. A good one.

“Thank you,” Bucky said. “For setting us up. For thinking she’d… like me.”

Sam snorted. “You’re like a sad puppy with muscles. Girls eat that up.”

“Sam.”

“Fine, fine.” Sam paused. “But seriously—,you gonna see her again?”

Bucky didn’t have to think. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“Atta boy.”

—

Date four was dinner on a Thursday night. You both sat closely in a dim corner booth, your knee pressed against his the entire time.

You told him more about yourself. Dreams, fears, silly stories. Bucky listened like each word mattered. And sometimes, he reached out, just lightly, brushing your fingers, your wrist, like he was memorizing the texture of your presence.

When he walked you home, you held his hand and came in for a hug.

He didn’t even register how much he was touching you until you turned your face into his neck and whispered, “Bucky?”

He hummed.

“You can kiss me.”

So he did.

One kiss became two. Two became a handful. Your fingers curled into his shirt.

Before you knew it, you pulled him into your apartment. There, he found a couch and he pulled you gently into his lap, mouth brushing yours.

His heart pounded under your palms, not out of fear, but out of want. He whispered your name against your lips and sighed. 

At one point you pulled back just enough to look at him, “You feel so good.”

It sent a shiver straight through him.

He kissed you again, laying you down on the couch, guiding you gently beneath him, one of his knees braced by your hip. He didn’t rush. He didn’t even seem to think about anything except the sounds of your gasps, your fingers curling in his shirt.

You tugged him closer, and Bucky let out the smaller, rasped sound right against your lips—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Bucky froze.

You froze.

A very familiar voice shouted through the door.

“Hey, you home? I gotta talk to you bout somethin’” He paused, listening for a response. “Why is it so quiet? You dead in there? Did Bucky kill you?”

Sam.

It was Sam. Knocking on your door in the most unfortunate of moments. 

You buried your forehead to Bucky’s shoulder as you tried not to laugh. Bucky’s hands stayed on your waist, gentle, protective, and mortified all the same.

“Don’t—” he whispered urgently, “don’t make a sound.”

But you were shaking with laughter anyway.

Sam knocked again. “Uh… if you’re not answering, I’ll just wait out here—”

You scrambled out from under him so fast it would’ve been funny if he weren’t panicking.

The moment you cracked it open, Sam barged in like an overprotective sitcom parent.

He pointed at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at you.

“Good. You’re alive.”

You blinked. “I… what?”

“I came to check you weren’t breaking my boy’s heart.” Sam waved a dramatic arm at Bucky. “Because if you hurt him, gym buddy or not, I’ll make your next leg day a personal hell.”

You rolled your eyes and chuckled. “Sam!”

Bucky buried his face in both hands. “Get out.”

Sam ignored him entirely. “I mean it. He told me how much he liked you the other day and if you don’t like him back—”

“Sam,” you interrupted, cheeks burning, “I like him. A lot.”

Sam looked between you two… finally really saw the flushed faces, the messy hair, the way Bucky refused to make eye contact because he was trying not to die of embarrassment.

“Well,” Sam clapped his hands together. “Glad we cleared that up. Now I can go, unless…”

He glanced at the table, where you have a jar of sweets.

“…you got snacks?”

Bucky closed his eyes in despair.

You, of course, too nice for your own good, beamed. “Come in.”

“No,” Bucky muttered under his breath, horrified.

But Sam was already stepping into your living room.

“Smells like cookies,” he said, before looking at the messy cushions on the couch and the super-soldier size dent that was left in it. “You two were definitely making out.”

“Samuel,” Bucky growled.

You patted Bucky’s arm. “It’s okay. It’s kinda cute.”

“See, Buck?” Sam snorted. “She thinks you’re cute. She thinks you’re cute. Wow. Never thought I’d see the day.”

You and Bucky ended up on one side of the couch while Sam plopped himself in the armchair like a self-appointed cockblocker.

The makeout session was now officially over. And you were too sweet to say no to hanging out with a mutual friend. 

But you still leaned your head on Bucky’s shoulder. And Bucky slipped his hand into yours.

Even with Sam loudly narrating the movie (“Girl, don’t go in there, the killer is ALWAYS in the basement!”), Bucky felt grounded and stupidly, unbelievably happy, with his girl on one side and his best friend on the other.

Later that night, when Sam finally left, you turned to Bucky with a smile.

“It’s very late, and I got work in the morning, but you can come back tomorrow,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheek, “this time, I promise I won’t let Sam in.”

—

When tomorrow came, you didn’t even bother pretending it was anything but continuing what Sam had interrupted. 

When Bucky walked through your door, your smile was mischievous, eyes glinting like you knew exactly what the two of you were going to do.

“Hey,” you greeted, stepping close enough that your hip brushed his. The touch was deliberate, teasing, enough to make him tense and melt at the same time. “Come on in.”

He kicked off his shoes, aware of the way you were watching him, the way your gaze lingered on his lips, the curve of his necklace, the muscles under his shirt. His own hands itched to touch you, but he waited, because you wanted this. You were daring him, and he could feel the pulse in his chest quicken at the thought.

You guided him toward the couch, your fingers grazing his hand as you settled close. Just brushing him was enough to make him take a deep breath. His body was already on fire from your proximity and the tension between you that had been building since yesterday.

When your lips finally met his, it was urgent and hungry, but careful. His hands moved to your waist, gripping gently, pulling you closer, tilting your hips just so, pressing you into him with a controlled force. Your lips parted beneath his, sighing against him, and he groaned low in his chest, feeling the coil that ran down your spine.

“You feel so amazing,” he murmured against your mouth, lips trailing down your jaw, brushing against your neck. His teeth caught your collarbone in a teasing nibble, and you gripped his shoulders for balance.

You tugged at his shirt, breathless. “Bucky… I want you.”

He froze for a moment, eyes darkening, chest rising and falling. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Every kiss, every touch, was deliberate, teasing, filled with heat and care. He slid his hands under your shirt slowly, savoring the feel of your skin, watching your reactions, every moan driving him further. You did the same, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him down.

At some point, your clothes began to come off and he carried you to your bed. His hands traced your curves while exploring, making you sigh against him. You whispered against his lips, little words that made him groan and press closer.

“Bucky… please,” you gasped, breathless, sliding your hand along his chest.

“Shh,” he whispered back, “just let me take care of you.”

And you did. You let him take the lead, let him guide, let him touch and tease in ways that made your knees weak and your heart race. 

You gasped and grabbed his back, pulling him closer, pressing your body against his in every way possible without words.

An hour passed in a haze of warmth, kisses, and touches. Every time you paused to look at each other, the world outside vanished. Bucky’s hands, both vibranium and flesh, mapped you, memorizing your body without ever rushing. Your hands did the same, threading through his hair, across his shoulders, down his back, feeling every inch of him, claiming him just as he claimed you.

Finally, when you both rode out your high, you curled into his chest, tangled together in a blanket. Your thumb brushed against his cheek, and you whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed after sex.” You chuckled, kissing his nose. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled against your hair, brushing his lips over your temple. “Yeah?” he said, chest full, voice thick. “What do you usually feel?”

You winked playfully, “You’ll see… if you take me out again, soldier.”

He chuckled, pulling you impossibly close, heart swelling with a feeling he hadn’t felt in decades.

“Oh… I will.”

—

Bucky absolutely took you out again.

He would’ve taken you out the very next day if he hadn’t been dragged off on a two-week mission with Sam and Joquin. And the entire time he was gone, he had one plan waiting for him the moment he got back: invite you over to his place for the first time, cook dinner, maybe cuddle on the couch, kiss you breathless, and, if he was lucky, fall asleep with you in his arms again.

What he didn’t plan for was… whatever the hell tonight turned into.

Your first official sleepover at his apartment started perfectly normal.

He cooked. You teased him about how seriously he took seasoning. He tried (and failed) to not stare at you like you were the prettiest little thing that ever walked into his kitchen.

Then you two curled up on the couch to watch a rom-com with way too many sparkles. Halfway through, you leaned over and kissed him, soft at first… then deeper… then longer. 

Eventually, you kissed him long enough that the movie became irrelevant and breathing became optional.

And then…

Well.

Everything escalated so fast he didn’t remember where the ground went.

One minute you were straddling his lap, his hands on your hips, your mouth hot against his. The next, he was being guided, no, maneuvered— back toward his bedroom, his thoughts crashing, his self-control slipping, and you whispered dirty nothing in his ears like, “aw, Buck… you get so obedient when you’re worked up.”

And at one point he actually had the clarity to think my sweet sunshine… Was this filthy?

Because you were so bubbly in the daylight, warm in conversation, golden when you smiled, and yet here you were pushing him onto his own mattress like he weighed nothing, kissing him like you were claiming territory, looking down at him with this wicked glint that should’ve been illegal.

He genuinely wondered if he should be embarrassed by how fast he let you take over.

Or how he didn’t even protest when you slid his hands up over his head.

Or how quickly he nodded when you reached into your bag, casually, like you were grabbing lip balm, and pulled out a pair of pink, fuzzy metal handcuffs.

“Why do you have those anyway?” he’d asked, dazed.

“Just felt like it,” you said with a shrug. And he swore the universe shifted.

He’d never been that man before.

The kind who wanted to be pinned, teased, ordered, and handled in bed.

But with you?

He was helplessly, shamelessly that man. He would be any man you wanted.

And oh, you took advantage of that on the best way

You wrecked him, rewired him, and made him want to give it.

Without going into much detail, the headboard might consider legal action. The poor mattress probably shifted into another dimension. And Bucky discovered an entire list of kinks he had absolutely zero idea he possessed.

By the time you were done, you were draped across his chest, both of you trembling and completely undone. Your limbs tangled with his like you’d melted into him. His wrists were free now, but faint red marks lingered on his human one as an evidence of trust, surrender, and the fact that he definitely did not want you to stop. He knew he could easily break free, but fuck— he didn’t want to. 

His hands settled on your waist, grounding himself through you as his chest rose and fell under your cheek.

“Holy hell…” he rasped, voice shredded. “Sweetheart, what was that?”

You laughed weakly into his neck. “Fun?”

“That was…” He shook his head, trying, and failing, to catch a full breath. “I didn’t even know I liked half that stuff.”

“You do now,” you giggled, lips brushing his stubble with a smug smile.

His groan was almost a confession.

You kissed him again, softer now, pulling him down from the high. His fingers traced lazy, soothing shapes on your back.

After a long, blissed-out silence, you pushed yourself up on shaky elbows. “I need to shower before everything gets… sticky.”

“It’s already sticky,” he mumbled, hooking an arm around your waist like he could will you back onto him. “C’mon, sweets. Stay with me a minute.”

You swatted his metal arm away. “Behave.”

“After what you just did?” His eyebrow arched. “Absolutely not.”

You kissed his chin, grabbed the towel waiting on the chair, and wrapped it around yourself before wobbling toward the bathroom.

“You sure you can walk?” he teased.

“Barely,” you shot back. “That’s your fault.”

“Best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

You closed the door before he could continue being insufferably pleased with himself. The shower turned on, steam curling out from the edges, and your quiet humming drifted through the running water.

Bucky fell back into the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

His wrists tingled. His mind spun with flashes of you, your hands, your voice, your wicked smile.

So that’s what you meant…

He dragged a hand over his face, then let it fall again, smiling like an idiot. He could feel you even with the door shut.

He could smell you on his sheets, on his skin, in the air he breathed.

I’m a lucky man, he thought. So unbelievably lucky—

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“I know you’re in there!”

Bucky shot upright like he’d been hit with a stun grenade.

For a second, and just a second, he truly believed the universe had taken personal offense to how thoroughly you’d ruined him. As if fate itself had peeked into his bedroom, seen the bite marks and heart the things you whispered in his ear that rewrote his entire understanding of himself, and gone Absolutely not. Consequences time.

The knocking thundered again.

He launched himself off the mattress, only then realizing the room looked like a hurricane of love and passion had wreaked havoc through it.

There was a tank top dangling off the lampshade like a surrender flag, your bra clinging to the bedpost for dear life, and the sheets halfway down the mattress.

And, dear god, the handcuffs were sitting perfectly centered on the pillow, catching the light like holy relics.

The voice shrilled through the door again, “Barnes! Don’t make me call the police again!"

Bucky froze in a pose reminiscent of a startled deer halfway into sweatpants. “Again? Oh, just kill me now,” he whispered to no one, wrestling his legs into the pants like they were trying to escape.

He managed to yank them up (inside out, backwards, incorrect in every conceivable way), grabbed the nearest shirt (inside out as well), and attempted to flatten his hair (no luck on that either).

His metal arm gleamed and the skin around it was marked. His neck… well. You’d left plenty of love letters there in the form of dark kisses and very illegal-looking scratches.

Phenomenal for his ego.

Horrific for dealing with his neighbor, Mrs. Carmichael.

Two years he’d lived next to that woman. Two long, traumatic, hyper-vigilant years.

She was, without exaggeration, the undisputed heavyweight champion of unnecessary noise complaints. The woman had called the police on Bucky last summer because he played “Bring It On Home to Me” at a volume that could be accurately described as “normal human.” She once accused him of running “illegal industrial machinery” at 10 a.m., which was just him making a protein smoothie. She left notes under his door if he so much as coughed after 9 p.m. And she had threatened to contact the landlord the one time he dropped a plastic bottle on the floor.

She also had—Bucky had seen it with his own eyes—a laminated, color-coded folder titled:  Building Violations.

So tonight, with how loud both you and Bucky have been? 

Oh, tonight would be her Superbowl.

“Okay,” Bucky whispered to himself as he staggered toward the door. “You survived seventy years of brainwashing. You can survive… an angry cat lady.”

KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK—

“No I can’t,” he whimpered.

He swung the door open before she could pound a hole through it.

There she stood, in her pink robes and slippers shaped like furious cats, holding a binder labeled Noise Ordinance Laws – PERSONAL COPY clutched like a holy scripture. (Bucky knew he didn’t violate it. It was only 9.30 PM. Quiet hours in New York start from like, what, 10PM?)

Her eyes traveled from his face, down his neck, over the suspicious red marks, to the shirt that was definitely inside out, and then lower, to where his sweatpants sat incorrectly on his hips like a toddler dressed himself.

She sniffed.

“Well,” she announced. “I see you’ve been… active.”

Bucky sighed. “Mrs. Carmichael, I really don’t—”

She raised the binder like an executioner’s axe.

“Do you know,” she barked, “that the walls in this building are six inches thick? SIX! That is not my fault! That is YOUR responsibility!”

Bucky blinked, mortified.

She charged on.

“The noises coming from your unit tonight were outrageous. Absolutely obscene. Groaning, thumping, banging, the headboard knocking like a cat was stuck in a dryer.”

Bucky choked. “That is NOT— I mean—no one was— there’s no—”

“And the language!” She clutched her chest. “I’ve never heard filth like that in my life! And I was married to Richard Carmichael for forty years!”

Bucky wanted to melt into the floor.

Halfway through his attempt at a defense, you got out of the bathroom and made your way into the living room wearing nothing but a towel.

Oh no, Bucky thought, gotta protect you from Mrs. Carmichael.

But you were clueless, still glowing from the shower, smelling like warm vanilla and sin, water dripping down your collarbones as if you were walking out of a movie scene.

Bucky could feel his soul leave his body.

“Buck?” you asked gently, sweetly, “Everything okay?”

Mrs. Carmichael looked at you so quickly it was a miracle she didn’t injure herself.

“Well I— I— I was just—” Bucky started, but of course the building dragon interrupted him. 

“Everything is not okay young lady—“ she started, but you just smiled sweetly, interrupting her in return.

“Oh!” you beamed. “Your robe is adorable. I love the color on you!”

Mrs. Carmichael actually stopped and blinked.

Her entire posture relaxed like someone had unplugged her battery. “T-thank you?”

You stepped closer with that gentle, disarming sweetness that could make a demon repent. “I don’t think we’ve met properly yet.”

“Martha,” Mrs Carmichael said, voice suddenly meek.

“Well, Martha,” you said, tone honey-smooth, “why don’t you come inside? I was just about to make some tea.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “Sweets—she literally tried to have me evicted—last month—”

You patted his cheek lovingly.

“Honey,” you murmured. “Go shower.”

He blinked at you, dazed, almost bewildered.

You guided Mrs. Carmichael— his mortal enemy, as far as he was concerned— inside. Martha fussed with her robe, suddenly shy.

“Well…” she said. “If you insist… I do enjoy a good chamomile.”

You looked over your shoulder and winked. “I got this.”

Bucky backed into the bedroom like a man fleeing a battlefield, closing the door behind him before resting his forehead against it and groaning into his hands.

—

Bucky took one of the fastest showers of his entire existence.

Partially because he was still overheated, skin buzzing with the afterglow. Partially because he was terrified of leaving you alone with her.

The woman who once accused him of “walking too aggressively for a man of his size.” 

He shut off the water and just stood there dripping, towel in hand, bracing both palms against the wall like he was preparing to charge into battle.

“Okay,” he pep-talked himself. “They’re probably done talking. She probably drank her tea, yelled about  me again, threatened to call the cops, and left. Right. Right.”

He dried off, threw on actual clothes this time, not inside-out panic-wear, and dragged his fingers through his wet hair. 

Barefoot, heart thudding, he padded down the hallway.

As he reached the living room…

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Because sitting on the couch—on his couch—was Mrs. Martha Carmichael, pink robe draped like a queen’s mantle, angry-cat slippers still on her feet, holding a delicate teacup in one hand, offering her other hand to you as you, still just in a towel, sat cross-legged on the coffee table in front of her, painting her nails a glossy, shade of cherry red.

You were laughing.

She was giggling.

Giggling.

The woman who once threatened to report him to the FAA because she heard a “jet-engine-like noise” from his apartment at 4 a.m. (he had snored).

Bucky rubbed his eyes, fully convinced he was hallucinating from dehydration or post-orgasm brain fog.

“—and then,” Martha was saying in a tone far too lively, “he had the audacity to tell me I was the reason he couldn’t finish! Can you believe that? The nerve!”

You gasped like she was confessing to a federal crime. “Oh my god. I can't believe  he blamed you for his incompetence.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Martha slapped her knee. “Forty years, and the man couldn’t find—well, we don’t need to get into that, but let’s just say Richard was a walking, talking disappointment.”

You hummed sympathetically, rotating her hand to finish the coat. “Trust me, I get it. I got lucky with Bucky, I mean he could rattle my insides like a sailor on leave— but my ex? He was useless. Genuinely didn’t have a clue—”

“HEY,” Bucky barked before either of you could talk about something far more embarrassing.

You looked up with wide eyes.

“Oh! James! There you are.” Martha lit up like a Christmas tree. “We were just discussing men with poor… aim,” she added as if this was a normal Tuesday.

Bucky made the sound of a man dying inside.

You winked at him, as if you hadn’t just implied to his enemy neighbor that he rearranged your organs.

He pointed helplessly between the two of you. “You’re… still here?”

Martha lifted her newly painted nails to the light, admiring your work. “Yes, dear. We were bonding.”

“Bonding,” Bucky repeated slowly, like the word was foreign.

You flashed him a pleased smile that nearly put him on his knees.“She’s a sweetheart once you talk to her.”

Martha actually blushed. “Oh, stop.”

“No, really,” you continued, “you have fantastic taste in robes. Which means we’re kindred spirits.”

“Oh, you’re such a lovely girl.” Martha preened like a bird. “And your skin! My goodness, do you moisturize, exfoliate, what do you use? I’ve been trying everything but nothing makes me glow like that.”

Bucky stared in awe.

You had healed the neighborhood menace.You had actually domesticated the building’s final boss.

A few minutes later, after you’d finished her nails and given her your skincare routine (soap, really), Martha stood.

“Well,” she said, smoothing her robe, “I should get going. I don’t want to intrude.”

She leaned toward you, “But you must stop by for brunch sometime. Anytime. I make wonderful blueberry scones.”

“I would love that.” Your eyes lit up. “But only if you let me bring more colors.”

“Deal,” Martha agreed immediately.

Then, as the miracle to end all miracles, she turned to Bucky and smiled.

“You take good care of her, James,” she said with a wag of her freshly painted finger. “Or I’ll file a noise complaint.”

“Wait—what did I—why—?!” Bucky sputtered.

“Just kidding.” She chuckled. “Mostly.”

She left peacefully, the first time she had ever left his apartment without threatening legal action.

The door closed behind her with a click.

Bucky stared at the door for a good minute before he turned to you.

You sat there, legs swinging lightly off the coffee table, absolutely glowing. “We’re best friends now.”

Bucky tilted his head “How did you do that ? I was in the shower for ten minutes and she wanted me evicted. You talk to her for ten minutes and suddenly she’s telling you about her dead husband’s… performance issues!”

You blinked up at him innocently as you wrapped your arms around him and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “She just needed a girl’s girl.”

His brain short-circuited. 

God, the way you were looking at him now… so gentle and so in love without even saying it—

It hit him like a truck.

I’m gonna marry her.

He hid his face in your neck, arms locking around your waist like.

You giggled again, rubbing his back. “What’s going on in that pretty head, Barnes?”

“Nothing,” he lied, breathless.

You kissed the crown of his head, completely unaware of the way he was in awe of the woman you are, caring and kind to him, a sunshine to everyone else around you, yet so damn filthy when you needed to be. 

But he knew.

Oh, he knew.

I’m gonna marry this girl, he thought again, helpless and certain.

And Bucky Barnes had never been so sure of anything in his life.

-end.

Request Guidelines

His left arm throbbed faintly, as if it sensed where he was. He wasn’t in pain anymore, but ingrained in him was a deep, dull awareness that his mind never let him forget. He rotated his shoulder, flexed his fingers, tested the grip that had once defined him. The scars were small now, barely visible beneath the compression sleeve, but he felt every pin they put in his bones, every screw, every hour he’d spent staring at a ceiling wondering if his future had ended in a single hit.

It all happened during sophomore year.

He had been untouchable in the field. He had the full package— fast reads, clean throws, highlight reels running on loop. He was the best quarterback in the state. He had pro scouts lining up for him on the sidelines and draft boards with his name circled in red.

And then… During the final game of the season, an opponent tackled him in a blindside block.

He still remembered the sound before he fell to the grass, and it sounded awfully like a loud crack! His body had twisted instinctively to protect the ball, and his left arm had taken all the force. He remembered looking down and knowing before the trainers even reached him that something was off. His arm had bent the way arms were supposed to bend.

When they first took him to the doctors, they’d say it was a clean fracture. Then came the scans. Then came the surgery to put pieces of metal into his arm. 

Junior year disappeared into physical therapy rooms and ice baths, into slow, humiliating exercises that made his hands shake. While he watched his teammates play under the lights, Bucky was stuck learning how to lift five pounds again.  His name slowly started disappearing from mock drafts and scouting reports. The NFL Draft came and went without him even in the room. It was just a quiet night, phone face-down, pretending he didn’t care. 

Now it was senior year. His last chance.

“Damn,” Sam Wilson’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Miracles really do happen.”

Bucky looked up to see Sam jogging over, helmet tucked under his arm, grin wide and unrepentant as per usual. “Thought you retired from this whole college football shit,” Sam continued. “Start a podcast in your dorm room or something.”

Bucky scoffed. “Funny. I missed you too.”

Steve Rogers followed close behind. His eyes went straight to Bucky’s left arm like they always did since the injury,  scanning for something wrong. Steve didn’t say anything at first. He just helped him up and pulled Bucky into a hug. “You good?” 

Bucky nodded. “Doctors cleared me.” He rotated his arm like proof. “Pins are staying, but they’re not a problem.”

Steve studied him anyway. “And the arm?”

Bucky shrugged. “It works.”

Steve hesitated, before walking down to the field as a trio. “You don’t have to rush.”

Bucky almost laughed. Rush. Like that was even an option anymore. Before he could answer, a harsh whistle cut across the field.

“Welcome back, Barnes!” Coach Fury’s voice carried easily. “Helmet on. QB reps. Now.”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He jammed the helmet over his head, jogged toward the huddle like he was afraid someone might change their mind.

The ball hit his hands on the first snap, and his heart slammed against his ribs. This… this was what he’d missed.

Drop back. Three steps. Eyes up.nHis vision narrowed, tunneled as defensive shapes blurred into threats.  His dropback was smooth as muscle memory kicked in like it never left. His eyes flicked across the field, reading coverage.

The pocket was holding, but his chest tightened anyway. He didn’t wait for the route to fully develop. He couldn’t. He released early. The ball sailed wide.

“Incomplete,” Fury barked. “Again.”

Bucky reset, breathing hard. His fingers tightened around the laces until they almost hurt. He could make this throw. He’d made it a thousand times before.

Second snap. The pocket held, but Bucky didn’t trust it. His mind screamed now now now, a countdown he couldn’t shut off. He stepped up early, forcing the ball into a window that hadn’t opened yet.

And… of course. Sam intercepted.

A groan rolled through the offense.

Bucky grinded his teeth. His chest felt tight, like the air was running out faster than it should. Every rep felt urgent, desperate, like if he didn’t prove himself immediately, the field would swallow him whole again.

“Slow down,” Sam reassured as he passed. “It’s just a mock game.”

Just a mock game. Bucky paced behind the line, hands on his hips, heartbeat roaring in his ears. He could almost see it: the year he’d lost, the draft stage he never stepped onto, the scouts who’d stopped calling.

He snapped the ball again. It was another rushed read.  Then another forced throw.  Another mistake. Finally, Fury’s whistle stopped his train of thoughts 

Coach Fury stood in front of him, arms crossed, one eyebrow lifted. He didn’t yell. 

“You’re not in a cast anymore, Barnes,” Fury said. “Stop playing like you don’t trust what you’ve got.”

Bucky stared at the turf.

“You missed a year,” Fury continued. “That happens. But trying to get it all back in one practice?” Fury shook his head, just slightly as disappointment flickered across his face before he masked it. “Quarterbacks don’t rush time. They let the play come to them.”

Bucky clenched his fists. “I’m just trying to—”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Fury cut in. “And it’s not working.”

Silence settled over the field.

“Hydrate,” Fury finally said. “We’ll talk later.”

As the team dispersed, Steve approached slowly. “You don’t have to do everything today.

Bucky looked back at the field, the place that had taken everything and was asking him to be patient in return.

“But I missed a year,” Bucky said quietly. “I missed my year.”

—

Over the next couple of weeks, it was clear that training did not heal him. It turned him brittle.

Bucky Barnes began every morning before the sun crested the bleachers. The stadium lights buzzed awake with him, casting pale halos over empty seats and damp turf. His cleats hit the ground hard, like he was trying to wake the field up, like he needed it to remember him.

He told himself repetition would fix it. That muscle memory would overwrite fear. That speed would drown out doubt. That if he moved fast enough, thought fast enough, threw hard enough, he could erase the year he lost. So he ran drills like time was collapsing behind him.

Drop back. Fire. Reset.

Again. Again. Again.

“Barnes, hydrate,” Thor Odinson called one morning as he launched another ball downfield, arm already trembling with fatigue.

“In a minute,” Bucky muttered, already lining up for the next snap.

Soon enough, minutes stacked into hours as sweat soaked through his pads until they clung uncomfortably to his skin. 

When he was done, he sat hunched forward with elbows on his knees and jaw clenched as he watched a replay of his mistakes on the screen. There it was: pocket holding, receivers mid-break, time stretching out in front of him like an open road. And there he was, ruining it.

He was always releasing too early. Always stepping up when he didn’t need to. Always forcing throws into coverage that hadn’t settled yet.

“Pause it,” Fury said during one of the film sessions. 

“You see that?” Fury pointed at the frozen frame. “Right there. Two more beats and you have a clean completion.”

Bucky nodded, swallowing hard.

On the field, patience felt like standing still while a disaster gathered speed. Every snap reminded him of an echo of his injury. And he was so fucking scared that if he waited too long, something, or someone, would take it all away again.

So he had no time for patience.

During seven-on-seven drills, his internal clock ticked louder than the play count. His heart raced before the snap even landed. He scanned defenses too quickly, his eyes skipping over details in favor of speed.

Throw. Incomplete. Throw. Nearly intercepted. Throw. Overthrown.

“Barnes,” a lineman, Clint Barton, snapped after one particularly bad rep. “You gotta trust us.”

Trust?

Trust meant giving time permission to pass. And time had already stolen enough.

So he always stayed after practice. 

When the field emptied and the sky darkened, Bucky lined up cones and ran imaginary pockets, his breath fogging in the cooling air. He snapped phantom balls, dropped back, counted steps aloud. “One, two,three…”

He never made it to five.

His arm snapped forward on instinct, releasing into nothing. The motion was angry, like he was throwing the past away one rep at a time.

His left arm screamed by the end of the night. Not injury, just strain and overuse. The trainers warned him.

“You’re cleared,” one of them said carefully, wrapping ice around his forearm. “But that doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”

Bucky stared at the wall. “I don’t have time to be careful.”

That phrase followed him everywhere. He muttered it under his breath during conditioning runs, lungs burning as he pushed past the whistle. He thought it during scrimmages when Fury pulled him early. He felt it in his bones when he watched other quarterbacks take reps that used to be his.

Time did not wait. Time did not care that he’d broken his arm chasing a win. Time had marched on while he sat in rehab rooms learning how to grip a football again, watching junior-year highlights that no longer included him.

Now senior year was moving fast. And Bucky was sprinting just to keep up.

During full-team practices, his impatience infected everything. He mistimed routes. The receivers became frustrated with him. The offense felt rushed, like a song played half a beat too early.

“Buck, slow it down!” Sam shouted during one drill.

Bucky shook his head, breath coming hard. “I saw it.”

“You didn’t wait for it,” Sam sighed.

But how could he, when waiting felt like losing? Because what if waiting meant watching someone else take his spot? What if patience was just another word for too late?

The closer they got to the season opener, the worse it became.

Bucky barely slept. When he did, his dreams were endless dropbacks with no receivers open, clocks ticking louder and louder until the sound drowned everything out.

Every drill turned into a race. Every snap felt like a ticking clock only he could hear. He didn’t wait for routes to settle, didn’t trust protection schemes, didn’t let plays breathe. The ball left his hand  too early, again and again. When it worked, it looked electric. When it didn’t, it looked reckless.

Coach Fury noticed everything.

“Barnes,” he called during one red-zone drill, voice clipped. “You had time.”

Bucky nodded. Next rep, he told himself. I’ll fix it next rep.

He didn’t.

—

Game day didn’t feel real.

It was the season opener. Bucky forgot what it was like until the lights came on and the stadium filled and the air turned electric with sound. Empire State University’s field roared to life in waves. Music pounded through speakers, the marching band warming up, the crowd swelling with red and gold until the stands looked like they might burst.

Bucky Barnes stood on the sideline in full gear, but felt completely detached from it.

His helmet was already on, chin strap tight, visor reflecting the chaos in front of him. He bounced on the balls of his feet, rolled his shoulders, flexed his left hand over and over like he could shake the nerves out of it.

First game of senior year. He’d told himself all week that he was ready. That the brutal and rushed practices had prepared him. That once the ball was in his hands, everything would snap back into place the way it used to.

He just needed the opportunity to prove it.

Steve stood nearby, eyes scanning the field. Sam leaned against the bench, tension obvious even beneath the jokes he usually wore like armor.

“You good?” Sam asked, bumping Bucky lightly with his shoulder.

Bucky nodded immediately. “Yeah.”

The captains jogged out for the coin toss. The crowd cheered, anticipation thick as fog. Bucky craned his neck toward the huddle forming near midfield.

That was when he heard it announced: “Starting quarterback. Number twelve.”

Not his number. He was number 10.

What?

Bucky froze like he had cold water dumped on his spine. He stared as the other quarterback, Helmut Zemo, ran onto the field to deafening applause.  He waited for Fury to correct it, to wave him forward, to say just kidding.

But… nothing happened.

Sam swore quietly under his breath. Steve didn’t look at him right away.

He was… Benched?

The word echoed in Bucky’s head. He took a step forward before stopping himself.

Just the first drive, he told himself. They’ll rotate me in. They have to.

The kickoff sailed through the air. The game began without him. And from the sideline, everything felt wrong.

The field looked smaller. The timing felt off. Every play felt like it lasted too long, like Zemo hesitated where Bucky wouldn’t have, or waited where Bucky thought he could do better.

“Come on,” Bucky whispered under his breath as the offense stalled on third down. “You had him.”

The punt team jogged out. Bucky paced.

I could do this, his mind screamed. I should be on the field. 

Fury stood with his arms crossed. Not once did he glance Bucky’s way.

By the second quarter, the crowd’s energy shifted. The opposing team adjusted fast. Their defense closed windows quicker, disguised coverages better. Bucky leaned forward, hands on his knees, breath coming shallow. Every mistake on the field felt personal. Every sack felt like a wasted chance.

“Coach,” he started once, stepping toward Fury.

Fury didn’t look at him. “Sit tight, Barnes.”

Halftime came and went. The locker room buzzed with forced optimism and frustration. Bucky ran a hand through his hair and stared at his reflection in the metal locker door.

He looked ready. He felt ready.

Fury didn’t give a shit, though.

The second half was worse.

A missed read turned into a turnover. The crowd groaned. Bucky’s leg bounced uncontrollably as he watched the offense jog back to the sideline, heads down.

“I can fix this,” he said under his breath. “I know I can.”

Steve finally turned to him. “Buck—”

“I’m not saying Zemo’s bad,” Bucky snapped, then immediately regretted it. “I’m just… this is my field.”

The fourth quarter arrived with the score uncomfortably close. Hope flickered, then died with a dropped pass on third down. The opposing team capitalized, draining the clock. Bucky watched seconds bleed away on the scoreboard, each one feeling heavier than the last.

When the final whistle blew, the stadium fell into stunned silence before erupting into disappointed murmurs.

They’d lost.  And the loss settled into his bones.

The only thing he could think was: I could’ve done better.

—

The locker room afterward smelled like sweat. Players moved mechanically. No one met anyone else’s eyes.

Bucky didn’t sit. He paced.

Every step wound him tighter, every replay running unchecked in his head. By the time he spotted Fury in his office, he marched straight toward him and closed the door. 

“Coach,” Bucky said, voice carrying farther than he meant it to.

Fury turned. “Not now—”

“We would’ve won if you’d put me in,” Bucky said. “You saw the coverage. I could’ve—”

“That’s enough,” Fury interrupted, but Bucky just had to finish his train of thought. 

“But we lost!” Bucky said, words tumbling out faster than he could filter them. “You saw how they adjusted in the second half. They disguised the blitz late. I’ve studied that defense. I could’ve waited them out.”

“Ha!” Fury howled out, humourless. “You think that?”

“I’ve done it before,” Bucky shot back. “I’m not saying Zemo was bad. I’m saying I could’ve done better.”

Fury’s jaw tightened. “That’s not usually how you talk.”

Bucky faltered for half a second. 

“You’ve never been arrogant,” Fury continued, stepping closer. “Confident? Yes. Focused? Always. But this?” He gestured sharply between them. “This has never been you, Barnes”

“I’m not arrogant.” Bucky clenched his fists, throwing it down to his desk. “I’m just… desperate.”

Fury let a deep breath out through his nose. “Desperation makes bad quarterbacks.”

The words landed like a slap.

“I know you missed a fuckin’ year,” Fury said. “I watched you break your arm on that field. I called the fuckin’ med team on. I watched you sit through junior year in the motherfuckin’ bleachers. But that doesn’t give you the right to ignore everything I’m trying to teach you!”

Bucky’s throat burned. “The scouts—”

“The scouts care about decision-making,” Fury interrupted. “And yours is reckless.”

Bucky stepped forward. “I’m still the best option.”

“That,” Fury said sharply, “is arrogance.”

Bucky, for once, didn’t know what to say to that.

“You’re not better because you rush,” Fury said, staring him down. “You’re forcing throws because you’re afraid if you wait, you’ll lose the moment.”

Bucky swallowed hard, anger and shame twisting together in his chest. “So what,” he said hoarsely. “You’re just gonna keep me benched?”

Fury didn’t answer right away. He studied Bucky like he was measuring something invisible. “You need to learn patience,” Fury said finally.

Bucky scoffed, and it sounded bitter. “I don’t have time for some philosophical lesson.”

Fury’s mouth twitched into a humorless smile. “Then you better make fuckin’ time.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “For what?”

“Tomorrow evening,” Fury said. “You’re going to find Coach de Fontaine.”

Bucky blinked. “…Who?”

“She’s in charge of the fencing team.”

What?

“Fencing?” Bucky repeated. “You’re kidding.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

Bucky shook his head, disbelief creeping into his voice. “You want me to watch fencing? Coach, with all due respect, that has nothing to do with football. This is… this is just… a distraction!”

Fury’s eyes hardened. “You think everything that doesn’t look like a drill is a waste of time.”

Bucky stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to get drafted. I can’t afford—“

Fury interrupted as he leaned in. “If I hear from de Fontaine that you’re not there tomorrow,” he said quietly, “you’re benched for the rest of the season. Do you hear me?”

No. No no no. 

Bucky stared at him, chest heaving. He wanted to shout at him and accuse him of derailing his dreams. But what choice did he have? 

So fine. Fucking fine. 

If this was what it takes to get on the field again?

“Yes, sir.”

—

The fencing hall sat tucked behind the older athletic complex, half-hidden by ivy and stone like something the rest of campus forgot on purpose.  But the moment Bucky pushed through the glass doors, he realised that this place was definitely not forgotten. 

It smelled like metal and resin and static. It wasn’t nearly as sweat-heavy like the football facility, not loud or chaotic. This place hummed instead. Polished floors reflected the overhead lights in long white lines, and the piste strips cut across the room in neat, disciplined rows like boundaries that demanded respect.

“Fun,” a woman’s voice said brightly from somewhere to his left. “Another brute Fury wants us to take in.”

Bucky turned  to see Coach Valentina Allegra de Fontaine standing with a clipboard tucked under one arm, espresso cup in the other, dressed like she belonged in a fashion editorial rather than a gym. Her dark hair was immaculate, lips painted red. She looked him over once like she was assessing a piece of furniture she hadn’t ordered. “At least it’s not another linebacker,” she added, sipping her coffee.

“I’m a quarterback,” Bucky muttered automatically.

Val waved a hand. “Congratulations.”

Bucky opened his mouth, then shut it again. Today was apparently a listening day. Besides, if he learned anything from yesterday, it was that arguing with coaches would dig him a little deeper into his own grave.

She pivoted on her heel and started walking without checking if he followed. “Come on, Barnes. You’re blocking the door..”

Annoyance prickled under his skin, but Bucky followed anyway.

The further in they went, the more obvious it became that this wasn’t some side-hobby program. The ceiling soared higher than he expected, lined with steel beams and skylights. Banners hung along the walls with conference titles, regional championships, and national placements. The racks were immaculate, mesh masks aligned perfectly, blades catalogued and hung with care. Apparently, ESU took fencing seriously.

Val stopped near the central piste and finally turned to face him. “Look, pal,” she said, setting her clipboard down. “I have a team to run, national rankings to maintain, and very little patience for football boys who think this is some cute side quest.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

“So,” she continued smoothly, cutting him off, “I’m not teaching you, so I’m outsourcing.” She gestured with her coffee cup toward the far end of the room. “I’m putting you in with the captain of the fencing team. She’s going to teach you the basics.”

Bucky followed her gesture, to you.

You stood on the piste, already in partial gear, jacket zipped halfway, glove on one hand, blade resting lightly at your side. Your mesh mask obscured your face, but he could see your posture was relaxed but coiled, like a cat that knew exactly how fast it could move if it decided to. Across from you was Stephen Strange with his mask off, hair damp with sweat, breathing just a little too hard.

“What does this have to do with patience?” he asked, the words leaving his mouth louder than intended.

Val smiled, but not kindly. “That’s cute,” she said. “Just watch.”

Watch?

Bucky didn’t even have time to process that before Val clapped once. “Reset positions,” she called.

Stephen slid his mask back on, shaking out his shoulders. You rolled your neck once, moving a couple steps back.

The buzzer sounded.

And for a single heartbeat, nothing happened. Just one second.

Then… you lunged. It was violent in its precision.

Your front foot shot forward, heel barely kissing the piste before your knee bent, back leg straightening as your arm extended in perfect alignment. The blade flashed silver under the lights, tip snapping straight toward Strange’s chest before he could even finish initiating his own attack.

Touch.

The scoring box lit up. It was over.

Strange froze mid-motion, shoulders sagging. He lifted his mask, blinking like he’d been yanked back into reality.

You stepped back immediately, resetting without drama, then reached out and offered him your hand. “Footwork, Strange,” you said calmly. “You hesitated.”

He chuckled, taking your hand anyway. “Yeah, I know,” he admitted. “I’ll get the better of you one day.”

“One day,” you agreed, already turning away.

When you lifted your mask, Bucky felt like the floor shifted under him. And suddenly the fencing hall felt very, very small.

He knew that face. Your face.

Your eyes flicked over, catching on him standing there stupidly beside Val, letterman jacket still on, his face probably halfway to slack-jawed.

Your brows knit together slightly.

“Is that…” you trailed off, squinting. “…Bucky?”

His name hit him like a punch.

“You’re the captain of the fencing team?” He blurted out. 

You stared at him for half a second longer as realization dawned, and settled. “Oh my god,” you said. “It is quarterback Barnes.”

Val looked between the two of you, interest sparking immediately. “Ah. History,” she said. “This just got better.”

You pulled your mask fully off, tucking it under your arm. Up close, nothing about you had changed in the ways he expected. You’ve always had the same posture, the same confidence. You had the same mouth that curved into a smile that had once driven him absolutely fucking insane. 

And of course, Val was right. You kinda knew each other. See, you and Steve had been inseparable in Freshman year, both art majors, always lugging around sketchbooks and tablets. You and Steve had shared an elective with Bucky, Multimedia Theory, in the first semester of Sophomore year. Bucky had only survived that class because you’d taken pity on him when he started falling behind and started (informally) torturing him.

You, who was always so focused. Always so damn serious when you worked, like the rest of the world faded away. You, who sat across from him in the library, tapping your pen against his notebook, patient to a fault while he tried to pretend he wasn’t distracted by the way you smiled when a topic finally clicked for him. And Bucky… liked you. 

And when Bucky liked someone, he flirted.

He pulled out every trick in the book, from grins, to leaning too close, to compliments tossed out like soft passes.

But you’d brushed it off every single time. You were too focused, too laser-locked on the work. Steve had told him it was because you had tunnel vision in the best possible way. So yeah, you basically ignored his attempts, and it had annoyed the fuck out of him.

In fact, it had annoyed him enough that he’d rushed back to his dorm more than once after a study session, shower running too hot, hands braced against tile as he finished himself off thinking about the way your eyes lit up when you smiled, the sound of your laugh when Steve said something stupid.

So yeah, he was annoyed you didn’t flirt back. Or maybe he’d just been horny as hell.

Everything had blown up midway through sophomore year, right around when he’d started getting messages from scouts and his life felt like it was accelerating in all directions. Because around that time, you’d started dating John Walker, defender on the ice hockey team. Built like a brick wall with an ego to match.

Bucky hadn’t even understood why it pissed him off so much. He just knew that suddenly everything you did irritated him. He just knew he couldn’t stand looking at you after that. The way you laughed with Walker. The way you stopped sitting with Bucky during study sessions. And every time he saw you around Steve, laughing, telling him that you couldn’t hang out later because John had a game and you just had to be there to support him, Bucky’s heart dropped.

So he’d resorted to being an ass.

To you, it seemed like he started hating you for no reason. To him, it was jealousy, plain and simple.

And now you were standing here, blade in hand, a living reminder that waiting never worked. Because if he hadn’t waited to ask you out… you would be his. Not Walker’s.

Val clapped once, sharply. “Wonderful reunion. Truly touching. Barnes, you’re up.”

Bucky looked between you and the gear. “I don’t fence.”

She leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to feel targeted. “You think patience means waiting around doing nothing. She, ” Val gave a nod toward you, “knows better.”

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat. “Foil or épée, coach?” you asked, turning to Val.

“Captain’s choice,” Val said, already walking away. “Suit up, Barnes.”

—

The jacket itched.

That was the first thing Bucky noticed once he’d suited up. It felt different from pads— no weight pulling at his shoulders, no familiar pressure cinched tight across his chest. He just felt stiff fabric hugging his torso, snug and strange, the collar brushing his throat every time he swallowed.

You noticed immediately. “Relax your shoulders.”

The first thing you made him do, before anything that looks even remotely like action, is stand still. “Feet together,” you said.

Bucky, star quarterback, senior, NFL-almost-was-maybe-will-be, stared at you like you’ve just insulted him. “…That’s it?” he asked.

You didn’t look at him yet. You were checking the fit of his fencing jacket, tugging the fabric flat over his shoulders, making sure it sat right over his left arm. “That’s it,” you repeated. “For now.”

He shook his head, just the slightest. You could practically hear his thoughts. I could be doing drills. I could be throwing. I could be proving myself.

Instead, he was standing on a narrow strip of metal in borrowed fencing gear, holding a foil like it’s a foreign object.

Bucky exhaled through his nose and forced himself to loosen up. The foil felt too light in his hand, almost wrong. He kept adjusting his grip, fingers flexing like he expected resistance that never came.

“When do we actually fence?” he asked, impatience leaking through despite himself.

You stopped in front of him. “We don’t fence immediately, Buck,” you said. “What, you just wanna get it over with?”

His jaw tightened. “I just—”

“I know,” you interrupted, not unkindly. “Football brain. Reps. Impact. Immediate feedback.” You reached out and gently tapped the guard of his foil, pushing it down a fraction. “This isn’t that.”

You pushed him back, positioned him at the start of the piste. “Rule number one,” you said, “this isn’t about power.”

Bucky snorted before he could stop himself.

You shot him a look. “I mean it,” you continued. “Foil rewards control. And timing. You don’t muscle your way through a bout.”

You stepped in close, close enough that he could smell the faint citrus of your shampoo, feel the air shift as you moved. “En garde.”

He blinked. “What?”

You demonstrated, dropping into position. Knees bent, feet angled just so with your foil lifted, tip steady.

“Like this,” you said. “Front foot pointed forward. Back foot perpendicular. Weight balanced. You should feel like you could move in any direction without thinking.”

Bucky mimicked you. Badly. He widened his stance too much, knees stiff, shoulders squared like he was lining up under center.

“Okay,” you sighed. “Stop.”

You stepped around him, hands hovering near his hips without touching, then hesitating, glancing up at his face. “Is it okay if I adjust you?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

You placed your hands lightly on his waist and shifted him a few inches, narrowing his stance. Your fingers brushed the edge of his jacket, careful, impersonal. “Bend your knees,” you said. “Not like you’re bracing for a hit. Like you’re ready to move.”

You tapped the back of his leg with the tip of your shoe. “This foot anchors you. This one moves.”

He tried again. It was better.

“Good,” you murmured. “Now grip.”

You reached for his hand, gently repositioning his fingers on the foil. “Thumb flat. Don’t choke it. You’re not strangling the blade.”

“Feels flimsy,” he muttered.

“That’s the point.” You paused. Then, when you saw him tapping his feet in agitation, you added gently, “you gotta be patient, Bucky.”

His left eye twitched. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Then everyone’s right.”

He huffed a quiet, humorless laugh but didn't argue.

You spent the next twenty minutes on nothing but stance.

Eventually, you stepped back. “Advance.”

He took a step forward. It was too big, his weight crashing down.

“No,” you said immediately. “More controlled.”

This time he hesitated, overthinking it. You watched him closely, from the way he seemed to grind his teeth to the way his eyes flicked down to his feet, then up again, like he was done waiting. “Barnes,” you said softly. “Stop rushing.”

He stiffened. “I’m not—”

“You are,” you said, not accusing, just factual. “You’re trying to get to the end without letting yourself enjoy the journey.”

He didn’t answer.

You demonstrated again: Advance, retreat, advance.

“Footwork first,” you said. “Always. Blade comes second.”

You tried this basic combo for another ten minutes.  Another ten agonizing minutes of the most basic fucking thing.  And because this was Bucky you’re talking to, at one point, frustration bled through.

“This feels like doing nothing,” he whispered, but it was just loud enough for you to hear.

You tilted your head. “Does it?”

He looked at you, almost in disbelief.

“You’re sweating,” you pointed out. “Your legs are shaking. And you’re thinking so hard it’s exhausting you.”

He glanced down, surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed all the work at all.

“Doing nothing,” you continued, “is actually very hard for you.”

He went quiet after that.

Eventually, you called a break.

He slumped onto the bench like his legs had finally remembered gravity, pulling his glove off with his teeth. “This is harder than it looks.”

You handed him a towel. “It’s supposed to be.”

He took it, wiping sweat from his face, then… hesitated. “You… were really good,” he said, almost awkwardly. “Earlier. With Strange.”

You shrugged “Years of practice.”

He studied you for a moment, then blurted out, “I didn’t know you fenced.”

Ah. There it is.

“Yeah,” You leaned back against the wall, arms crossing loosely. “I know.”

He frowned. “You never mentioned it.”

“You never asked.”

That… was something he never thought about. Maybe he had liked you. Maybe he had wanted you. But maybe… he hadn’t had the patience to really get to know you.

Silence stretched for a good minute or two. 

Then, quieter, you said, “I never really knew why we stopped talking.”

His eyes flicked up.

“I asked Steve,” you continued. “He wouldn’t tell me.” You gave him a small, almost embarrassed smile. “I figured you just outgrew me.”

Bucky’s throat worked, swallowing harder than he meant to. “That’s not—” He stopped, then started again. “I didn’t… It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it?” you asked gently.

He stared at the floor, not really knowing how to explain it without sounding like an asshole. Because what was he supposed to say? You got a boyfriend so you didn’t interest me anymore? Definitely not. Then you’d know him for sure that he was a horrible person. 

And to be fair, that wasn’t true. But he couldn’t exactly say he was jealous either. What would he be jealous of? He didn’t really know you, not the way that you deserved to be known. If he did, he would’ve at least known you fenced.

What other excuse was there? Oh I thought you were hot. And pretty. And I developed a pretty big crush despite only knowing surface level things about you, and I never bothered to take the time to talk about your interests because I’m shallow and impatient. And then, I got irrationally mad when you started dating other people.

Nope. 

So instead, he gave you a half-truth. “Football happened,” he said, “scouts and everything. And then… the injury.”

Of course you knew about the injury. Everyone on campus knew about the star quarterback’s injury.  You were quiet for a moment. Then, gently, you said, “You could’ve just told me.”

Bucky didn’t answer that. 

You studied him, and you didn’t see arrogance. Not even ego. Instead, you saw a person who has spent the last year running from nothing and finally ran straight into it.

“Okay,” You pushed off the wall. “Break’s over.”

He blinked. “Already?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “Because if I give you too long to think, you’ll spiral.”

He snorted despite himself as you guided him back onto the piste.

“Same forms,” you said. “Slower this time.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. “Okay,” he said.

And at the end of the day, when you were done, you started gathering equipment, gesturing for him to do the same.

“Come back Wednesday,” you said. “Same time.”

—

The next couple of months did something strange to Bucky Barnes.

They didn’t fix him. They didn’t magically put him back under center. They didn’t make Coach Fury suddenly clap him on the shoulder and say, That’s my guy. But they slowed him down in a way nothing else had managed to.

And if he was being honest? It kinda pissed him off. 

Still, every other day after class, he showed up at the fencing hall with the same restless energy coiled tight in his chest, the same irritation humming under his skin. He had the same barely restrained urge to do something the second his feet touched the piste.  And every other day, you met him there.

—

“This sport is a contradiction,” he said during the third week, pacing at the edge of the piste with his mask dangling from his hand. “It looks fast. It is fast. But everyone keeps telling me patience is the whole thing?”

You adjusted your glove without looking at him. “Patience is the part you’re missing.”

He scoffed. “I don’t see how waiting helps when someone’s blade is already halfway to your chest.”

You finally looked up then. “And yet,” you said in mild amusement, “you keep getting hit.”

That shut him up momentarily.

You reset him again: Feet aligned. Knees soft. Spine tall. Blade lifted, but not tense.

“You’re gripping too hard,” you told him one afternoon, gently nudging his fingers loose from the foil. “You’re white-knuckling it.”

“Feels wrong not to,” he muttered.

Your hand lingered for half a second longer than strictly necessary before you stepped back, though not enough to be inappropriate. Just enough that he noticed. He always did.

He always noticed the way you moved through the space like you belonged there. The way your voice never rushed even when his pulse heartbeat hammered loud enough he swore you could hear it. The way you corrected him without making him feel stupid, even when he was being stupid.And the way his chest still did that stupid, traitorous flip whenever you smiled at him like you used to, like you were pleased he’d figured something out.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a  residual crush. 

But sometimes, when you stepped close to adjust his stance or tapped his blade aside with a quick flick of your wrist, he caught himself thinking that if things had gone differently, if he hadn’t been such an idiot sophomore year, maybe this would’ve been normal. Maybe you would’ve been someone he talked to instead of someone he avoided.

—

The illusion that fencing was quick never really went away. The team around you moved like quicksilver, from bursts of motion, to sudden lunges and blades flashing under the lights. Scoring boxes lit up and went dark again before Bucky could even process what he’d seen. And yet you never let him chase that speed.

Instead, you broke everything down. 

“You’re not allowed to attack today,” you told him one session, handing him the foil.

He stared at you. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

You stepped onto the piste opposite him, mask already in place. “Defend. Learn to exist in the space without panicking.”

He let out a deep breath. “That’s not—”

“—comfortable for you?” you finished. “Exactly.”

The drill was agony.

You advanced just enough to threaten. Retreated just enough to tease. You feinted attacks you never finished. Each time he twitched, each time his weight shifted forward too early, you tapped him lightly on the shoulder or chest.

Red light. Again. Again. Again.

“Stop anticipating,” you said through the mesh of your mask. “Start watching.”

“Watching what?” he snapped.

“Me,” you replied simply.

Some days, you didn’t even let him pick up a blade. You just made him watch, lining him up at the side of the piste during team drills and told him to observe.

“Why did she win that exchange?” you asked once, nodding toward a foil bout between Wanda and Pietro Maximoff that had ended in a clean point.

Bucky shrugged. “She was faster.”

“Pietro was definitely faster,” You corrected. “But Wanda was calmer.”

He frowned, eyes narrowing as he watched the replay in his head.

Still, you taught him how foil rewarded intention, how an attack only counted if it was clear, committed, and timed correctly. How rushing an action only made it sloppier.

He struggled most with the lunge.

His body wanted to explode forward, overextend, overcommit. You stopped him every time, almost worried. “Don’t chase the touch,” you said. “Invite it.”

“Invite it?” he said one evening. “This isn’t a fucking dinner party.”

You smiled faintly. “No. It’s a conversation.”

You made him practice half-lunges. Delayed lunges. Lunges where he had to wait for your hand to twitch before he could move. His legs burned. His patience wore thin.

But something else started to happen, quietly, beneath his frustration.

He stopped flinching.

At first, every movement, your blade lifting, your foot shifting, triggered him. He reacted too early, too fast, like a countdown he couldn’t silence.

Then, he began to wait for that extra second. Just one. Then two.

Until… One day, he got the better of you.

He waited, until he noticed you were distracted, then lungeed ever so slightly, extending his hand as the tip of his blade touched your shoulder.

Buzzer.

“Beginner’s luck,” you insisted that day, but smiled anyway.

After that day, he started getting in and stopped minding going to the fencing facility after classes. But strangely, his favorite part of fencing wasn’t the fencing work at all. It was what came after, when practice ended and the lights dimmed just enough, when the urgency drained out and his head was finally quiet. When you both sat on the edge of the strip or leaned against the equipment racks, jackets half-unzipped, masks discarded at your feet like an afterthought.

You talked. At first about fencing, why a particular exchange worked, how you learned to read people instead of movements, the difference between reacting and responding. He listened more than he spoke, surprised by how much he liked that. By how easily you explained things without ever talking down to him.

Then the conversations drifted. To classes. To campus gossip. Your mutual irritation with a professor. Steve’s inability to mind his own business. He learned you liked late-night walks, that you think you fenced best when you were tired (you definitely didn’t), that you always hated people who mistook patience for passivity.

You learned that Bucky hated mornings but showed up anyway. That he liked working with his hands when his mind wouldn’t shut off. That he wasn’t as confident as everyone thought, just stubborn enough to keep going when fear set in.

Sometimes there were long silences between you, the good kind. He found himself sitting there, stretching out sore legs, feeling… settled.

—

During football practices, he still felt the same tightness in his chest before snaps. He still heard the internal clock ticking too loud. He still saw Fury shake his head when Bucky released a pass a fraction too early or stepped up before the pocket truly collapsed.

He was still benched. Zemo took first-team reps. Every scrimmage, Bucky stood on the sideline, helmet under his arm, watching windows open and close without him.

But during football practices, the changes crept in slowly. Bucky didn’t feel better. He didn’t feel calmer.  But now, sometimes, he waited anyway.

He noticed it most during mock games, when the pressure wasn’t real and yet his chest still tightened like it was. There were moments when he stayed in the pocket just long enough to see something settle instead of imagining it closing.

It felt… wrong. And right.

Coach Fury noticed immediately.

During football film sessions, Fury paused the tape more often on Bucky’s reps, not to criticize, but to observe. “See that?” Fury said once, pointing at the screen. “You didn’t panic.”

Bucky looked away. “I still missed the throw.”

“Yeah,” Fury said. “But you waited longer than you would’ve two weeks ago.”

On the field, Fury started giving him more scout-team reps. Not starting reps. Not really meaningful ones.

But at least it was something.

—

Bucky’s Crisis Management class was scheduled at the worst possible hour of the day.

Late enough that the campus had already woken up and gotten loud, early enough that Bucky’s patience (recently refurbished but still fragile) had limits. The lecture hall smelled faintly of burnt coffee and dry-erase markers. Rows of tiered seating curved toward the front, where a projector hummed over a slide that read: COMM 412: CRISIS MANAGEMENT & MEDIA RESPONSE

Bucky slouched into his seat, backpack shoved under his legs, notebook unopened. Sam dropped into the chair beside him with far too much energy for someone who’d allegedly been up late.

“So,” Sam said casually, flipping his pen between his fingers, “I hear from Stark that your fencing tutor is, uh…” Sam turned, grin already halfway to obnoxious. “...Steve’s old friend.”

Bucky stared straight ahead. “She’s not my tutor.”

“Oh?” Sam leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My bad. Captain of the fencing team. The one Coach sent you to see.”

Bucky’s teeth clenched.

“And,” Sam continued, whispering louder somehow, “the girl you had that massive, painfully obvious crush on.”

“I did not—”

Sam cut him off with a look. “Buck. You went from ‘cocky quarterback’ to ‘can’t string a sentence together’ every time she walked into the room.”

Bucky shot him a glare. “Keep your voice down.”

“Relax,” Sam glanced around theatrically, then leaned in even closer. “Everyone’s too busy pretending they understand crisis ethics to care about your unresolved feelings.”

Bucky’s fingers tightened around his pen. “It’s not like that,” he muttered.

Sam hummed, unimpressed. “Funny. Because last I heard, you were spending an awful lot of time in the fencing hall.”

“It’s training.” Bucky finally turned to him. “So drop it.”

Sam blinked once, surprised.

“Oh,” he said, almost sympathetically. “You’re serious.”

Bucky let a breath out through his nose. “She’s with Walker anyway.”

Sam’s grin faltered just a little. “Walker? Hockey Walker?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.”

Sam leaned back in his seat, arms crossing. “You sure about that?”

Bucky shot him a look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam studied him for a moment, expression unreadable. “No reason.”

The professor began lecturing about stakeholder perception during public scandals, but Bucky only caught every other word. His mind kept drifting, unhelpfully, to the fencing hall. To the way you corrected his footwork. To the fact that you hadn’t really mentioned Walker once.

Sam, unfortunately, was not done. “So,” he whispered again, “how’s that working for you?”

Bucky didn’t look at him. “What?”

“Learning patience from the girl who never had time for you.”

That did it.

Bucky snapped his head toward Sam. “You wanna talk about something else?”

Sam raised his hands slightly. “Hey. I’m just saying… it’s gotta be weird.”

“It’s not weird.”

Sam tilted his head. “You sure?”

Bucky hesitated. That was all Sam needed.

“Ooooh,” Sam said softly. “You’re still into her.”

“I’m not—”

“You absolutely are.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer mercy. “Can you not do this right now?”

Sam watched him for a beat, then nodded. “Okay.”

The professor cleared their throat loudly at the front of the room. “Mr. Wilson. Mr. Barnes. Care to share your crisis management strategy with the class?”

Sam smiled brightly. “Absolutely. Rule number one: don’t antagonize someone already in crisis.”

—

Three days later, everything kinda happened.

Football practice had bled into late afternoon, the sun low enough to cast long shadows across the field. Today, the main turf was divided. Offense running drills on one end, special teams clustered near the sideline, and, just beyond the boundary lines, the cheer squad practicing stunts and counts.

Bucky stood near the numbers, helmet off, sweat cooling on his neck, hands on his hips as he watched Zemo take another rep.

He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about anything except coverage reads and pocket timing. He was thinking about you anyway. About the way you’d corrected his distance work two days ago. About how you’d said “good” when he finally waited a bit longer than he’s used to waiting. About the fact that Sam’s stupid voice still echoed in his head: You sure she’s with Walker?

That was when he saw it.

At first, it didn’t register as anything important, just movement in his peripheral vision near the cheer mats. A guy in a team hoodie leaning down. A girl on her toes, fingers curled into his collar. But as Bucky looked closer, he recognized him instantly.

John Walker.

He had the same stupid confident posture. Same hands,cupping a cheerleader’s face as he kissed her. The girl laughed against his mouth as someone nearby wolf-whistled.

He stared, unblinking, as the moment stretched. As Walker said something low that made the girl (Olivia, his brain supplied distantly, one of the cheerleaders) smile and swat his chest. As Walker leaned in again, a pang of anger ripped loose inside Bucky’s ribs. How could he—

The thought didn’t even finish forming before Bucky was moving, his helmet dropped forgotten into the grass.

“Barnes!” Fury shouted.

He didn’t hear them.

Walker barely had time to turn before Bucky slammed into him, one hand fisting into the front of his hoodie and lifting. Walker’s back hit the chain-link fence with a sharp metallic rattle, feet leaving the ground. The field went dead quiet.

“What the hell?” Walker choked, hands flying up to Bucky’s wrist.

Bucky’s vision tunneled. “How could you cheat on—” he snarled, the words ripping out of him.

Walker’s eyes widened, not with guilt, but confusion. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he interrupted, coughed, palms pressing against Bucky’s forearm. “Cheating? What the hell are you talking about?”

Bucky shoved him harder against the fence. “Don’t play dumb.”

Olivia screamed. “John!”

“Listen, man,” Walker gasped, breath coming sharp. “I’ve been dating Olivia for six months!”

Six months?

His grip loosened just enough for Walker to suck in air, boots scraping back onto the ground. Walker shoved Bucky’s arm away and staggered forward. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Walker snapped. “You just jumped me in front of half the athletic department!”

Bucky stood there, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the distant shouts of coaches running toward them. “You weren’t—” Bucky started, then stopped.

Walker stared at him. “With who?”

Then, Walker realised who he was talking about. Walker wasn't dumb. He wasn’t blind, either, not when he dated you for a good year or so. He never really mentioned it to you, but he always knew Bucky had a thing for you by the way he stared. He wasn’t subtle. 

“You mean,” Walker said, voice dropping, incredulous, “you thought I was cheating on… ?”

“...yes.” Bucky said. He didn't even have to confirm a name for him to realize Walker who he was talking about.

Walker laughed once. “Man, we broke up months ago.”

What?

“End of last semester,” Walker continued. Bucky’s mouth opened, and it felt like his jaw was on the floor.

Your face flashed through his mind. You never mentioned Walker, never correcting him when he assumed. The way you’d said okay when he refused to be honest why you’d stopped talking. 

“You didn’t know?” Walker asked, quieter now.

Bucky shook his head once.

Before he could process it, footsteps thundered closer. Fury’s voice cut through the chaos, “Barnes! Step away. Now.”

Bucky backed up automatically as Walker straightened his jacket. Olivia hovered at his side, glaring at Bucky like she might throw her pompoms at him. “This guy’s got issues,” she muttered.

Fury reached them, eyes flicking over Walker’s reddening neck, then locking onto Bucky. “My office,” Fury said. No room for argument. “Now.”

—

Coach Fury’s office spat Bucky Barnes back out into the hallway like it was done tolerating him. The door clicked shut behind him, and he just stood there for a moment, staring at the scuffed tile floor, hands still buzzing faintly from adrenaline.

“One more incident like that,” Fury had said, voice flat, “and I don’t care how much talent you’ve got or what miracles de Fontaine’s captain is working on you— you’re done.”

Done.

Benched for the season hadn’t even been the threat. It had been done.

Bucky had nodded. He had said “yes, sir.” 

He had managed to keep his mouth shut and swallowed the part of him that wanted to say I thought he was hurting someone I care about. Because Fury wouldn’t have cared. Because that excuse would’ve sounded weak. It would’ve sounded reckless.

So Bucky counted himself lucky to have walked out with a warning.

He didn’t sleep much that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Walker’s confused face and heard the words again.

“We broke up months ago.”

—

The next day, the fencing hall felt off the moment Bucky walked in. 

The movement was there, the scrape of blades and the buzz of scoring boxes, but he could feel something essential missing. He slowed to a halt near the entrance, scanning the rows of pistes automatically and… you weren’t there.

Maybe you were late. Maybe Val had you working with someone else. Maybe…

“Oh,” Coach de Fontaine stood near the equipment rack, espresso in hand, eyes flicking to him with mild surprise. “You’re still here? I thought you quit weeks ago.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

She shrugged. “Fury’s boys tend to vanish when things stop being immediately gratifying.”

“I… I didn’t quit,” he said quickly, heat creeping up his neck. “I’m—where is she?”

Val paused mid-sip as recognition dawned, followed by something like amusement. “Oh. Her.”

Bucky resisted the urge to grind his teeth. 

“She’s got a cold. I sent her back to her dorm.” Val set her cup down. “I don’t train sick athletes. And she knows better than to argue.”

Bucky frowned. “A cold?”

“Yes,” Val said lightly. “Those do still exist. Particularly when someone insists on running practices, finishing her coursework, and babysitting quarterbacks while preparing for national qualifiers.”

Bucky’s head snapped up. “Qualifiers?”

Val watched his face closely now, interest sharpening. “You didn’t know,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Know what?” Bucky asked, stomach sinking.

“If she keeps her ranking—and if she stays healthy—Paris isn’t out of the question.”

Bucky stared at her.

You…. You’ve been doing all that? And still carving out time, hours, to stand across from him on a strip of metal and teach him how to wait.

“How—” His voice caught. He cleared his throat. “How long has she been…?”

“Years,” Val smiled thinly. “This isn’t a hobby. We don’t waste time here.”

Bucky felt a chill down his spine. You, who’d spent weeks slowing yourself down for him. Who’d broken down drills until his impatience had nowhere to hide. Who’d stayed late, corrected him, explained things twice when he didn’t get it the first time. You’d taken valuable, elite-level time, to train him.

While chasing the fucking Olympics.

“So,” Val said pleasantly, “if you’re not fencing today, Barnes, don’t linger. You’ll just be in the way.”

Bucky nodded numbly. “Right.”

How the hell had he not known you were an olympic hopeful?

Because he’d never asked. Because he’d assumed, again, that he knew the whole story.

—

Bucky decided that he should check on you. But he can’t just show up empty handed, right?

So he stood in the campus café for a solid ten minutes staring at the refrigerated section before grabbing a bottle labeled immune support that looked vaguely medicinal. He asked for tomato soup at the counter and carefully wrapped some bread in napkins. He added a bottle of electrolyte water and ginger chews, just in case. It was only after he’d paid did it occur to him that he had no idea where your dorm was.

He stood just outside the café, bag in hand, staring at his phone like it might offer absolution.

Oh, he knew someone who’d know!

So he texted Steve.

Bucky: hey man Steve: you okay? Bucky: yeah. no. kinda. Steve: sounds like a no. Bucky: do you know where her dorm is?

There was a pause, long enough that Bucky considered shoving the phone back into his pocket and pretending this was all a bad idea.

Steve: why? Bucky: she’s sick

Another pause. Then, Bucky decided to clarify why.

Bucky: val sent her back to her dorm Steve: huh Bucky watched the typing bubble appear. Disappear. Reappear. Steve: okay. yeah. I know. Steve: north campus. hargrave hall. third floor, second room from the stairs

He typed thanks and sent it.

—

Hargrave Hall sat on the quieter side of campus, brick exterior surrounded by old oak trees. Bucky crossed the quad with the soup bag swinging lightly at his side, each step making the whole thing feel more and more ridiculous.

What was he doing?

Showing up unannounced to your dorm because you had a cold and he’d just assaulted your ex-boyfriend on a football field? Great plan, Barnes.

He stopped halfway up the steps and stared at the entrance. You don’t have to do this today, a reasonable voice suggested.

Another voice, which sounded a lot like yours, answered back. Patience isn’t the same thing as hesitation. It’s choosing the moment.

Maybe this was the moment, he thought went inside.

Hargrave Hall smelled like laundry detergent and old carpet. The front desk was unattended, a sign taped crookedly to the counter that read Back in 5! like a lie everyone had agreed to ignore.

Bucky took the stairs to the third floor.

The hallway was lined with identical doors, each one a potential mistake. He double-checked the room Steve had sent him, heart thudding harder with every step.

He stopped in front of your door. For a moment, he just stood there.

This wasn’t a field. Or a piste. There were no rules he understood here. No stance to take. No distance to measure.

He lifted his hand and knocked once. Then twice.

Then, because he was apparently incapable of standing still when it mattered, he almost knocked a third time, but decided against it.  Just wait, Barnes, he thought to himself.

You opened the door, standing there in socks and an oversized ESU hoodie, hair pulled back messily, face slightly flushed. There was a tissue clutched in one hand. Your nose was pink in a way that suggested you’d been sneezing for hours.

“Bucky?” you sniffled, blinking at him.

Your room was unmistakably yours even from the doorway. It was neat but lived-in, bed made but with a pile of art critique stacked near the headboard, fencing gear carefully arranged along one wall. The air smelled faintly like laundry detergent and eucalyptus.

“Hey,” he managed.

You sniffed, then immediately sneezed again. “Shit— sorry.”

He laughed despite himself. “You okay?”

“Define okay,” you said dryly, stepping aside, “Come in. If you’re not scared of germs.”

“You clearly haven’t seen linemen in the locker room,” he said.

You smirked weakly. “Jock answer.”

Bucky snorted. He found it hilarious. Especially since, technically, you were one, too.

It was a private dorm room, one of the perks reserved for seniors, especially student athletes, and it felt like a small sanctuary tucked away from the noise of campus. Bucky stepped inside carefully, like the room might reject him if he moved too fast.

You shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “What are you doing here?” you asked, genuinely curious rather than annoyed.

He lifted the bag slightly, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he might look. “I… Val said you were sick.”

Your brow furrowed. “She did?”

“Yeah,” he said. “She said you’d been running yourself into the ground.”

“Of course she did.” You sighed, rubbing your temple. You glanced down at the bag. “What’s that?”

“Uh,” he cleared his throat. “Soup. Bread. Electrolytes. Ginger chews. And a bottle labeled ‘immune support’ that I don’t fully trust, but it looked convincing.”

You stared at him. Then, catching him off guard, you laughed a chuckle that  turned into another sniffle halfway through.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.

“I wanted to,” he replied easily. 

“Well,” you said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the main area, “you might as well come all the way in then. Since you’re already committing crimes by being in a girls’ dorm.”

He smirked. “Worth it.”

You snorted, then sneezed again. “God, I’m gross. Sorry.”

He shook his head. “You’re fine.”

While you grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around your shoulders, Bucky moved instinctively toward the kitchenette corner of your dorm. He hesitated, then held up the soup container. “Can I…?”

“Microwave’s free,” you said, sinking onto your bed. “Just don’t blow it up. I like my security deposit.”

You sat down on your bed, watching as he opened the bag and carefully reheated the soup. “You’re really taking this care-of-the-sick-girl thing seriously,” you teased, but there was a note of gratitude in your voice.

“Someone’s gotta,” he said, shrugging, “and it might as well be me.”

When the microwave dinged, he handed you the steaming bowl. “Here. Eat. Before it gets cold.”

You laughed softly, calling him “doctor.”

“So… what’s this about?” you asked, curiosity cutting through the haze of exhaustion. “Why really are you here?”

He hesitated, then said, quietly, “I heard you were sick… and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You tilted your head, softening. “You’re sweet,” you said, and meant it.

For a bit, you talked about nothing and everything all at once as Bucky sat on the foot of your bed. You talked about the weather finally turning colder. About Val’s espresso addiction. About how the campus squirrels were getting bold enough to steal food straight out of people’s hands. You sneezed halfway through a sentence and he passed you a tissue without comment.

Then you leaned back slightly, studying him over the rim of your now-empty bowl. “So,” you said casually. “I heard you assaulted John.”

He choked on absolutely nothing. “I… no, I didn’t assault him.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed.

“I mean,” he rushed on, hands lifting defensively, “okay, I grabbed him, yeah, but…”

You snorted, trying to hide a tiny smile from forming as you coughed into your sleeve. “That’s assault, Buck.”

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. Fine. Technically. But it wasn’t like— I didn’t punch him. Or tackle him. I just…”

“You slammed him into a fence,” you said calmly, putting the bowl down.

“Ah,” he winced. “You heard that version.”

“Campus news travels fast,” you replied. “Especially when a quarterback almost murders a hockey player during practice.”

“I did not almost murder him,” he insisted

“According to a couple of eye witnesses,” you said, smiling faintly. “You look like you could’ve.”

He slumped into your bed, elbows on his side to prop himself up. “I thought he was cheating on you.”

You stopped halfway to eating a ginger chew. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. He just could not maintain eye contact. “I saw him kissing Olivia and I assumed—”

“Oh my god,” you interrupted, half-laughing, half-stunned. “Buck.”

He stopped talking. “Yeah?”

“We broke up months ago.”

He stared at you, finally. He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “He made it very clear after I, uh—”

“Pinned him to a fence?”

“Lifted,” Bucky corrected weakly. “Briefly.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It bubbled up, rough from your sore throat “Oh my god,” you said, shaking your head. “You thought…”

“I didn’t know,” he said quickly, as if it made it easy. “You never said anything.”

“You never asked.”

He winced. “That seems to be a theme.”

“For the record,”  you reached out and put a hand on his thigh and sniffled, “He deserved it. Just maybe not… publicly.”

Bucky smiled, relieved. “I’ll take that.”

The conversation shifted after that. About class and about final year exams…. As he finally asked about fencing. About qualifiers. About rankings. About what Val had meant when she said Paris. You hesitated, but found yourself answering honestly.

“I’m not guaranteed anything,” you looked down. “But if things go right… yeah. I’m an Olympic hopeful.”

Awe creeped into his smile. “That’s incredible.”

You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s just… work. A lot of it.”

“Don’t do that,” he said gently. “Don’t minimize it.”

You glanced up at him, surprised. “My family didn’t get it at first,” you admitted. “They wanted me to be a doctor. Or a lawyer. Anything that didn’t involve me getting hurt again.”

Oh, what?

“Again?” Bucky asked, and as soon as he did, he could tell it was something you didn’t like talking about.

Your fingers drifted unconsciously to your knee. You tugged the fabric of your sweats aside just enough to show him the faint but unmistakable operation scar there. It was all too similar. 

“Tore my ACL in high school,” you said. “I had a long recovery. My parents…. thought fencing was just another way for me to end up back in rehab.”

Bucky leaned forward slightly, careful not to crowd you. “But you came back.”

“I did,” you said. “And they got it eventually. They’re proud now. But I had to prove it first.”

He nodded. “I get that.”

You looked at him. “Yeah?”

“My parents are huge Giants fans,” he started. “They’ve always been. I think—” He hesitated, looking down before continuing. “I think I built this whole dream around making them happy. Seeing me in any professional field. Doesn’t even matter which team.”

Your chest tightened a little. “You still can,” you said.

“Scouting starts soon.” He smiled. It was hopeful, but restrained. “Fury might put me in. I just… I want to do it right. Especially after… after....” After the injury. After the broken arm and the missing junior year. He couldn’t finish. 

And you knew. You knew better than he thought you did.

“Can…” you said, nodding toward his left arm. “Can I see?”

He froze, and to be fair, you wouldn’t fault him for refusing. But he wanted to be brave. 

So he rolled up his sleeve — he always wore long sleeves after the operation— to reveal the faint, jagged scars that ran along his bicep. Bucky thought it looked ugly. You just looked at it like any other injury.

Your finger hovered over them, brushing gently. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “But I think about it a lot.”

You nodded like that made perfect sense. You rested your fingertips against his arm, not on the scars at first, but just beside them, warm skin against warm skin, like you were giving him time to pull away if he wanted to.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, didn’t look at him with pity or fear. You looked at his arm the same way you looked at a fencing bout or a problem set: focused and curious all the same. “You can stop me if this is weird,” you said, eyes flicking up to his.

“It’s not,” he said too fast, then forced himself to slow down. “It’s… okay.”

Then, he did something that surprised both of you: he lifted his right hand and gently guided yours farther up his left arm, pressing your fingertips to a spot just beneath the scar tissue, where the muscle felt different beneath the skin. It was firmer, in a way flesh wasn’t meant to be. “Here,” he said, voice lower. “That’s one of the pins."

You could feel it. Not sharp, not protruding, just… present. “Oh,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Metal. In me. Forever, apparently.”

You didn’t pull away. Instead, your thumb brushed over the spot again, slower this time, like you were memorizing it. Like you were accepting it, the way he never did. 

Honestly, he couldn't remember the last time he acknowledged that it existed, let alone showed them to anyone.

“They drilled into the bone,” he said. “Put three pins in. Plates too. I remember waking up after surgery and thinking…” He stopped himself with a short breath. “I thought I’d never throw again.”

Bucky swallowed and guided you to a different spot, this time pressing your palm more firmly against his arm. 

“That one runs along the bone,” he explained, holding back water threatening to spill from his eyes. “They had to stabilize everything before it would heal right.”

There was something intimate about the way he was letting you feel it—not just the metal, but the story of it.

“That must’ve been awful,” you said.

He gave a small huff. “The surgery was fine. But rehab?” His shoulders rose and fell. “That… was worse.”

Your thumb froze.

“I couldn’t do anything fast,” he continued. “Everything was controlled.” He laughed under his breath. “You see the irony.”

You did.

“They told me rehab would be months,” he continued. “Said I’d have to relearn everything. Grip strength. Rotation. Control.” His mouth curved into something bitter. “I went from throwing sixty-yard passes to struggling with five-pound weights.”

You looked at him then. It was the first time you ever saw him… vulnerable. 

“They made me do this exercise,” he said, voice smaller now. “Over and over. Just squeezing a rubber ball. Hours. Every day.” He laughed under his breath. “Drove me insane. It felt pointless.”

“But it wasn’t,” you said.

“No,” he agreed. “It wasn’t.”

Your thumb brushed over his scar again, intimate without trying to be. His grip on your wrist tightened just a fraction. 

“I remember the first time they let me throw again,” he continued. “Barely ten yards. My arm shook so bad I thought I was gonna drop the ball.” He smiled, small and self-conscious. “I wanted to rip the brace off and prove I was fine. Instead, I went home and iced it and tried not to lose my mind.”

You stayed there, thumb resting lightly over the place that had haunted him for over a year, like you weren’t afraid of it at all. Bucky didn’t realize his eyes had gone glassy until you noticed.

You didn’t say anything. You just shifted a little closer, your knee brushing his thigh as you adjusted your position on the bed. The proximity made his heart beat quicker, it made him hyperaware of everything.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

He nodded, even though a tension tight sat high in his chest. “Yeah. Just,” He let out a quiet huff of a laugh. “Not used to people… touching it.”

Your thumb paused. “Does it feel weird?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But not bad.”

You smiled faintly at that, then carefully withdrew your hand, letting it rest in your lap instead. The absence of your touch was immediate and noticeable, like the room had cooled by a degree. He missed it.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

You looked up. “Yeah.”

He hesitated. The closeness made him braver, but it also made the question feel more intimate than he expected. “Your ACL injury,” he mentioned. “What… what was that like?”

For half a second, you looked genuinely caught off guard. “Oh,” you said, then immediately sneezed, hard enough that you turned your head away, fumbling for a tissue. “Shit—sorry.”

He laughed softly despite himself. “You good?”

You sniffled, dabbing at your nose. “Yeah. Just… icky.”

He smiled fondly without meaning to.

You took a deep breath, then seemed to think better of answering from where you were. Instead, you hesitated, then said, “Come here.”

He tilted his head. “What?”

“I wanna tell you something,” you said, suddenly shy. You shifted closer, patting the spot beside you on the bed. “But you absolutely cannot tell Coach de Fontaine.”

His brows lifted. “You’re asking a lot of trust from me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Buck.”

He scooted closer immediately, close enough that your knees touched. Close enough that he could smell your citrusy shampoo through your hoodie, could see the faint flush on your cheeks that had nothing to do with your cold.

You leaned in. “Like,” you whispered, “really can’t tell her.”

He tilted his head so you could reach his ear. “I swear.”

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you whispered, and his entire body reacted like you’d touched a live wire.

“I used to be quick,” you murmured. “So quick.”

Your voice was barely above a breath, intimate in a way that made his chest ache. “My fencing… it came from explosive speed, attacking first. Lunging before anyone else could even respond.”

He stayed very still, afraid that moving would break the moment.

“I tore my ACL during one of those explosive attacking lunges,” you continued. 

He looked down.

“Rehab was brutal for me,, too,” you said. “I hated that I couldn’t do the thing I was best at. I thought… I thought I’d lost what made me good.” You pulled back just enough to look at him. “I couldn’t fence the same way anymore.”

Your gaze dropped to your knees, and the scar that was there. It was faint now, barely noticeable. “I was forced to wait. To read instead of attack.” You sniffled again, then smiled faintly. “It made me a better fencer than I ever was.”

Bucky let out an incredulous laugh. “Really?”

You nodded. “I had no other choice.”

Your faces were close now. He could see every detail, the faint dark circles under your eyes from being sick, the way your lashes clumped slightly, the curve of your mouth as you spoke.

He sighed. “Guess we have that in common.”

“Guess so.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The room felt smaller somehow, like the air itself was closing His arm was still bare, and Bucky became acutely aware of every detail, the way your breath slowed to match his, the faint heat where your fingers touched him, the way your eyes dropped to his mouth and lingered just a second too long.

He wanted to kiss you right then. He didn’t care that you were sick, or sniffly, or wrapped in an oversized hoodie. He just knew that this… felt right.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Yours flicked to his. The air felt warmer, like the moment right before a storm breaks. His thumb brushed over your knee this time, over the scar that slowed you down, and he leaned just a little closer, forehead almost touching yours, close enough that you could feel the hesitation, the want. He was just about to close the gap, when…

The door flew open. “OH MY GOD.”

You both jumped apart like teenagers caught doing something illegal.

“Do you have any idea how many messages I’ve sent you?” Hope Van Dyne stood in the doorway, a fencing bag slung over one shoulder, eyes flicking between you and Bucky with open delight. “I thought you were dead. Or kidnapped. Or—” She paused, when she registered who was in the room with you, her grin widening.“…wow.”

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. “Hope.”

Bucky scrambled to roll his sleeve back down, cheeks burning. “Uh. Hi.”

Hope’s gaze swept him from head to toe. “Barnes,” she said brightly. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

“We were just talking,” you said quickly.

Hope checked her watch. “For two hours?”

Your head snapped up. “Two hours?”

Have you two really been talking for two hours?

Hope laughed. “Time flies when you’re trying to get into my friend’s pants, huh?” She stepped fully inside. In her hand was a pack of paracetamol and a litre of water. 

“I’m not—“ Bucky started but Hope didn’t care. She just interrupted again.

“What are you doing anyway?” She pointed at you. “You’re sick. You’re supposed to be resting.” Then she pointed at him. “And you, aren’t you the reason half the athletic department is gossiping right now?”

He winced. “Probably.”

Hope laughed. “Incredible.” She pointed toward the door. “Out, Barnes. Before I start screaming about men in the girls’ dorm.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m going. I’m going.”

You shot her a look. “Hope—”

“I’m kidding,” she said lightly. Then she grinned at Bucky. “Mostly. But I will tell Val if you don’t scram.”

Bucky laughed under his breath, embarrassed but amused. He grabbed his jacket, hesitating just long enough to look back at you.

“Uh,” he said. “Thanks. For… telling me.”

You got up and reached him without thinking. Before he could react, you rose onto your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thanks for the soup.”

Hope only rolled her eyes.

Bucky laughed as he stepped into the hallway. 

When the door closed behind him, he realized he had surprised himself.

The old him would’ve been furious at Hope. He would’ve cursed the interruption, replayed the almost-kiss like a loss. But now, he just smiled to himself.

He could wait for the right time.

—

The day after your two hour chat, he noticed something different with Fury.

At first, Bucky didn’t connect the change to you. He just noticed that Fury stopped cutting his reps short.

On Monday morning, the field was still damp with dew, cleats sinking slightly into the grass as the team lined up. Bucky braced himself out of habit, waiting for the whistle that usually came l early for him and the familiar bark of That’s enough, Barnes. Instead, Fury folded his arms and said, “Again.”

Again turned into five more minutes. Five minutes turned into a full set. When Bucky finally jogged to the sideline, Fury didn’t look displeased. He just nodded once, like he’d been expecting this all along.

It happened again on Tuesday. And Wednesday.

By Thursday, Bucky was practicing almost like he used to. 

The injury that had haunted him faded into the background. It still twinged now and then, a dull reminder rather than a warning, but it didn’t rule him anymore. He moved looser, shoulders less tense. He stopped forcing speed where patience worked better.

Unbeknownst to him, Fury had read your message on a late Sunday night.

You: I know you’re being careful with him (and I get why), but I really think he’s improving. He’s learning to slow down instead of pushing through everything. He listens. He adapts. He’s doing really well.

Fury hadn’t replied. He rarely did. But the next morning, he’d watched Bucky differently.

—

You, meanwhile, were busy disappearing into cold medications and lecture halls. Your week was a mountain of tissues and coursework deadlines. And because of that, you didn’t see Bucky once that week. At least, not in person.

You texted, though.

Bucky: how’s the cold today? You: manageable. how was practice? Bucky: longer than usual You: good to hear :)

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest.

Later that night, as you lay on your bed surrounded by open notebooks and half-finished art assignments, your phone buzzed again.

Bucky: i caught myself waiting for the whistle everytime  You: and? Bucky: realized i didn’t need it to stop me You: fencing buzzer logic Bucky: don’t tell anyone

You laughed into your pillow.

—

By Tuesday, Bucky started looking for your name on his screen without realizing he was doing it. He checked his phone between drills. He felt an unreasonable disappointment when hours passed without a buzz.

You were busy. And ill. He knew that. Still, he found himself thinking of you during stretching. Then, during cool downs. When he sat alone in the locker room long after everyone else had left.

On the field, he got better quicker. Instead of exploding off the line every play, he watched. He waited. He let the moment come to him.

“Barnes,” one of the coaches said on Wednesday, watching a clean, controlled run. “That was… smart.”

That afternoon, he texted you from the bleachers, helmet resting beside him.

Bucky: tried something different today Bucky: waited instead of charging You: I bet it worked Bucky: you sound very smug You: you can’t hear through text

But he could. He could practically hear your voice in his head, teasing, and it made his chest feel tight. Not that he was complaining.

—

On Thursday, Fury called Bucky over after practice.  “You’ve been good,” he said. “Not reckless. Good.”

Bucky nodded, unsure what to say.

“I’m extending your reps next week,” Fury continued. “Full contact.”

Bucky’s breath caught. “Sir?”

Fury fixed him with a sharp look. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t,” Bucky said immediately.

—

By Friday, you realised that you missed him more than you expected. You passed the field on your way back from class, sniffling a cough as you watched players run drills in the distance. You wondered where Bucky was, what he looked like mid-stride now, whether he still carried urgency in his shoulders, or if he’d learned to release it.

You texted him without thinking.

You: I hate that we didn’t see each other this week Bucky: me too You: next week? Bucky: next week. Come to the game if you’re feeling better. You: okay <3

—

Next week couldn’t come soon enough.

It crawled by at an almost cruel pace, each day dragging its heels like it knew how badly Bucky wanted Monday to arrive. Lectures blurred together, his notes half-legible at best. Practice was better, but still, every drill felt endless, every whistle felt shrill. His teammates joked about it, saying he was jumpy, distracted. Bucky didn’t correct them.

Game day finally arrived. 

Monday evening dawned crisp and golden, the air smelling like autumn leaves, the kind that bit at your lungs just enough to make you feel alive. Leaves skittered across the sidewalks as students flooded campus in waves of school colors. The stadium loomed at the edge of it all, already alive, like it had a heartbeat of its own.

By the time Bucky stepped onto the field in full pads, helmet tucked under his arm, the noise had erupted bordering overwhelming. The marching band’s brass rang out bright and brash. Drums thundered. Cleats scraped against concrete. Everything blended into a roar that vibrated in his chest. He tried to ground himself. Tried to breathe. Instead, his eyes kept lifting toward the stands.

He told himself it was stupid. He saw a freshman on the fencing team this morning, Kate Bishop, and asked her if you were doing better. She said you were still ill, that you didn’t even show up for morale on yesterday’s practice. 

So yeah. He told himself you were probably still sick, curled up in your dorm with tea and textbooks, sensible and responsible like always. 

He told himself not to look. He looked anyway.

And then, to his surprise, there you were, threading your way down the stadium steps, the crowd parting around you like instinct alone made room. Hope van Dyne walked at your side. Wanda Maximoff closed on your other flank, her arm brushing yours as she leaned in to say something to her twin brother, Pietro. Stephen Strange was behind you with — somehow — Tony Stark, campus rich boy. 

Huh.

You, captain of the fencing team, had apparently decided to bring half the senior squad, including Stark, who didn’t enjoy team sports unless it was horse polo.  That alone was impressive.

You all made your way to the front row, bundled in school colors, legs tucked in, shoulders slightly hunched against the breeze. From here, from the field, you looked smaller than usual. Not weak, but gentler, like you were still recovering, still not quite back to full strength.

When you turned your head, laughing at something Hope said, Bucky noticed that your nose was still faintly pink, like the tail end of a cold that just refused to fully let go.

Before he could stop himself, Bucky was jogging off the sideline, ignoring Sam's confused “Where’re you going?” Slipping through the gate separating the field from the stands like it was second nature.

When you finally noticed him, your face lit up so fast it almost stole his breath away.

“I thought you were still sick,” Bucky said when he reached you, raising his voice over the noise.

“I’m not,” you said quickly, and then you sniffled, a little, loud enough for him to hear and bad enough for you to require tissue. Bucky raised an eyebrow.

You groaned and tipped your head back against the seat. “Okay, fine. But I’m better now. Mostly. It’s just… the end of it.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, unconvinced but smiling despite himself. That was when he realised… you were wearing short sleeves. In November. In a stadium already turning into a wind tunnel.

“Where’s your jacket?” he asked.

You shrugged, clearly aware this was not your smartest decision. “Didn’t think it’d be that cold.”

A breeze swept through the stands, and you shivered.

That’s it. No one bothers his girl like that. Not even the breeze. 

“Barton!” Bucky called.

Clint Barton looked up from the bench. “What?”

“Jacket!”

Clint glanced around, spotted Bucky’s letterman jacket abandoned nearby, and tossed it with a smirk. Bucky caught it and turned back to you before you could say a word. He draped it over your shoulders carefully. His hands lingered just long enough to pull it closed, thumbs brushing the edge of the collar. The fabric swallowed you a little, sleeves too long, but you couldn’t complain. Not when it smelled like him— like soap, laundry detergent, faint grass and sweat.

Pietro and Tony whooped. Stephen even lifted his brows.

Bucky ignored them all. “There,” he asked. “Better?”

You looked down at yourself, fingers curling into the sleeves, swallowing before nodding. “Better.”

Hope made an extremely pointed oh my god noise. Wanda smiled into her scarf. Bucky pretended he didn’t see either of them.

“You should’ve stayed in your dorm,” he said gently, tucking a hair behind your ear to see your face veered. “You’re still sick.”

“I’m not,” you insisted. Besides, there was no way in hell you were gonna miss this.

The crowd roared as the teams lined up, the announcer’s voice booming across the stadium. Bucky hesitated, before speaking up again “I’m starting today.”

Your eyes widened. “Really?”

He nodded. “Fury told me this morning.”

You smiled beautifully, like sunlight breaking through clouds. “That’s…Bucky, that’s amazing. I’ll be loud.”

Your voice cracked on loud, broken and entirely unintentional. You froze, then laughed, pressing your lips together like that might undo it.

Bucky smiled, but not with the cocky grin he wore on the field. Not the polite one he gave professors. “I heard that,” he chuckled. “It was plenty loud.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging his jacket tighter around yourself.

The announcer called players to the field again.  “I should…”

“I know,” you said. “Go.”

He hesitated anyway. “You okay up here?” he asked. “If you feel bad—”

“I’ll leave,” you promised. “Scout’s honor.”

He nodded before leaning in, “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” you said.

As he jogged back to the field, your friends immediately started teasing you. Hope was nudging your arm, Pietro was stage-whispering, and Wanda smiled knowingly. He was pretty sure Tony called him your boyfriend.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” he heard you say. “Well. Not yet.”

That made Bucky smile as he lined up.

—

You watched Bucky on the field, and for the first time since the season had started, you could actually see the progress he made. It was written in the way he moved, the way he waited half a second longer before committing, the way his feet traced careful lines in the grass as if he were still standing on a strip instead of a football field. Fencing had changed him. It had taught him restraint, timing, and trust in distance, and now all of that translated into his game. Even your friends noticed.

Hope leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowed, following Bucky’s movement down the field. “He’s… reading,” she realised.

Stephen nodded, hands folded like he was watching a chess match instead of a game. “He’s measuring space.”

Wanda smiled. Pietro, on the other hand, bounced in his seat. Even Tony, ever the critic, said, “he finally learned finesse”

You barely heard them. Your eyes stayed locked on Bucky—n umber 10 bright against his jersey. Every time he jogged back into position, every time he reset after a play, he looked toward the stands, toward you. Your chest did a stupid little flip every single time.

The opposing team was still aggressive, trying to dominate early. The first quarter was a test of endurance, both sides trading short gains and defensive stops. Bucky played smart,blocking when he needed to, slipping through gaps when they opened, never wasting energy. You could see what you taught him: conserve, observe, strike only when it mattered.

By the second quarter, the team started to find its rhythm. The quarterback called a tight play, and Bucky lined up just off the right side. At the snap, he didn’t charge forward immediately. He hesitated, watching the defense overcommit. Then he cut left, slicing through an opening that hadn’t existed a moment before. The crowd roared as he sprinted downfield, legs pumping, body balanced and controlled.

When he was tackled at the twenty-yard line, he rolled, already back on his feet before the whistle fully blew. He looked up into the stands and pointed at you, a grin flashing across his face beneath his helmet. You laughed, heart racing, lifting your hand even though he probably couldn’t see it clearly.

Hope elbowed you lightly. “He’s showing off.”

You just shrugged, trying to play it off. 

The first touchdown came late in the second quarter. The play was designed for a quick pass, but the defense read it early. Instead of panicking, Bucky adjusted. He pivoted and created space, just like he would on the strip, forcing his defender to commit. When the pass came, he caught it cleanly and turned upfield, diving over the line.

Touchdown.

By halftime, the team was leading. The third quarter was brutal with fatigue setting in. At one point, Bucky came down awkwardly from a jump, landing hard on his left side. 

Your stomach dropped. You knew exactly how fragile his arm still was. You stood without realizing it, fingers digging into the railing.  For a heartbeat, your whole world narrowed to Bucky on the grass.

Then he moved, rolling onto his back, sucked in a breath, and pushed himself up carefully. He tested his arm, rotated his shoulder once, wincing just slightly before straightening. The trainers were ready, but he waved them off.

He was okay. He was… okay.

You let out a sigh of relief, sitting back down as your heart slowly found its rhythm again. 

In the fourth quarter, with the score tight and the pressure mounting, Bucky delivered. On a critical third down, he took the ball and waited… waited…. until the defense lunged. Then he slipped through, fencing footwork translated into pure momentum. He crossed the line for another touchdown, sealing the lead.

The stadium exploded.

Bucky didn’t even wait for the full chaos of the field to settle.

The second the whistle blew and the realization hit, that they’d won, that he’d helped them win, he broke away from the cluster of teammates slapping his helmet and sprinted straight toward the stands. You saw him coming before anyone else did, number 10 weaving through bodies, all that careful patience from the game finally giving way to pure joy.

“He’s coming for you,” Hope said, already laughing.

You barely had time to process it before Bucky reached the railing, resting it next to yours. He leaned over it, breathless, sweat-soaked, eyes locked on yours like the rest of the world had vanished into thin air. Your friends instinctively stepped back, creating space without even being asked.

“Hi,” he said, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“Hey, winner,” you replied, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it.

Up close, he looked flushed, adrenaline still buzzing through him. His left arm was fine, but you still reached for it without thinking, fingers brushing his wrist. 

“I’m okay,” he whispered. “Promise.”

Then his hand came up, cupping your cheek through the railing as the noise of the stadium faded. 

And you weren’t thick, you knew exactly what he wanted. First win back from injury. First win of the season. First everything lining up just right.

It was definitely a good time for a first kiss.

He leaned closer, just enough that your knees turned to jelly.

“BARNES!!!!!!!” Coach Fury’s voice interrupted the moment like a siren.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut for half a second before he laughed under his breath. He turned his head slightly, calling back, “Coach—uh, one second?”

You bit your lip, half-amused. Fury didn’t look amused, though. “Couple of scouts here to talk to ya. Now.”

Bucky opened his eyes and looked at you again, fingers tightening slightly on the railing. “I’ll find you after,” he said quickly.

“You know me.” You nodded without hesitation. “I can wait.”

—

After the conversation with a couple of scouts and the usual locker room talk with Fury, followed by a short, rushed shower, everything finally slowed down. The noise faded, the adrenaline ebbed, and the stadium emptied. 

That was when Bucky went looking for you.

He found you in the dugout, legs tucked beneath you on the bench, shoulder brushing against Steve’s as the two of you leaned over a notebook. You were animated in that way you got when talking about one of your passions, hands moving as you pointed at a sketch of a sculpture in the margins. Steve was listening intently, occasionally nodding as he added something about symmetry or historical context.

Bucky stopped a few feet away and just watched for a second. 

He smiled, and finally stepped closer. “There you are,” he said.

You looked up, eyes lighting immediately. Steve followed your gaze and grinned.

“I’ll take it from here,” Bucky added to Steve, thumb hooking casually into his belt as he tilted his head toward you. “You wanna get food?”

“Sure,” you said without hesitation.

You slid off the bench and reached for Bucky’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers closed around yours, and the tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying loosened all at once.

You waved at Steve with your free hand. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” you told him.

“Don’t forget your notes,” Steve called back, already packing up his things. “And Buck, remember, pulling out doesn’t work!”

Bucky rolled his eyes at his best friend as you laughed, shaking your head, letting Bucky lead you out of the dugout.

—

You and Bucky decided to settle for a diner that was just slightly off campus

Its neon sign buzzed softly against the dark, red and blue light reflecting off the pavement as Bucky held the door open for you, one hand at the small of your back as you stepped inside. It smelled of coffee, sugar, and grease. And despite it being late, people were still lining up to the bar, the hum of conversation filling the air.

You slid into the booth first, vinyl cool against the backs of your legs, still wrapped in Bucky’s letterman jacket. It swallowed you whole, sleeves covering your hands completely, the hem brushing your thighs when you shifted. Bucky sat across from you, then paused, eyes flicking over you fondly. “Suits ya,” he said.

You tucked your hands deeper into the sleeves. “You’re never getting it back.”

“I don’t want it back,” he chuckled.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t awkward, but rather the kind of silence that came when you were finally here, finally alone, finally allowed to breathe.

“How are you feeling?” Bucky asked finally. 

You leaned back against the booth, eyes on him. “Better,” you said. “Still a little gross, but better.”

He huffed. “That doesn’t tell me much.”

“I’ve been stuck in my dorm,” you admitted. “Wearing masks indoors in lecture halls all week. I swear, I started to forget what fresh air felt like.” You glanced toward the window, then back to him. “So… being outside helped. Seeing you helped.” You hesitated, then added lightly, “Not getting yelled at by Hope helped, too.”

“I’m glad you came,” he admitted. “But I didn’t think you would. I thought you’d be responsible.”

“I was!” you playfully smacked his arm. “I’m not sick anymore. Just not… 100%.”

“Uh-huh,” he teased with a coy smile.

The waitress came by before you could say anything else, setting menus down with practiced ease. You barely glanced at yours.

“Milkshakes?” she asked, knowing the type of college couples you both probably are.

“Yes,” you said immediately.

Bucky nodded. “Chocolate for her. Vanilla for me. Fries to share.”

The waitress smiled like she’d seen this exact thing a thousand times and walked away.

Bucky leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. It brought him closer, enough that you could see the faint flush still lingering in his cheeks from the game, the way his hair curled slightly at the edges where sweat had dried. “The scouts talked to me,” he said.

Your eyes lit up. “Yeah?”

“They stuck around,” he said. “Longer than usual.”

Your smile crept wider. “That’s good.”

“It is,” he agreed, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the table, a nervous habit you’d started to recognize. “One of them said if I keep this up… it’s looking promising.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile. “Bucky. Oh my god,”

He laughed, ducking his head modestly, which wasn't something you’ve come to expect of him. “Hope the pressure doesn't get to me.”

You reached across the table and touched his hand, your fingers fitting naturally between his. “It won’t,” you said.

He squeezed your hand once, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You would’ve gotten there eventually.”

“Maybe,” he said, meeting your eyes. “But not like this.”

The milkshakes arrived, condensation beading down the tall glasses, fries piled high between you. You took a sip of yours and sighed, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“Speaking of competition,” he said, nudging a fry toward you. “I heard the Maximoff Twins talk about a fencing trip yesterday.”

“Right,” You straightened a little, dipping your fry in ketchup. “So… I’m going away next month.”

His brow furrowed. “Away?”

“Out of state for fencing clinic and invitational.” You hesitated, then added, quieter, “For three weeks.”

“That’s…. Almost a whole month,” he repeated, jaw on the floor.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He sat with that for a moment, then nodded back. “I’ll miss you.”

The simplicity of it hit harder than you expected. “I’ll miss you, too,” you admitted. “But it’s important.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

The conversation flowed easily after that. You talked about his classes, about Sam stealing notes and pretending not to. About your lectures, the way the hallways felt too close lately. About silly things, like the diner jukebox, the campus squirrels that Doreen Green loved to feed, and how neither of you trusted the coffee in the cafeteria but ordered it anyway.

At some point, the fries disappeared. The soft serve on top of the milkshakes melted. The diner grew quieter as the night wore on, the world shrank until it felt like it was just the two of you in the booth. You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand. “I like this,” you said.

“Me too,” he replied.

Your knee brushed his under the table. He didn’t move away. Instead, his foot slid closer.

You leaned in slightly. “Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

His breath caught, and for a second he felt almost… shy. “You have no idea.”

Slowly, he leaned across the table. 

There was no rush. No urgency. You met him halfway, your lips finally brushing his after weeks of almosts and not-quites.

Finally. No interruptions, no Hope kicking him out or Fury calling him back.

It was the perfect moment you both have been waiting for.

Fuckin’ finally.

The kiss was gentle at first, like a question. Then it deepened, warmth blooming as his hand came up to cradle your cheeks, thumb brushing your skin. You sighed into it, heart pounding, fingers curling into the front of his ESU hoodie like you needed the anchor.

When you pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours and kissed you again. And again. Longer this time. Like he was trying to make up for every moment he’d waited. Your lips parted under his, the world fading until there was only the familiarity of finally.

When you pulled back, barely an inch apart, he let out a breathless laugh and then kissed you again. And again. Quick, affectionate kisses pressed to your lips, your cheek, your nose, like he couldn’t help himself now that he’d started. You laughed, heart racing, hands fisting in his collar.

“Bucky!” you gasped, smiling so hard your face hurt.

“Sorry,” he said, not sorry at all, kissing you once more just because he could.

Eventually, you paid and stepped back out. Bucky’s arm slipped around your shoulders easily, like it had always belonged there.

When you reached the edge of campus, he stopped. “Do you… wanna come back with me?”

You gasped dramatically. “Bucky Barnes, bringing a girl to a boys’ dorm? If Coach Fury finds out—”

He grinned, leaning in close and whispering in the shell of your ears. “Then let’s make sure no one finds out, yeah?”

You laughed, squeezing his hand, and followed him into the night.

—

Two Years Later…

You woke up to sunlight warming the side of your face.

You blinked a few times, still half-dreaming, listening to the hum of the apartment. 

No snoring. No warmth at your back. Just the low rumble of the city outside and the faint sound of paper shuffling.

You groaned and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling. Bucky was not next to you.

Of course, he was up already.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you tugged on one of his old ESU shirts and walked down the hallway. Your and Bucky’s shared apartment looked exactly like it always did and was completely different all at once. Framed photographs lined the walls now: Bucky in his first pro uniform, helmet tucked under his arm, you on the strip before Fencing Nationals, a candid shot Sam had taken of Bucky asleep on the couch with your fencing bag serving as a pillow, and a graduation photo with you, Bucky, Sam, Steve, Hope, Wanda, and Stephen, with Tony, Clint, and Pietro photobombing in the background.

The NFL season was over, the offseason stretching out in front of him while he waited on a possible transfer, but football still lived in every corner of your home. A shadow box held his first LA Rams jersey, blue and gold pristine behind glass. Cleats sat by the door, cleaned but never put away properly. Nearby was a shelf cluttered with football memorabilia tangled up with fencing medals, your gold from nationals displayed right beside his rookie ball like they belonged together.

You smiled followed the noise to the kitchen.

Bucky sat on the ground, barefoot, surrounded by a ridiculous spread of items laid out carefully. Two passports. Printed flight confirmations. Your credentials. Hotel reservations. A carry-on bag already zipped and unzipped again. His phone rested on his knee, email open, brow furrowed in deep concentration.

He looked up like a kid caught sneaking cookies.

“Babe,” you said, voice raspy with sleep, leaning against the doorframe. “I thought we were both sleeping in today.”

He blinked. “I—uh. Morning, sweets.”

You glanced pointedly at the pile. “Our flight isn’t until midnight tonight.”

“I know,” he said quickly, scooping up the passports and flipping through them again. “I’m just… double-checking.”

You lowered yourself behind him, kissing his bare shoulderblades and putting your arms around him. “You checked them before bed.”

“And I’ll check them again,” he replied, completely serious. “Because what if something changed?”

You laughed and rested your head against his back. “Passports don’t spontaneously expire overnight.”

He frowned at yours. “Yours looks different.”

“It’s the same one I’ve had for three years.”

“Okay but what if they updated the font?”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “Babe.”

He cracked, just a little, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”

“You’re not the one competing,” you teased.

“Yeah, but you’re the one going to the Olympics,” he said, quieter now. “Aren’t you nervous?”

You smiled, still a little stunned, even after all this time. Gold at Nationals last year had changed everything: The rankings, the media attention. The long-awaited confirmation that yes, you were going.

“I don’t think I’ve even processed it,” you admitted.

He reached out, taking your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Well, better process it quick.”

You leaned into him, breathing him in. 

“I talked to Stephen yesterday,” Bucky added casually, like he hadn’t been waiting to say it. “He wanted to make sure we’re still carpooling with him to the airport.”

You snorted. “Of course he did.”

“He said, and I quote, ‘logistically, it makes sense for the two ESU alums to arrive together.’”

“That man thinks he’s a delegation leader,” you said, laughing.

Bucky grinned. “He also asked if we’d be ‘mentally prepared’ to listen to him explain European medical advances during the drive.”

“Oh, god,” you sighed, but didn’t really mind. Stephen Strange had always been an overachiever. Apparently, graduating with a medical degree on top of his class wasn't enough for him. He just had to get silver at the nationals and tag along with you to Paris.

“I just want everything to go right. I mean—” He gestured vaguely. “You worked so hard. I don’t want some stupid forgotten document to ruin it.”

You were sitting on the floor beside him now, cupping his face in your hands. “Hey. We’re good. Besides, you’re pretty famous round these parts. I’m sure you can bribe a fast check from airport security.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes closing as he leaned into your touch. “You’re terrifyingly calm.”

“Years of competition,” you said lightly. “And waiting.”

“Yeah, well,” he sighed. Bucky shook his head fondly, then looked at you proudly before kissing the ring on your finger. “I still can’t believe I get to sit in the stands,” he said, “and watch my fiancée fence for Olympic gold.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “You’re going to cry.”

“Of course,” he said without hesitation. “I cried when you qualified. I cried when you won Nationals. I will cry again. I am in tune with my emotions now, remember?”

You laughed, then leaned in and kissed him. When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

The city stretched awake around you. The future waited, but right now, it was just the two of you on your kitchen floor, passports finally at rest.

“Okay,” Bucky said after a beat. “I’ll stop checking.”

You raised an eyebrow. “For now.”

“…For now,” he agreed.

He knew you worked for Senator Brown. You knew he was a Congressman, obviously. You also knew his background and the complexities that came with it. Many people in the political space turned up their noses at him, something you had a similar experience with as you were “only an assistant.” The two of you had joked about it, eventually making your way to the hotel bar and laughing over the amount of hidden toupees currently residing in the ballroom.

In the weeks that followed, you had texted with him, met for coffee twice because he was “in the area”, and had maybe even considered the fact that you were friends with Congressman Barnes. Friends were invaluable to have in D.C., but they were also something to be wary of. Bucky didn’t feel the type to be wary of. 

As you stood halfway frozen in the hallway, his comment began to make sense. He was calling back to your initial hotel conversation, making a joke about biases and stuck-up politicians, but this was not the time. Not that he could have known. 

Senator Brown barked out your name when he noticed you were no longer beside him, surely trying to get you to jot down some thought banging around in his head. You whipped your head to the side, almost missing the affronted expression on Bucky’s face as he registered the tone that your name was spoken in, and shook your arm from his hold. 

“Sorry, Congressman,” you murmured, turning on your heel and making quick strides in Brown’s direction. “I apologize. What can I do for you, Senator?” 

Your boss barely hid a scoff. “You can start by being where I need you to be. And write this down—I do not believe that the House takes the proper—” 

You scrambled to take out your phone and open the notes app. A rookie mistake; you usually had it open the second his meetings ended, but you had been distracted. By Bucky. 

Your heels hurriedly clicking against polished marble, you took a fleeting glance over your shoulder. Bucky remained there, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest, metal from his hand glinting against the gentle fluorescence of the hall. 

Three days later, he brought it up. 

You thought you’d found a private spot to scarf down your lunch in your allotted fifteen-minute break, but with a sandwich only half finished and your mouth full, the call of your name reminded you that there is never any privacy for you at this job. The sound of Bucky’s voice softened the blow a bit. 

“He always treat you like that?” Bucky asked, swinging his leg over the bench on the other side of the table. He watched as you tried to chew quickly, some of the hardness he’d sat down with melting from his expression. 

You covered your mouth with your hand and swallowed hard. “What?” you finally got out, reaching for your water bottle. 

Bucky raised a brow. “Brown. Does he always yell at you?” 

After a few sips and swallows, you gave up on being able to finish your lunch. You had to plan out your meals very meticulously to finish, and Bucky had already taken up 30 precious seconds. 

“Oh,” you began. You swiped a hand through the air. “It’s fine. He just gets a little intense sometimes. It’s just his personality.” 

“You’ve been working for him for three years.” 

“Right.” 

“The guy should treat you better. He could only keep assistants for a few weeks at a time before you.” 

“How do you know that?” 

Bucky slid your food towards you. “Eat. You looked like you were in a hurry when I got here.” 

You eyed him for a moment. With his hair tucked behind his ears, you could see the tenseness of his jaw and the shadow of his beard dusting above his collar. It was no secret that Bucky was alarmingly handsome in a sea of 60-year-old politicians, but you had never gotten the opportunity to see it at work. You were always too busy, and Bucky’s office was three floors down. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” you said, reaching for the fruit in your bag. “I meant to. I’ve just been working late since the meeting on Monday.” 

“It’s alright.” A pause as you continued to eat your food. You had maybe four minutes left. “How late?” 

“Oh, um, I’ve been going home around 10. It’s such a pain in the ass to get a taxi at that time, you wouldn’t believe. Uber isn’t much better, and I definitely can’t walk home in these things,” you joked, motioning to the bandaids strapped behind your heels. “It’s not so bad, though. After about a month of late nights, Brown will go on a “vacation,” and I’ll have a few weeks to reign in the chaos during normal business hours.” 

You were giggling as you spoke, adding air quotes and sarcasm to try to alleviate the irritated look Bucky was sporting. After a few weeks of being around him, you understood that Bucky was quieter than you, but his silence right now was pressing. Your jokes weren’t getting him to talk, so you switched gears. 

Popping a grape in your mouth, you asked, “What are you doing up here, anyway?” 

Bucky let out a breath and tapped his hand on the table. “Honestly? I came to check on you.” 

“To check on me?” 

“After Monday, I wanted to make sure—” 

Your phone started going off, the “Senator Brown” contact making your blood run cold. You brought your watch up and let out a gasp that made Bucky jump. 

“What?” he rushed, standing from the table as you started to pack your things in a panic. He went to help you, but after two brushes of his hands, he realized he was only in the way. 

“My break was over two minutes ago. I have to go right now.” 

“Two minutes? What—y/n, that isn’t—” 

He was here to check on you. Right. That was really sweet. 

Your brain tried to catch up with your panic as you reached over and squeezed his arm gratefully. “I’m really fine, Bucky. It was nice to see you. We should get coffee again.” You were sliding through the double doors and back into the building as you called, “I’ll text you. I promise this time.” 

And you did. In the seven minutes of free time you got around 9 pm, you sent him a quick follow-up text. The bubble went right below his text from two days ago, and you felt a small pinch of guilt for not answering him until now.

You: Free Saturday morning?

He answered you almost instantly.

Bucky: Depends. Are you still at work right now?

You frowned at your phone. 

You: If I am does that mean you won’t get coffee with me?

Bucky: So you are 

You: …maybe 

And then, your seven minutes of silence were up. When Brown’s footsteps could be heard by the door, you tucked your phone into your desk and went to work on the stack of papers he assigned you. He so graciously let you know that he was going home now, and you could leave once you were finished. 

That was perfect. 

It took you an hour and a half, but when you sorted the final paper and checked his schedule for tomorrow for the last time, a sense of relief flooded you. You didn’t even care that it would take another 30 minutes for an Uber to arrive. All you could think about was your shower and your bed and taking these shoes off your feet. 

You gathered your belongings and swiped your phone from the desk, clicking to the rideshare app and somewhat dreading the small talk to come. It would be extremely convenient to have a car, but that wasn’t something in the cards for you. Your tiny apartment had barely any parking, and everything else was within walking distance. 

As you continued to ponder the pros and cons of taking the bus home, a honk from the curb made you jump. You lowered your phone and squinted into the distance of the now barren road. 

“Someone order an Uber?” 

Disbelief was your first emotion, and then shock and then confusion. “Buck—Congressman Barnes?” you asked, correcting yourself when the memory of the building at your back resurfaced. 

“You’re not getting in my car if you’re calling me that,” Bucky replied, leaning down to peer out the passenger-side window. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked him for the second time today.

“I told you, I’m driving for Uber. You called for one?” 

A disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. You shook your phone by your face and leaned down towards the window. “Haven’t even ordered it yet. I’m not supposed to get in the car unless they can put in the code verifying my identity.” 

“Give me a code, then. Here,” he passed you his phone, the background illuminating a small white cat. “Wait, sorry, I have to unlock it.” 

Your next laugh was more of a scoff as he reached through the window to take it back. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” 

Bucky paused, looking you up and down for a moment before his jaw ticked to the side in a smile. “I’m taking you home. You live close, it won’t take very long.” 

“I can’t ask you to do that.” 

“You’re not asking. Now, hurry up and get in. I’ve been in the fire lane for 20 minutes and parking enforcement hates me here.” 

You went to argue again, but Bucky only raised a brow and unlocked the doors. 

Sliding in the car was somewhat of a mess with your bag and your jacket and the file you had meant to finish at home almost suffocating you. Bucky tried to help, grabbing items and waiting for you to buckle in before placing them by your feet. You were flustered from the transition, trying to adjust your skirt and seatbelt as Bucky reached forward to tuck a strand of hair stuck in your lip gloss behind your ear. 

You turned to look at him instantly, but the man only gave you a closed-lip smile and shifted the gear of his car, pulling away from the building of your nightmares. You blinked back towards the dashboard, needing a few more seconds to settle yourself. 

“I really didn’t mean to make you feel guilty,” you stressed to Bucky after he flipped the radio on, low music trickling in. “When I told you about staying late, I mean.” 

Bucky tsked, knocking his head to the side to shoot you a lingering glance. “You didn’t, alright? This is my own problem. I just didn’t feel comfortable with you trying to find a way home so late.” 

“I’ve been doing it for a while and I haven’t died yet,” you attempted to joke. 

Not the best joke, it seemed, with Bucky’s fist clutching the steering wheel a hair tighter, the sound of leather meeting your ears. He shook his head. “Where’s Brown? He doesn’t let you take work home?” 

“Oh, he does sometimes,” you chipperly replied, trying to sound awake and get Bucky un-pissed off. “He just checks my timesheets when we work overtime, so I have to make sure I stay late enough so that he won’t say anything. I still have this to take care of once I get home.”

You tapped the manila file in your lap and looked over to Bucky as he drove. He was wearing jeans and a pullover crewneck, his hair tied back and casual, and even though you’d seen him outside of work before, he looked different this way. Something about the night and him driving you home made him look different. 

Bucky didn’t make a comment about your work or the system you had to avoid criticism from the Senator. Silence lapsed in the car, you lightly drumming your fingers on your thigh as the D.C. night swept past along the car windows. 

“I would like to get coffee Saturday,” Bucky finally said. “If the offer still stands.” 

“Of course it stands.” 

You only briefly caught the half-smile that lit up his face before the light of the streets was lost to a tunnel. 

~~

Coffee was relaxed and enjoyable, as it always was with Bucky. He asked a few more questions about your work, a topic he had previously not touched on. He wanted to know about your coworkers, if the interns ever helped you, how much time you got off, and in turn, you asked him about being a Congressman and if he actually enjoyed it. 

Both answers left the other person less than satisfied. 

“What about you?” Bucky asked, tilting his cup up. “Why have you been an executive assistant for so long?” 

You hummed. “I don’t know, really. My dad was in politics, and he would only really accept my work if I was, too. He’s… not around now, but I feel like I have to stay. I’m good at it.” 

“I believe it. Could be good at a lot of things, though.” 

You shot him a mock glare. “Trying to get rid of me, Congressman?” 

Bucky leaned forward, placing a hand on the small table that only separated you a few inches. He answered you earnestly, but a small amount of humor lightened his eyes, made him look less serious. “Now, why would I want to do that?” 

Your lips parted to quip something back, but then he was raising his hand again, the heat of his skin lingering at the corner of your mouth. He swiped his thumb there, and you were frozen, a replica of when he brushed your hair back a few nights ago, but the car had been a distraction then. You had been flustered and trying to sort out your belongings, so you didn’t think about it for longer than a few seconds. 

“Whipped cream,” he explained, holding you in his gaze for a moment longer than you should have been. Even as the barista from behind the counter was now standing at your table and speaking. 

“Hi! Would the two of you like to try our new coffee cake? Free samples since it’s new.” 

Bucky was the first to look away, tearing his eyes from yours to smile politely at the barista. You shook from your stupor and quickly reached for a napkin, brushing it against your lips even though nothing remained. 

You felt fuzzy, confused. But also nothing was confusing and you were reminded, again, how attractive the Congressman was. How attractive and how definitely off-limits he was. 

It would be so taboo for Bucky to be dating an assistant. 

“What about you, ma’am?” You blinked several times and looked up to read the small ‘coffee cake’ sign lying next to the treats, the barista’s blinding smile expecting and very retail. 

“I’m allergic to cinnamon, but thank you.” 

“Allergic to cinnamon?” Bucky asked as the barista left.

“Yeah, anaphylaxis and everything. I carry an epipen with me, but I’ve only had to use it once when I was 10. Did you know that some bakeries add cinnamon to buttercream birthday cakes?” you chuckled, reorienting yourself to the present. “Are you allergic to anything? Or, I guess you probably aren’t. Isn’t that a serum thing?” 

“Not allergic to anything, but if I had been, it would’ve been wiped out by the serum. We didn’t really have a lot of food variety in the 30s. Could have been allergic to shellfish—didn’t try that until after.” 

You had to pause the cup at your lips. “Oh my god, I forgot you’re like 100 years old.” 

Bucky’s expression morphed into an offended wince. “Alright, I wouldn’t say that. I haven’t exactly lived 100 years.” 

“I was just thinking the other day how you don’t exactly fit in with the rest of Congress, but you so do! Maybe even on the young side,” you teased. 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky egged on, nodding with his brows raised. “You were thinking about me?” 

You knocked your head back in a laugh, holding your stomach with your forearm. “How did I forget this?” 

“You know what? I’m not driving you home anymore.” 

With lingering giggles, you righted yourself in your chair, a smile still clear in your voice. Contrasting his words, Bucky’s smile was just as wide as yours, a slight redness to his cheeks making him look softer. You brought a hand to cover his arm on the table. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Bucky. You aren’t old. I take it back.” 

“Yeah, you better,” he taunted, though his arm flipped over and he gave your wrist a soft squeeze as he said it. 

~~

Bucky wouldn’t stop touching you. 

You didn’t know if he was doing it consciously or if this was something he commonly did with his friends, but he was going to get you in trouble. 

Outside of work, it was fine—distracting and disorienting, but fine. A brush of his hand helping you into the car, fixing your bag on your shoulder, a hand on your back when you left the coffee shop; over the past few weeks, it had all begun to feel commonplace. 

It could have been frequency that made you more aware of this habit of his, because Bucky had begun picking you up every time you worked late and planned coffee or lunch or even a walk at least once a weekend. So, maybe this was his norm and you were just around him more often—something you enjoyed, but also something that made feelings more difficult. 

Because, again, Congressman Barnes could not be dating an assistant. His credibility among the rest of Congress was already being questioned almost daily, and he did not need the court of public opinion breathing down his neck on top of that. It was a fortunate truth that while the internal part of his job was tricky, most of the public favored him. 

So, as much as your chest hurt and your stomach flipped whenever you were around him, you settled for friendship. A touchy friendship. 

At work, things felt heightened in the worst way possible. 

You couldn’t even understand why he was coming to the top floor so often, seemingly lingering there so he could scare the crap out of you when you’d turn a corner. And then it would be a smile and another hand at your back when he was passing you—a hand that was not necessary. Or he would find you at the tail-end of your lunch break and move your hair away from your eyes, distracting you to the point of no return. 

It was the worst because you were getting distracted, and when you were distracted, you got yelled at. 

Bucky had seen you get yelled at a few times now, each seemingly worse than the last. He kept quiet about it, but you could tell it bothered him. He almost stepped in once—when Brown was irate at the coffee you’d gotten him and chucked it at the wall, you saw Bucky step forward from down the hall. He stopped at the slight shake of your head. 

You were used to the Senator throwing things, and as long as it wasn’t in your direction, it was no harm done. At least, that’s what you thought. 

“You should go to human resources,” Bucky commented one Sunday, the two of you sitting along a lake by the Capitol building. 

You almost snorted. “Right. And what do you think old Mrs. Martha is going to be able to do for me? Brown has been in office for over a decade. If anything, that would just get me fired.” 

Bucky shook his head, expression taut. “There’s gotta be something else then. You don’t deserve all of that.” 

“If we’re talking about not deserving torment, I think I’m the least of our worries here, Sergeant,” you noted, knocking your shoulder against his in an attempted lightness. 

But when you turned to look at him, Bucky was already facing you. “I’m serious, y/n. He’s throwing things at you. I’ve stayed out of it because you told me to, but after today—” 

“Bucky, hey,” you calmed. “I know it seems crazy, but I know how to deal with it. I know he won’t actually do anything.”

“Right now, maybe.” 

You sighed, searching his eyes and trying to discern when this became such an intense conversation. Trying to figure out when the two of you had discussions like this and not just lax coffee hangouts. Against your better judgment, you placed a hand over his thigh and relented. 

“Okay, fine. I’ll work on it, but I’ll be the one working on it, okay? It definitely can’t be you—he would freak out if a representative started ordering him around. Even if you could totally knock him out.” 

Bucky shook his head in disbelief, a smile begrudgingly sneaking onto his face. “I can’t believe you’re joking about this.” 

“You can definitely believe that.” 

“Yeah, I can.” And then you were tugged against his starched, ironed suit, his metal arm holding you close to his chest.

You gasped a little at the initial contact, your heart hammering against your ribs as Bucky simply kept you there. This is dangerous, your brain reminded you, but it was also harmless, if you looked at it the right way. 

“You know, I’m not going to die, Bucky. I’ve dealt with this for years.” 

“Yeah, you keep joking about that,” he gruffly replied, the words a ghost against the top of your head. You hadn’t realized his lips were that close. “If we could keep the death jokes to a minimum, that would be great.” 

You pulled back from him enough to look at his face. “Why? Afraid your only friend will bite it?” 

“Hey, I have other friends.” 

“I haven’t seen ‘em.” 

“Shut up,” he groaned, tugging you back in. “You can meet them as proof. Next weekend.” 

“Okay, sure, Bucky,” you sang out, tapping his chest. “But if we need to reschedule this meeting with your 'friends,’ I would understand.” 

As Bucky went on to refute your insinuations in a grumpy tone, you tried to pretend that this felt like that—just a friendship. 

~~

Approximately four days later, everything went to shit. 

Senator Brown was on a tirade, screaming at everyone and everything in his path. When he got like this, the admin staff usually locked the doors to his office and the entire floor if they could, but today, they weren’t ready for how angry he was. 

It was a bill, or a speech, or maybe even the press catching wind that he was cheating on his wife—it didn’t matter. He was pissed and you were going to have to answer for it. 

You stood in his office with a clear view of the glass wall connecting to the hallway, hands behind your back and fighting off a wince with every curse and insult the Senator threw at you. 

“I hired you to take care of this bullshit! Why the hell am I dealing with this when I’m supposed to have an entire staff? This is fucked!” 

“You’re too worried about going home early, you can’t even assemble a reply to an email correctly! A fucking email!”

“I should’ve fired you weeks ago. When you started fucking off to wherever you take too long for your lunch break and stopped doing your job. I swear to god, this country has—” 

You were only retaining about half of what he said, which was good, considering everything was an attack on you, and your work ethic, and then he even started going in on your clothes and your apartment. It must have been something really bad this time. After he was done yelling, you would check his texts and probably find a couple of mentions of divorce sprinkled in between messages with his lawyers. 

Affairs and divorce were always messy for politicians. 

“Of course, Senator. I will do better. I apologize,” you offered, unsure what you were apologizing for at the present. It wouldn’t matter; he would just start up again about another topic. 

“Damn right you will or I’ll send you out on the streets. Do you know how hard it is to get a job in D.C when a Senator blacklists you?” 

Did you ever. 

When Bucky had asked you why you stayed, you left out that key bit of information. He was still newer to the field and didn’t need to know that Senator Brown held that over your head each time you even hinted at moving on. 

You figured the screaming was almost over. Brown was in his 60s, so he would be getting tired. And it probably would have been over if he hadn’t checked his Apple Watch and read a text that got him fired up once more.

You greatly regretted setting that up for him. 

You braced yourself for further yelling as his face began to turn red, but were alarmed as the Senator reached for the wooden pencil case on his desk and threw it. Pens flew, and you knew he wasn’t aiming for you, but the cup hit a vase on a high bookshelf to your right, which then toppled over and shook loose the framed art hanging above your head. 

You should have moved, but you spotted Bucky in the hall, and he always distracted you. 

The frame shot straight down, smacking you in the head and causing your knees to buckle in surprise. You fell to the ground, feeling dramatic and disoriented as the room silenced and your ears rang. You knew he wouldn’t apologize, but the continued quiet as you pushed yourself up and sat back on your haunches was almost deafening. 

The glass door to the office swung open. 

“What the hell?” A hand was on your elbow. A colder one felt around the top of your head. It was Bucky, obviously it was Bucky, but you were too afraid to look, keeping your gaze locked on Senator Brown. “Hey, you okay?” 

The hand on your head moved down to your jaw, forcing your gaze to Bucky. He searched every inch of your face as you blinked at him, mind blank. “Um, I’m fine.” 

Your brows furrowed, trying to connect the chain of events that led to this. You brought your hand up to replace where Bucky had placed his, the action seemingly spurring him into action. 

“The hell is wrong with you, huh?” Bucky shouted, rising from the floor. “You think it makes you tough to throw things at her?” 

Senator Brown had gone from furious to unsure, probably aware of the physical strength Bucky harbored. But, as was typical with politicians, he would not put anything before his pride. Brown righted his expression and pursed his lips. 

“I wasn’t trying to hit her, Congressman. It was a simple accident. You weren’t even in the room to see it happen.” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t need to be. You’re screaming at her when you’re not throwing. What kinda grown man does that?” 

“Bucky—” you cautioned, glued to the floor still. 

The senator directed his attention towards you, brows raised accusingly. “Oh, so you’ve been gossiping about me, then?” 

You shrank back, hand lingering where your head ached, but Bucky stepped in front of you, blocking you from Brown’s line of sight. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Bucky seethed, jutting a finger into Brown’s chest. 

Brown’s head sharply turned. “That you are, Congressman. But it seems like my assistant here no longer wants her role, so this conversation is moot.” 

“Wait, I—” 

“Maybe if you spent time picking on someone your own size instead of acting like a coward—” 

“Bucky, don’t—” 

“A coward? A coward? Who’s the one who cannot speak for himself on the board? Tell me, Barnes, is that part of some unresolved trauma from some nondescript decade?” 

“You shut your mouth before I—” 

“Congressman Barnes,” you called, authority that didn’t belong to you heavy in your tone. You were two seconds away from losing your job and being blacklisted, neither of which you could handle. Bucky froze, his anger still held in his shoulders. “Thank you for your concern, as I’m sure you were just passing by when you saw what happened, but I can assure you that it was an accident and I am fine.” 

Bucky looked over his shoulder with furrowed brows, but took a step back and dropped his hands by his sides when he caught your expression—still disheveled, but resolute in your decision. He needed to leave. You needed to save your career. You could… figure everything else out later. Probably. 

You bit into your bottom lip until it hurt. 

Bucky looked at the wall behind your head and then tracked his gaze to the forming lump on your crown. “But—” 

“I am fine,” you repeated slowly. Having risen from the floor before calling his name, you walked to the door and held it open. “We’re very busy. Please excuse us.” 

Bucky licked his lips as he looked to the floor, shaking his head in abject disbelief and following your direction. When he met the entryway, he tilted his head slightly, opening his mouth to say something, but thinking against it. His hand twitched at his side, and then he left, taking long, purposeful strides away from the office. 

You took a deep breath, allowed yourself a moment as the door closed, and then you did something purposeful yourself. Even if it killed you to do so. 

~~

Bucky’s POV

Bucky was losing his mind. 

After leaving Brown’s office, he’d stormed into his own and promptly shut and locked the door. Tugging his tie away from his neck and prying the uncomfortable suit jacket from his shoulders, Bucky then began to pace. He was pissed. He was so beyond pissed. 

It would have been so easy for him to knock that Senator out, and he would have deserved it. Bucky had had to watch for weeks as you were berated and screamed at, and then the line was crossed when he saw him throwing things. You hadn’t let him do anything, and then you hadn’t let him do anything again after you’d been hurt. 

He watched you flinch and cover your face, and even that hadn’t been enough. 

Bucky swiped a hand over his mouth. 

When had you started to matter to him so much? That was a stupid question, and apparently, he was full of stupidity today.

He promised that he’d let you take care of it, and then he went in there and almost killed Senator Brown. A replay of you falling to the ground looped in his mind, and actually Bucky didn’t feel stupid at all. All he felt was rage. 

“Shit,” he breathed out, knocking his head back and falling back into his office chair.

He’d messed up. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but he knew you were not happy with him. What did “taking care of it” even mean? And why were you so dead set on keeping that awful job? Bucky could think of at least a dozen other jobs in D.C. that would not involve you being verbally and physically abused. 

Fuck, he wished he had more pull, but as a Congressman of only a few months, there was little he could do against a Senator. And he had a meeting in five minutes. 

Bucky pulled his phone out and sent you a quick text about talking after work, let out the longest sigh of his life, and then readjusted his tie. 

That had been three days ago. 

You never texted him back. And you left the building far before he could give you a ride home. When he asked your coworkers, they said you were no longer working overtime and left during normal hours. 

Fine. That was good, actually. Only, Bucky never saw you. 

He frequented all of your normal spots, wandered up to the top floor, and even stopped by the coffeeshop two days in a row, and you were nowhere. Avoiding him, obviously, and while he understood (he didn’t), he mostly wanted to put eyes on you. To make sure you were okay. 

Sure, you didn’t have a severe head injury, but it was more than that. 

Bucky brought his turmoil to the barbecue Sam was holding that weekend. The one you were supposed to be at. 

Nursing his fifth beer that wouldn’t do anything, Bucky leaned back against the fence of Sam’s yard and sulked. He’d talked to a few people when he got there, but sulking was on his agenda for the afternoon. 

“What’s up with the stank face?” Sam asked, entering Bucky’s orbit of solitude and despair. “It’s gonna get stuck like that if you keep it up.” 

“I don’t have a stank face,” Bucky argued. 

“Right, right. Well, right now you have more of a pissed off face, but I guess I bring that out in you.” Sam paused and then smacked Bucky in the shoulder. “Come on, man. What’s going on, seriously? Does it have to do with that girl you were supposed to bring?” 

“I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“Oh, you don’t? Then it’s that.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes, knocking back more of his beer as the sizzle of burgers juxtaposed with his somberness. “Alright, fine. It’s that. But it’s stupid. We weren’t even…”

“Dating?” 

“Yeah. That.” 

“You told me you went out for coffee and all that. That you would go on long walks at the lake and canoodle at work.”

“Are you going to take this seriously?” Bucky accused. “‘Cause if you’re not, I’m leaving right now. I’ll leave.” 

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Sam surrendered, raising his hands. “But really, Buck, that all sounds like dating. Tell me why she didn’t come.” 

Bucky clenched his jaw and stared out at the merriment of the barbecue, remembering the scene more vividly than he would have liked. He tried to find an exact moment that would have led to you avoiding him, but he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe it was the entire thing? 

“I think she’s mad at me. I kinda went off on her boss and she told me she wanted to take care of it.” 

“What do you mean ‘went off’? And isn’t she working under a Senator?”

Bucky puffed out a breath. “Yeah, Senator Brown.” Sam let out a low whistle as Bucky continued. “He yells at her. Throws things. I felt like it crossed a line this week, so I guess I kinda stormed in. She threw me out and’s been avoiding me since. We had talked about it before and she said to stay out of it, but, Sam, the guy’s a dick.” 

“And you really like her,” Sam added casually. “And I really like her,” Bucky confirmed. 

Sam paused to contemplate, though Bucky didn’t know what he could possibly offer that Bucky hadn’t already considered. He really, really liked you—more than he figured possible, especially with all of his attempts at dating since his pardon. But then you’d surprised him that night at the hotel, and he’d been hooked. 

He hadn’t even had the chance to tell you.

“Well, two things,” Sam began, leaning on the fence next to Bucky. “Sounds like she knows what she’s doing, so you should have trusted her. But—” Sam cut out as Bucky opened his mouth “—it also sounds like Brown’s a major ass with a lot of power. You don’t know what he might have over her, slimy dude like that.” 

“What, you mean like blackmail?” 

“Maybe, who knows? You just gotta talk to her, man. Work it out.” 

Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder before wading back into the party in the yard. Bucky, feeling somewhat lighter but also still at peril, kicked off the fence and made his own attempts at being sociable. 

“As soon as I can actually find her,” he grumbled to himself. 

~~

The charity gala had been on your calendar for the past six months, and still, nothing could have prepared you for how much you didn’t want to attend. 

You usually enjoyed events like this. You got to dress up and eat nice food, and Brown always got too drunk to remember that his assistant was even in the building. The first hour felt like work, and then the rest of the night was cosplaying as a rich politician. 

That was not the case for this gala. 

Ever since the ordeal with Bucky, Senator Brown had kept you on a tight leash. Whether that was due to how much he enjoyed intimidating you or his fear that you actually were telling people he was a mean, abusive boss, didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this gala was going to suck and there was nothing you could do about it. 

You had apologized profusely, swore up and down that you didn’t know Congressman Barnes, and practically pledged your life to Brown in every way you knew how. You never left the office, never took a lunch break—you were pretty sure your eyes were permanently dry from how long you stared at a screen all day. 

Making you attend this gala and not leave his side was another ploy to make you atone for your wrongdoings. Maybe the man knew how much you enjoyed these events and was taking advantage of that. 

“Check this,” Senator Brown lazily ordered, draping his coat over your arms. “And meet me back in the dining room. You get to sit right next to me.” 

You offered him a tight smile and felt the ache in your shoulders begin to fester. You were more uptight this week than ever, but that had nothing to do with Bucky Barnes. Nothing. 

It was just this job and your future in D.C. hanging in the balance. 

Obviously. 

You meandered over to the coat check, taking longer than you needed to and dragging your feet along the way. Your phone was buzzing incessantly in your bag—most likely some PR fire you’d need to put out before more people realized Brown was cheating on his wife—and you had absolutely no inclination to drag it out. 

“Just these two,” you offered, pressing the coats into the attendant's hands and taking the ticket in return. 

“Actually, can you add this one to that ticket?” 

As if this night couldn’t get any more uncomfortable. 

You could feel his chest against your back even before you heard him. He shifted his arms out of his sleeves and placed a hand on your shoulder as he leaned towards the counter. Of course he smelled good. Why wouldn’t he?

You fought the urge to roll your eyes in repressed… something and spun on your heel. 

He was just as close as you were expecting and also far too close for comfort. You knocked your head back to catch his gaze, trying to appear unamused and angry. 

“Why would you do that?” you asked. 

Bucky paused for a moment, searching the planes of your face for a beat too long before replying, “No reason to open another ticket. I’ll just leave when you leave.” 

“You mean you’ll leave when Brown leaves, then?” 

The muscle in his jaw jumped. “So, nothing's changed.”

This time, you did roll your eyes. You clutched the coat check number in your hand and began to storm off, not in the headspace to have this conversation at this gala. Bucky, however, did not seem to mind. 

The hand on your arm was soft but firm as you were tugged into a closet and subsequently shoved into a rack of hanging coats. It was too dim to see beyond your hands out in front of you, but Bucky solved that predicament as he entered your space. 

“Did you seriously just throw me into a closet?” you whisper-yelled, all too aware of the staff only feet away. 

“I had no choice,” he replied with the same urgency. “You were stomping off. And I didn’t throw you in here.” 

“I was not stomping off,” you scoffed. 

“You were.” 

“Was not!” 

“I could hear your heels. You were stomping.” 

You groaned, pushing into his chest to try and create distance that wasn’t available. Your back only hit the wall. 

“Fine. What do you want?” 

Bucky froze for a moment. “I… I didn’t actually think you’d stay in here. Or let me talk, if I’m being honest. 

Your jaw fell open, an incredulous laugh slipping out. You’d almost forgotten how endearing he was in just about everything he did. Even as he stood in front of you in a full, three-piece suit, smushing you against a closet wall because he had dragged you in there with no plan, a part of your chest warmed. 

Your phone vibrated in your bag, and that warmth turned to ice. 

“I don’t have time for this,” you determined, wiggling your way towards the door. 

“Wait, hold on. I do have something to say, wait,” Bucky pleaded, metal hand—more gentle than you were sure it was ever used for—encircling your wrist. He tugged you back even closer this time, your face inches from his. “I wanted to say sorry. And… and I want to get it.” 

“Get it?” you parroted, trying extremely hard to ignore the dropping feeling in your gut as he stared into your eyes. 

“I want to get why you stay. Why you let him treat you like that. I want to know so I can… feel okay backing off.” 

All you could get out was, “Why?” 

Bucky’s next words were spoken as he stared down at your lips. “I think you know why.” 

Breaths began to fail you, each exhale more ragged than the last. You had been expecting this, in a way, and that was why you always made excuses. He couldn’t be with you because he was a Congressman. You were only an assistant. You couldn’t date him because you were too busy. He wouldn’t want to date you, anyway. Senator Brown would never be okay with it. 

All of those excuses evaporated within the shared space of the closet, and then you got scared. So, you blurted out what he wanted. 

“He won’t let me quit. He won’t let me work anywhere else.” 

Bucky blinked, a fog clearing from his heated gaze. His head jutted back an inch, and the hand that had somehow found a home on your jaw paused its ascent into your hair. “Won’t let you?” 

“I’d be blacklisted.” 

“He can’t do that.” 

“He can.” 

Bucky opened his mouth to speak again as the air in the closet became breathable and light peeked in from the cracking door. You sprang back from the Congressman, pushing his hand away from your cheek and slamming your back into the wall. It didn’t help much; the fifteen-year-old with the shawl in her hand was already making her own assumptions as you rushed past her and left Bucky to his own devices in the closet. 

Amazing. 

Just amazing. 

You debated moving states, or countries, or entire career paths as you hurried into the dining room of the gala. Not only had you taken too long at the coat check, but you knew you looked completely flushed and out of it. You prayed that Brown was already drinking and wouldn’t catch on. 

Thankfully, your prayers were answered. 

While he was not happy to see you, his raised brow and side-eye deadly as you sat down, he didn’t say anything. And that was how dinner went—quiet and uncomfortable for you, but otherwise par for the course for Senator Brown. 

Bucky was staring at you from across the table. The room was backlit by dull candles and expensive chandeliers, and you could feel his gaze on the side of your face like an unprecedented heat. He often flickered that gaze to Brown, but it would harden, become angry.

There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do. 

You either stuck it out with Brown or tossed your political science degree in the trash can on your way out.

When dinner passed and dessert was served, you eyed the lemon tart mocking you from your plate. Dessert, when your life felt so out of control and confusing, couldn’t hurt, you figured, so you picked up your fork and ignored the knots taking up space in your stomach. 

“Yours looks better.” Senator Brown picked up the lip of your plate and slid his in its place. “Here.” 

“But—” 

“Oh, don’t complain about it. Who complains about chocolate cake?” he peeved, snickering to the men on the other side of the table. He then went on a drunken rant about “good help” and the “youth of today” as you looked down at the cake in front of you. 

Was D.C. even worth it? 

Bucky was staring at you again. He wasn’t directly across from you, a few centerpieces blocking your view, but you could feel it. To avoid him—and your feelings—you ate the cake. Brown and the men sarcastically cheered as you did, alcohol clear in the air at this point, and you took another bite to get them to find some other novelty. 

You took three bites before it started to sink in. 

You vaguely registered that Bucky had pushed out from the table, a clink of silverware preceding the motion. It was too late for him, however, because as your own fork clattered down, you could no longer breathe. 

Your tongue felt ten times too big in your mouth and your throat was glued shut, air tunneling through any openings it could find. You pushed out from the table and stood. The extra space didn’t do anything. You clawed at your throat until your legs became unsteady and failed from the lack of oxygen. 

The table was extremely long, so at some point, you thought you heard Bucky dive over the dinner party rather than continue his trek around to your side. Other sounds filtered past the panic clogging your ears. 

“What’s wrong with her?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Is she allergic to something? It’s an allergic reaction!” 

“Brown, what is she allergic to?” 

“How should I know?” 

“Well, do something!” 

As you were grappling for your purse, a choked whine fell from your lips. It had been kicked somewhere, pushed out of your grasp, and no one at this damn gala was helping you. Several older women had gone to their knees with worried expressions at your eye line, but they weren’t doing anything. 

“Move.” 

Your head was beginning to spin, and your thoughts were blurring, but you heard Bucky. He came to your side much faster than it felt, moving things around that your blurred vision couldn’t catch. And then, pain. And then relief. 

Your gasping breaths were supported by gentle hands on your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. You grappled at Bucky’s wrists and tried to parse out panic from physical symptoms, but there was so much commotion in the room and your head was still so fuzzy. 

“You’re okay,” Bucky assured you, voice almost too low to catch. Someone was on the phone with 911 in the back. “You can breathe with me. Come on. Don’t—hey—don’t look at them. Look at me.” 

Your chin was pushed forward, and then your forehead connected with his. Ringing persisted in your ears. Your hands were beginning to shake from the epi, your jaw following close behind. 

“I got you, okay?” 

“F-f-feels—” 

“I know,” he hushed. When your breath was somewhat steadier, he tucked your head beneath his chin and began barking out orders. He asked for an ETA on the ambulance, for your jacket, for ten other things you couldn’t register. And then, “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” 

The chaos of the room went silent. Within your shaking hands clutched in Bucky’s suit jacket, your fingers spasmed out of fear. 

“Excuse me?” Brown scoffed. You were honestly surprised he was still in the room.

“What, throwing things at her wasn’t enough? Had to try and kill her?” 

“B-bucky—” 

“Throwing things at her?” you heard from across the room. “Brown, what is Barnes talking about?” 

“I have no idea,” Brown spat out. He jutted his hand out towards you on the floor. “He never knows what he’s talking about. We’ve established that.” 

“Right,” Bucky deadpanned, pulling you closer to his chest as you gasped for breath. “So what do you call this?” 

“An accident, obviously.” 

Bucky let out a puff of air through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. Silence blanketed the room once more, and it was clear that he had given up. His hands were glued to the back of your head and your back, and he didn’t have the time or the drive in him to care about Brown right now. 

“I saw you switch the plates.” The quiet voice came from across the table, the young blonde’s face registering in your memory as you peeked out from beyond Bucky’s chest. “She had a card with it, too. It said there was an allergy accommodation.” 

Low murmurs fell over the room. Brown, much to your surprise, looked at a loss for words, his expression betrayed as he stared at the woman across the room. It clicked then, where you knew her from. She was on the front cover of every article you were pressured to get taken down, and the contact photo for the main caller in Brown’s phone. 

“What? No,” Brown refuted, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, either. She’s barely even a secretary. She’s—” 

The eyes around the room made his words trail off. “Barely even a secretary” was certainly a degrading title for his mistress, and everyone in the room knew it. If you were to look at your phone, you’d have seen that the newest story of their relationship had been blowing up all night. You guessed she was fed up with him denying it. 

Sirens sounded beyond the doors of the ballroom, breaking up the tension at the wide table. Brown used it as his getaway, throwing his napkin down and muttering something about insolence or idiots or something of the sort. You couldn’t really hear anything over Bucky’s low whisper in your ear, followed by his lips against the side of your head. 

~~

After being monitored in the emergency room for approximately six hours, the night shift staff sent you off with a horde of medication to take for the next month and, of course, a new epipen. You trudged out past the waiting room, prepared to wait in the parking lot for an Uber, when a certain man sitting in a chair far too small for him caught your eye. 

He was half asleep, his face held in his metal hand as he nodded off and woke up just as quickly. His suit looked stiff and uncomfortable as he twisted his wrists, dragging the sleeves up to his elbows. He’d discarded the jacket somewhere, probably lost to the world now. And then he spotted you, your dress awkwardly draped over your body in your haphazard attempt to re-dress, your hair completely out of place, and your hands filled with paper bags of medication.

He shot out of the chair, holding everything in your hands in one of his, and assessed you himself. His gaze roved the mess you’d become. He should have made a joke about it, maybe teased you for almost dying, but instead, he ran a hand over your head and dragged you against his chest. 

“Scared the shit out of me,” he murmured into your hair. He pressed another kiss there, reminding you that the first one hadn’t been your imagination. 

“You didn’t have to stay,” you said, clutching his button-up in your hands. 

“‘Course I did.” He leaned you back, hand still woven at the base of your hair, not caring that he was in the middle of the ER waiting room. “You okay?” 

It only took you a moment to make a decision. 

You pressed up, kissing him even though you were in the ER waiting room. Even though you both looked like a mess and you’d almost died and you had no idea if you still had a job. You kissed him and it startled him, the paper bag of medications crunching in his hand, but he kissed you back without hesitation. 

It wasn’t a passionate kiss—not like the breathless, wanting kisses you would share late, share tomorrow—but it was confirming something. Bucky held you and had his lips firmly against yours, his brows furrowed in a way you couldn’t see, and he confirmed everything you’d suspected. 

You figured you wouldn’t need to work if your boyfriend were a Congressman. 

He’d survived Hydra, the Winter Soldier program, forced participation in international espionage, and at least five poorly planned press conferences post-election. He could sit through an eight-hour appropriations meeting without blinking. He could endure cable news pundits tearing him apart with that little tight-lipped smile his staff told him tested well voters. He could even shake hands with lobbyists who smelled like cold shrimp cocktails. But a leaky ceiling? That was absolutely unacceptable, especially when that infuriating drip that had formed a perfect little puddle on the corner of his office rug.

He’d stared at it for fifteen minutes with his pen anxiously tapping on his oak table.

Then he’d finally called Facilities. 

They said someone would come in ten minutes.

He had expected a maintenance tech. Maybe a guy in coveralls, definitely someone who wouldn’t make him feel like he was the problem.

But when the door opened 9 minutes and 53 seconds later, it wasn’t a maintenance guy.

It was you.

He knew you. Well, sort of. 

He’d seen you in hallways throughout the capitol with your sturdy clipboard. You’d pass through committee rooms with arms full of archival documents or rolled blueprints. Sometimes you were animatedly talking to other staff. Sometimes you were alone with your hair swept behind your ear, skirt hugging your hips, heels kissing the floor.

So yeah, he’d noticed you around. Who wouldn’t?

But he didn’t know what your job was.

Not until you stepped into his office without knocking, clipboard at your side, ID badge clipped to your fitted blazer. 

Your eyes scanned the ceiling before he could even speak, and you didn’t even look at him.

“Uh,” he blinked. “Excuse me?”

You didn’t miss a step. “I’m here to look at the leak.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked from the ceiling to you, then back again. He set his pen down very slowly, before standing up to meet you.

“You’re the plumber?” he asked, trying his best to not sound confused, but failing anyway. After all, you were definitely not carrying a wrench.

You raised an eyebrow. “What if I am?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it… and then reopened it. “Well… are you?”

“No,” you shrugged with a faint teasing smile, checking something off on your clipboard. “I’m with Historic Preservation.”

He stared. “Historic— what?”

“Preservation,” you repeated, gesturing at the spot in his ceiling. 

“But…” Bucky crossed his arms, walking forward and leaning back on his desk. “It’s just a leak.”

“No,” you sighed, almost lecturing him. “It’s a leak in the Capitol.”

“And?” Bucky asked, though he regretted it almost immediately, especially when he saw your face scrunch up in frustration, looking at him the way a museum curator might look at someone touching an exhibit with Cheez-It fingers.

“And,” you said, exasperated but trying to stay professional, “the Capitol is 232 years old. The materials up there are specific. They have to be matched precisely. I need the correct slate, the right lime mortar blend, and a restoration team who actually knows what a hand-split rafter is.”

He opened his mouth.

You cut him off, stepping closer, making him squish closer to his desk as the drips seemingly started to echo around the room. “Moisture spreads. It warps beams. It damages historical craftsmanship we cannot replace. And if you don’t vacate this office, I can’t stop it from getting worse.”

Bucky swallowed. “How long?” he asked, voice a touch strained.

“At least two weeks,” you said without hesitation. “Most likely more.”

“Two weeks?” He echoed, eyes going wide. “I have meetings. And hearings. And—”

“—And if you don’t let me do my job, the ceiling could collapse on your precious paperwork,” you said pointedly. 

Bucky glared. “Are you always this bossy?”

You held his stare yet refused to answer such a rhetorical question.

He let out a deep breath, pacing a step away as you watched him patiently. You seemed almost amused by his frustration. 

“Well,” he said finally. “You can’t just throw me out of my office.”

“I can,” you said sweetly. “And I will.”

That grin, with a hint of mischief behind your professionalism, felt like venom injected into his veins.

He crossed his arms, his vibranium overlapping his human one. “You know, I’ve seen you around. Always in a rush, always carrying ten things at once. I assumed you were important, but I didn’t think you were… eviction-level important.”

You turned your back on him. “I’m flattered the congressman notices me.”

His mouth opened, but no words came out. 

Hand on the doorknob, you looked back over your shoulder. “I’ll send you a list of approved temporary office spaces. Pack everything. The work will start in two days.”

He tilted his head. “And if I refuse?”

“This building is older than even you, Congressman Barnes. If I have to, I’ll shut the water valves in the entire east wing to mitigate the damage,” You shrugged like it was light work. “Congress can function without you for a day. It can’t function without plumbing.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

Your smile widened. “Try me.

—

The Capitol at night always felt different.

Yet here you were, 36 hours after you initially learned of the leak, walking down the corridor at 11-something PM, Your steps sounded too loud in the empty hallway as you walked toward Congressman Barnes’ office. Midnight inspections the day before repairs started weren’t unusual when moisture was involved, but today had been a long day, and you would rather be in bed with a mug of hot chocolate, than in a (probably) haunted hallway. 

When you reached his door with a clipboard tucked against your ribs, you realised… a light was on. 

That was strange. No one was supposed to be here this late.

You pushed the door open.

Bucky Barnes stood in the center of the room, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened, a half-packed box next to his foot. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. 

He looked up, startled for a second, before his expression settled.

You froze in the doorway. “Why are you still here?”

Bucky lifted a stack of papers, shoved them into a box, and glanced at you over the edge of it.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he said. “I’m packing.”

You stepped inside, arms crossed. “Don’t you have aides and assistants for that?”

“Yeah,” he huffed, nudging a box with the toe of his dress shoe. “But they’ve been working overtime the past month. I sent them home early. Trust me, they need the rest.”

“And you?” you asked, stepping closer to pick up a stack of folders that were dangerously teetering on the edge of a box. “You don’t need rest?”

He snorted. “I’m a supersoldier. I’ll manage with, like… four hours of sleep.” He paused. “Three if I drink terrible cafeteria coffee.”

Despite yourself, you let out a surprising laugh slip past your lips.

Bucky chuckled, looking at you like he’d discovered a rare floral species. “Ah,” he said, lips curling into a smile. “She laughs.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you with another small, unwilling smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

He didn’t push too hard. But for a moment, the silence stretched between the two of you. 

Plip… plip… plip….

You cleared your throat, stepping around him to look at the water stain. It had widened, trickling down the molding, reflecting the yellow office lights.

You clicked your pen. “Leak’s getting worse.”

“I kind of figured,” he said dryly. “Water hit me in the head earlier. Felt like the building spit on me.”

You tried not to smile again. “You should’ve vacated already.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, tapping the lid of the nearest box shut, “breaking up with an office is harder than I thought.”

You snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m aware,” he said. 

You could hear the hum of the vents. The drip from the ceiling. The muffled sound of him shifting his weight behind you.

“Well,” Bucky shook his head finally, muttering, “This is going to be a long night…”

You crouched to grab another stack of folders, glancing up at him as you lifted them. “Need a hand?”

“I…” His eyes flicked to you warily. “Yeah, actually. But if anything gets misfiled, it’s on you.”

“Oh, Congressman Barnes,” you said, amused, “I don’t misfile.”

For the next hour, the two of you worked in silence. You passed boxes back and forth, sorting papers, taping lids shut, balancing stacks of books. Occasionally, he muttered about lost pens or how much of a disaster the leak had become. You rolled your eyes at him once, or maybe twice. 

At the end of the night, he dropped the last box with a soft thud. You glanced at him. “You’re not as annoying as I thought you were, Congressman Barnes.”

He froze, leaned against the desk, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. “Call me Bucky.”

“Well, Congressman,” You stood to your feet, straightening your clipboard as Bucky sighed. It probably took a lot for you to break protocol. “I’ll be back at seven with the restoration team. We’ll get started then.”

He nodded. “I’ll be out before that.”

You walked toward the door, but you could feel his eyes on you.

—

For the next two weeks, Bucky Barnes worked in what he referred to, mostly to annoy you, as “the broom closet.”

It wasn’t actually a broom closet. Not technically. 

His temporary office was a leftover storage room someone on the administrative staff had “converted” by sticking a folding desk against the wall and calling it functional. 

You kept him updated, of course. You wrote him daily emails. Sometimes a few check-in phone calls here and there, except for one incident where you had to tell him to stop peeking into his old office like a lost dog because the restoration team kept reporting a shadowy figure lurking in the hallway.

“I wasn’t lurking,” Bucky had grumbled on the phone. “I was observing.”

“Observing what?”

“…My ceiling.”

You chuckled, but you couldn’t dwell on it. After all, every afternoon, you stopped by the site to oversee contractors, taking measurements, snapping photos, reminding men twice your size that no, they could not drill into 200-year-old beams because it was “easier.”

And every few days, by some cosmic coincidence (or perhaps Bucky's capacity for mild stalking), you would run into him at a café right across the street.

At first it was awkward.

You’d see him in line, shoulders hunched, tie crooked, eyes half-open. Perhaps, he had been reading sixteen policy drafts since sunrise.

He’d see you with hi-vis and hard hat tucked under one arm, looking like you’d just stepped out of a meeting where you had to convince someone not to patch a leak with duct tape.

The first time he saw you, he offered a stiff nod.

You gave one back.

The next time, he tried a smile.

You gave one too. 

By the fourth or fifth accidental run-in, he held the door open for you with a teasing, “Do you live here or something?”

You’d chuckled. “I could ask you the same, Congressman.”

“Bucky,” he corrected again. 

Soon, it became routine. It was always black coffee for him, a medium latte for you.

He sat at the little table by the window, and you would always pass by that table going to or from a meeting.

And he always caught your eye just as you did.

Sometimes, he offered a lift of the chin. Other times, a nod hello. It was… friendly.

And yet, he was still suffering.

Because his temporary office was, frankly, a disgrace.

And you found that out when you showed up one morning with coffee.

—

You knocked on the flimsy door of the temp space.

Bucky’s voice came through, muffled. “If that’s another intern asking if the Winter Soldier is behind the Kennedy assassina—”

“It’s me,” you called

There was a beat of silence before you heard the grating sound of a fold-up chair scraping across the floor.

The door swung open with Bucky staring at you. His hair was slightly messy, sleeves rolled up. 

You looked around the cramped room.

“This place is smaller than I remembered it,” you said immediately.

Bucky snorted, stepping aside to let you in. “Well. It works.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Barely.”

You sounded almost sympathetic, and Bucky appreciated that. Then he noticed the second coffee cup in your hand.

“For me?” he asked, suspicious.

“No, it’s for the other person who lives in this shoebox," you joked, handing it over. It was black with two sugars, just like he always got it. “Yes, it’s you.”

He took it cautiously, like it might vanish. “What’d I do to earn this?”

“Well…” you started, tapping your foot nervously, knowing you were the bearer of bad news, “I kinda felt bad because something has happened with your office.”

His eyebrows tightened. “Oh no.”

You exhaled. “It’s worse than we thought.”

Bucky’s head dropped back dramatically. “Don’t say it.”

“We had to remove sections of the ceiling.”

“Don’t.”

“We found water damage in very rare wooden columns.”

“No.”

“And—”

He pointed at you. “If I need to stay in this god forsaken closet for another week, I’m quitting.”

“It’s going to take at least a month.”

Bucky stared at you like you had stabbed him.

“A month? In here? With this desk that was absolutely purchased from a preschool garage sale?”

“It’s not that bad,” you tried.

“Is that sarcasm?” he demanded.

“A little.”

He groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. “I can’t live like this. I’m a veteran. I deserve a window.”

“You have a window,” you pointed out.

“That’s a vent,” he sighed.

You smothered a smile. “Congressman—”

“Don’t try to soften the blow.” He gestured around wildly. “I’m pretty sure the walls are closing in.”

You hesitated for a moment, shifting your own coffee cup in your hands.

You didn’t have to offer this.

You really didn’t.

But watching him fold himself into a chair three sizes too small because the room was apparently built by people who had never met a man over six feet tall… well, you can’t let that happen, can you?

You cleared your throat. “We could share an office.”

Bucky froze. “What?”

“My office is in an outbuilding annex. It’s meant to host contractors when they need a workspace, but most of them are working indoors right now. So… big enough for both of us.”

He stared at you like you'd just offered him a winning lottery ticket.

“You want me to… work with you?” he asked slowly.

You had an involuntary eye twitch. “I’m offering shared office space.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding quickly. “Right. Obviously. That’s what I meant”

You looked around you awkwardly for a bit,not knowing how to reply to that.

“Are you sure?” he asked, carefully. 

You allowed yourself a small smile. “I’m sure.”

He looked around his tiny temporary room again, then back at you.

“Oh,” he said again, quieter now. “Okay.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, trying to act completely unaffected by the warmth in his tone.

“Great,” you said briskly. “I’ll put in the transfer request.”

—

The request was granted within three days, and Bucky moved the next morning. Thankfully, most of the boxes hadn’t been unpacked yet, so moving was a breeze. 

When he arrived, he quickly realised that the outbuilding annex wasn’t just an office.

It was more of… a hybrid creature.

It was part office, part workshop, part architecture lab, and part creative chaos with high-ish ceilings, exposed beams, and industrial windows that let in morning light.

You had drafting tables, sample racks. And shelves —so many shelves loaded with labeled boxes and carefully stacked materials.

When Bucky stepped inside carrying a box of paperwork, he stopped dead in the doorway.

“This is… interesting,” he said slowly.

You didn’t look up from the slate samples you were rearranging. “Would you rather be in your little broom closet?”

“It’s interesting in a good way,” he corrected.

“Well, I did warn you,” you replied, clicking a measuring tape back into place.

Bucky set his box down, eyes scanning the room. He studied the blueprints clipped to easels, old sketches taped to the wall. In the other end of the room were lime mortar samples drying in trays, fabric swatches pinned to corkboard, and stone materials stacked in neat rows. And in the center of it all, was your desk, if it could even be called that.

It was a wide farm-style crafting table, scarred and paint-speckled, covered in maps, notes, and sample trays. There was just enough room for a laptop and a coffee, and a half-opened crate holding chunks of historical molding next to it.

Next to what he had assumed was your space, stood a mahogany desk, not unlike his own. It was a little more scratched, a little weathered.

Bucky stopped in front of it, blinking. “Is this mine?”

You brushed dust off your hands. “Technically, yes.”

“Technically?”

“That,” you said, tapping the corner with your knuckle, “was President James Buchanan’s desk before his family redecorated the White House.”

Bucky stared at the desk. Then at you. “You just… had this lying around?”

“It was collecting dust in archive storage,” you explained. “You needed a workspace, and I thought it would be… interesting to let you borrow it.”

A smile crept across his face, both impressed and incredulous.

“My mother would be thrilled right now,” he chuckled. After all, she was the one who named him after the president. Still, he never understood why. He had consistently read that President James Buchanan was one of the worst presidents in the history of the country— and that was saying something. 

“Don’t get too attached.” You crossed your arms, pretending you hadn’t enjoyed that reaction. “The archive almost had a meltdown when I requested it.”

He turned to you. “And they still agreed?”

“It took a lot of paperwork,” you sighed, “and a promise that I’d keep a very close eye on it. Which I am. So please—please—do not spill anything on it.”

Bucky held up both hands like he was being held at gunpoint. “Noted.”

—

Within an hour, the two of you had a functional, however, mismatched, shared space.

Your side was historic chaos.

Bucky’s side looked like an administrative briefing room exploded.

He had stacks of reports, binders, and sticky notes everywhere. Three pens had already gone missing. There was a folder labeled CLASSIFIED sitting under a binder labeled ABSOLUTELY NEED TO READ TODAY! that his assistant dropped in ten minutes earlier.

Still, kept glancing over at you, at the way you handled the materials.

You measured, compared, and jotted notes.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair, watching you with curiosity.

“I had no idea your job involved all this,” he admitted.

You didn’t look up as you fitted two stone samples together. “Most people don’t.”

“I thought historic preservation was just… I don’t know. Approving renovations. Making sure no one installs neon lights in the Hall of Presidents.”

You almost smiled. “That is part of it.”

“And the rest?”

“Research.” You lifted a brick, feeling the texture between your hands. “I source materials, match colors. I replicate original designs and make sure the building stays historically accurate while functioning in the present.”

He picked up a stray stone chip and turned it over in his hand. It was smooth on one side, rough on the other. “This is… impressive,” he admitted.

You paused, surprised by the sincerity in his tone.

Then… 

Brrring.

Your phone buzzed.

You sighed and stepped over to the worktable, flipping open a notebook.

“Callback from a supplier,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “Let’s see if this one finally knows what I’m talking about.”

Bucky watched as you picked it up.

“Hi, yes, I’m looking for a very specific paint stock. Umm… historic blend, circa early 1800s, mineral-based, high lime content, slight blue-green tint—”

You paused, listening to the guy on the other side.

Your face fell. “—No, not turquoise. No… not seafoam either. No, I’m not looking for ‘minty fresh,’ who even— okay, goodbye.”

You hung up with a dramatic groan and dropped your head onto the table.

Bucky tilted his head. “That bad?”

You didn’t lift your head. “Why can’t I find the right paint for your ceiling?”

“You have paint.” He gestured to the shelves.

“No,” you mumbled into your arms. “This one has to match the original coating used when the Capitol was repaired in 1851. It has a particular pigment ratio and I am one phone call away from losing my mind.”

Bucky reached over and gently nudged your elbow.

When you peeked up at him, his expression was sympathetic, but a little amused.

“You’ll find it,” he encouraged. “You’re too stubborn not to.”

You huffed out a laugh. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“Absolutely.”

You sat up, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s just frustrating.”

Bucky swiveled in his chair. “You care about this place,” he said, almost in realisation.

You blinked.

“I didn’t get it before,” he admitted, “I thought you were just… strict. Or scary.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

He held up a hand. “In a good way.”

You shook your head, but your smile snuck through.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“Most people don’t give a shit,” he continued. “But you… you treat the building like it’s alive.”

You swallowed. No one other than you had ever put it like that.

“Well,” you said, “someone has to.”

Before he could respond, your phone buzzed again.

You grabbed it, answering quickly.

“Hello? Yes? You have a mineral-based lime-tint blue from the 19th century? With sample cards? …What do you mean, ‘sort of’?”

Bucky chuckled, and you glared at him, trying not to smile.

—

One night, after a fourteen-hour day on site, and kicking out three more house representatives out of their offices because the leak was just that bad, you stumbled into the annex carrying a box of quartzite rocks you were testing.

Bucky, who had been pretending not to wait for you, jolted up.

“Whoa—hey. Give me that,” he said, appearing at your side.

“It’s fine, congressman.” you protested weakly. “They’re only forty pounds.”

“Yeah, well, you look like you’re about to collapse. Give. Me.”

You sighed and released the box.

He lifted it like it weighed nothing.

“Show off,” you muttered, knowing full well it was your fault you invited a supersoldier with a heart of gold into your space. 

—

What was supposed to be one month became two. And by the end of month two, you knew it would be a miracle if you wrapped up by month three.

The office leak was worse than anticipated, the internal structure needed reinforcement after further investigation, and the mortar was deteriorated in three different places.

And then, the White House called for a crisis.

The President Ross Red Hulk Incident left structural damage that needed experts (plural) and you were one of them. It was a mandatory all-hands-on-deck restoration effort.

Which meant you had to supervise that and do Bucky’s office repair at the same

He’d taken the news surprisingly well. 

Maybe he had grown fond of the place. Or maybe he had gone fond of you. 

—

Bucky didn’t complain once. The annex was a short walk from the main Capitol building, but it was a detour no congressman with a packed calendar should’ve tolerated. Yet if anything, he seemed to prefer the walk. Every time he returned from a hearing or a vote, he shrugged out of his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and settled at his borrowed mahogany desk like the annex was his real office all along.

Somewhere between the fabric samples and the stacks of appropriations reports, a strange mutual understanding formed between the two of you. You still addressed him as “Congressman Barnes,” because formality was a shield, and you were stubborn about rules. Everytime you said it, he would look up from whatever briefing he was reading.

“Call me Bucky,” he’d correct, but it was a request he already knew you’d ignore.

You always huffed, always rolled your eyes, always said, “Protocol matters.”

It didn’t take long before shallow conversations about the weather turned deeper. You found yourself venting about your job in ways you never did with colleagues. You started telling him how exhausting it was to field frantic calls from suppliers, how sourcing the right materials felt like hunting for a ghost, how any mistake in your work wasn’t just a mistake but a scar on American history. Your job was inherently apolitical— you shouldn’t have been telling a congressman your concerns about legislation that would hurt conservation efforts, but Bucky listened with genuine attention that the words spilled out anyway.

When he talked, it surprised you how honest he was. He told you about the pressure of living inside the political circus, how everything he did was scrutinized, how the chamber debates felt performative and hollow some days. How he sometimes worried he wasn’t doing enough, even when everyone told him he was doing more than most.

It was never dramatic, never self-pitying. 

Then there were the nights.

You often worked late, both of you.

More than once, you stayed buried in paperwork or material testing far past dinner, not realizing how long it had been until your eyes were burning.

Those nights, Bucky would disappear for twenty minutes and return with food. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you insisted, though your stomach growled embarrassingly loud.

“I know,” he said, sliding the container closer. “But you weren’t going to eat unless someone made you.” 

It became a habit. 

He’d place a container of takeout beside your elbow as if it were no big deal. Sometimes it was dumplings. Other times it was sandwiches. He got soup when he could tell you were cold. Still, he never made a show of it; he’d just sit back down and continue reading his briefings, pretending he hadn’t just saved your body from collapsing on itself.

Little things like that kept happening.

He’d toss you a bottle of water when you were too focused to stand. You repaired a button on his sleeve that he hadn’t noticed had torn.

Even Hugo, Bucky’s assistant, noticed. 

He stopped by the annex one day after lunch, and when he stepped inside, he saw you standing on a ladder, holding a blueprint up to the light.

Bucky holding the ladder steady with one hand and your coffee with the other.

Hugo blinked, looking between the two of you before looking at his boss.

“Should I come back later?” he asked cautiously.

Bucky jolted like he was caught doing something illegal. “No—no, it’s fine— we’re just— working.”

Hugo raised an eyebrow, putting down a stack of documents. “Right.”

You climbed down the ladder, your cheeks warm. It didn’t help that you let Bucky’s metal arm steady your waist to steady your descent, even though you were perfectly capable of doing it yourself.

When you turn back to the blueprint, Hugo gave Bucky a very knowing look.

Bucky glared back as if to say Shut. Up.

Hugo smiled politely and left.

—

A week later, Bucky stormed into the annex one afternoon like he was ready to punch a hole through the walls himself, which was not unusual after attempting to pass a bill. He had an argument about a veteran policy on the chamber floor, and it had been brutal. He had nearly shouted at someone on his own side of the aisle. This fight over legislation that should have been simple, but somehow became personal. What hurt the most was that he thought they were on the same side. 

You were already there, in the middle of moving a crate of samples, arms trembling from the strain. Your pencil skirt had probably caught on the corner of the crate somewhere, tearing slightly at the hem, but you hadn’t noticed. You were too focused on the task at hand.

“You okay?” he asked immediately, “I’m fine,” you said, wiping sweat from your brow. “Just a long day. You?”

He exhaled loudly, dropping his own stack of papers with a thud. “You have no idea.” His hands ran through his hair once, before he sunk down onto the floor beside the crate. He leaned back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him.

You sighed, sitting beside him, trying to move carefully around the samples.

Neither of you said anything at first, but then he reached for the takeout containers Hugo had brought for both of you (probably his favourite noodles and dumplings) and nudged one toward you. “Eat,” he said simply.

You laughed, opening the container. “Thanks, Bucky.”

The name slipped out before you realised it.

His fork paused mid-air. He tilted his head, lifting an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You called me Bucky,” he pointed out, lips curving into a handsome smile you had been seeing more and more lately. “Not Congressman Barnes. Not even Mr. Barnes. You actually said my name.”

“I… I—” You flinched, aware of how taboo it felt in the halls of the Capitol. “I just… felt like it.”

He laughed, leaning closer across the floor just slightly. “You just… felt like it?” he teased. “Breaking protocol, huh? Bold move.”

“I—” You flustered, trying to avoid his gaze as you felt heat climb your neck. “It’s different.”

“Well,” he chuckled, leaning back slightly but still watching you. “You could get in trouble for breaking house rules.”

Still, you glanced up at him, nerves twisting, and whispered, “Bucky…”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” you said, half-teasing, half-serious.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. 

And in that moment, sitting on the floor with takeout containers between you, Bucky wondered if your heart was beating at a million miles an hour, too. 

—

That night, Bucky came home wearing a stupid little smile after replaying your laugh in his head for the entire drive.

As he opened the door, he bent down to pick up a piece of mail that had been just delivered today. It was a white envelope, and he could feel the heavy cardstock inside. His name was printed in elegant ink.

He stared at it for a long moment, before he tore it open with his human hand.

Inside lay the embossed invitation.

THE WHITE HOUSE Office of the Social Secretary Representative James Buchanan Barnes, You are cordially invited to the Annual State Gala, to be held Saturday at 7:00 PM in the East Room of the White House. This is a black tie event. Your invitation includes admittance for one guest (+1). -Office of the Social Secretary

He tilted his head.

A plus one.

He never had a plus one to bring. Sometimes he’d bring Sam, or maybe Joaquin, but surely they'd be invited to this event, too. And he couldn't invite his assistant or any of his staff, because he’d promised them the weekend off, and that included any social affairs.

But no, he never brought a date. Not the man who was, by all public accounts, notoriously single since restarting his overextended life in the  21st century. Who the hell was he supposed to bring? Who could he possibly stand for one whole night—

Shit.

His brain immediately went to …. You. 

You, with your hair falling over your shoulder, some breathtaking dress that would definitely make his heart forget how to beat properly, standing beside him as he walked in the building. You, with your arms around him.

He swallowed hard.

“No,” he told himself. “No. Get a grip, Barnes.”

He set the invitation down for a second. He picked it back up abruptly before setting it down again.

He ran a hand through his hair, before walking toward the fridge, opening it, staring into the hollow abyss. He closed it, and walked a confused circle like an animal pacing a cage.

“Why her?” he muttered out loud to himself. “Why would I think of her?”

He leaned against the countertop.

Oh, who was I kidding? He thought to himself. I know why.

His head replayed the moment tonight, to the two of you sitting on the floor of the annex.

You, the woman who obsessed over architectural detail and rigid protocol had called him his actual name for the first time in the privacy of your office, and that felt like a fucking breakthrough.

Bucky…

He groaned, slumping further.

He’d felt something. You must’ve felt it too. Unless….  that was wishful thinking.

“God, what is wrong with me?” he whispered, pushing off the counter and pacing again. “I’m a grown man. I fought aliens. I fought Nazis. I should not be losing my mind over— over—”

He gestured helplessly at the air. He stopped pacing, shoulders slumping.

He thought of the way your face lit up when you talked about preserving history, how your hands went on autopilot when you were excited, and how you’d taken care of the building like it was a living thing.

He liked that about you, probably more than he should.

He liked a lot of things about you, more than he’d let himself admit until this exact moment, holding a stupid gala invitation.

He walked to the couch and sat down with elbows on his knees. “Do I have a crush on her?” he asked into the empty room.

The answer was, of course, silence. 

“Oh God,” he whispered. “I have a crush on her.”

Once he said it out loud, it felt irreversible.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake. He was not a high school student, and he shouldn’t feel like this over a silly little crush.

“Nope,” he said loudly. “Nope. Nope nope nope.”

He started pacing again.

He grabbed the invitation again, reread the elegant gold lettering. He tried imagining walking into the gala with someone else, anyone but he just… he just couldn't.

It felt wrong.

“Okay,” he murmured, exhaling shakily. “Okay. So. I like her.”

He swallowed.

“I like her.”

His heart thudded faster the more he said it.

“I like her. I… I like her. A lot.”

There it was. The truth.

He pressed his hands to his face again, but this time he laughed into them. “I’m so screwed.”

—

The next morning, Bucky had a plan. Today, he’d ask you to lunch first— just to make sure you felt the same way about him.

In fact, he had practiced asking you out twelve times already.

Well, twelve times out loud, and roughly sixty-two in his head while sitting through a morning hearing he absolutely did not absorb a single sentence of, not that he cared about it. It was just another person on the other side of the aisle who had proposed to cut funding for yet another overinflated military budget. He knew he was gonna vote ‘Nay’ anyway, so instead, his notes page looked like this:

veterans’ benefits

funding amendment

ask her to lunch

NOT “as friends unless you want to—" 

By the time they adjourned, he was gripping his folders like they were flotation devices on a sinking ship.

He was going to ask you in the annex, but saw you down the hallway first, standing near the marble column with a phone tucked to your ear while inspecting a tiny crack on the beam. You were wearing your favorite blazer, the one that fit you perfectly at the shoulders, the one that made his heart flatline.

He inhaled. Okay. It’s fine. Just walk and ask her to lunch here. Get it over with. 

He started toward you just as you hung up the phone.

Perfect. Timing was immaculate. This was it. This was—

“Hey,” he greeted, heart banging like a malfunctioning drum.

“Hi Congressman,” you smiled. “How was the session?”

“Well, It wasn't what I was hoping to hear from representative—” he caught himself, stopping before he rambled off, “But that doesn't matter. It was fine. I was just thinking maybe—”

“Hey!” you cut in brightly, smiling at someone over his shoulder. “Jason!”

Jason?

Bucky turned.

“Sorry congressman,” you apologised as you waved to a tall, handsome guy who was striding over, “Can we catch up later, I have… plans.”

“Right,” Bucky said.

“Jason,” you said as the new brown-haired man approached the both of you, “this is Congressman Barnes. Congressman, Jason.”

Jason held out an eager hand. “Pleasure. I can’t believe I’m meeting a living legend.”

Bucky shook it automatically. “Yeah. Hi. Hey. Hi.” Even though he wanted to smash his face into a nearby bust of Rutherford B. Hayes for no good reason.

“So you ready?” Jason asked you.

“Yeah,” you said. “Got the reservation?”

Jason nodded, "It's in thirty minutes, so we better hurry up if we wanna make it for lunch.”

He… was taking you to lunch? Bucky’s heart felt like a condensation-fogged glass that was gonna explode.

You turned back to him, apologetic but distracted. “Oh—sorry, Congressman Barnes. I meant to tell you earlier. I won’t be in the annex until Wednesday.”

He blinked, caught off-guard. “Wednesday?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I’m spending the rest of my day in the Smithsonian today, and I’m scheduled to be at the White House all day tomorrow. So… Can you lock the office when you leave?"

“Right,” Bucky said faintly. “Yeah. Sure. I can do that.”

God, what was he even saying? Lock the door? Lock what? He’d sooner lock himself in and rethink his existence.

“Thanks,” you said with a distracted smile that still knocked the air out of him. “I’ll see you Wednesday, okay?”

You walked off toward Jason.

“Nice meeting you, congressman,” Jason said as you reached him, perfectly polite and respectful.

“And you,” Bucky managed to choke out. 

And then the two of you walked down the marble hall together, talking about whatever you two talked about.

Bucky stood frozen in place, folders clutched to his chest like a Victorian heroine about to faint in a rose garden.

—

Bucky arrived at work the next morning in a mood that could only be described as self-inflicted misery. He kicked an acorn halfway down the sidewalk, cursing at it like it had rejected him. 

He should’ve known. He should’ve known. He’d had close to three whole months to figure out his feelings. He had so much time to ask you to lunch. He had so much time to stop acting like a coward and just asked a woman if she wanted a fucking sandwich with him.

But no.

He’d waited too long, and Jason, tall, decent, handsome Jason, had swooped into the hallway like some rom-com rival on fucking steroids

“Stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath. “Stupid stupid stupid—”

The annex door groaned when he pushed it open, but the sight inside stopped him cold.

Jason was sitting at your desk.

He was perched casually on the corner of it, legs crossed at the ankle, flipping through a sample booklet while your entire worktable looked like it had been rearranged for the day.

“Morning, Congressman Barnes,” Jason said brightly, like he belonged here.

It took Bucky an extra beat to remember how words worked. “Morning,” he said stiffly. He squinted, “Morning… Jason.”

He walked toward his own desk but didn’t sit. His eyes kept darting back to Jason on your desk. Jason touching your sample trays. Jason in your space.

“What are… what are you doing here?” Bucky asked, trying (and failing) to sound casual.

“Well, your office is almost done.” Jason tapped the paint swaths in his hand. “She asked me to take over the painting today while she’s at the White House.”

“Oh.” Bucky blinked. “I didn’t know you worked in historic preservation, too.”

Jason, thankfully, didn’t notice the strain in his voice. Yet.

“Not exactly,” he said, putting the booklet down. “I’m a paint specialist at the Smithsonian. She’s been struggling to nail the 1800s pigment blend, but I managed to recreate it from scratch.”

“Mm.” Bucky nodded tightly. “That what you two did after your… date yesterday?”

Jason froze, tilting his head in confusion. “What date?” he asked.

“The lunch date,” Bucky said, metal arm tightening. “Yesterday. You two had lunch together.”

Jason’s eyes flicked up to Bucky’s face, and this time, he actually looked.

Finally, he noticed that Bucky was standing too straight. His arms were folded, fingers digging into his biceps. His metal shoulder was tense.

Jason’s lips parted in realization. “Ohhh,” he mentioned, lightly amused. “Oh. I see.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “See what?”

Jason’s smile grew. “Congressman… that wasn’t a date.”

“It wasn’t?” Bucky said, but it came out a touch too hopeful.

“I certainly hope not.” Jason snorted. “My wife would kill me.”

Bucky blinked so hard Jason had to fight a chuckle.

“Your… wife?”

“Yes.” Jason hopped off your desk, stretching his back. “Your good friend here introduced us when we met in grad school. In fact,  my wife’s a crown molding specialist. She’s with her at the White House right now for the final repairs.”

“Oh,” Bucky internally collapsed like a folding chair.

Jason folded his arms, the amusement unmistakable now. “And by the way, Congressman…” He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if delivering classified intel. “She talked about you a lot at lunch.”

Bucky’s spine straightened like someone had yanked a string.

Jason’s grin sharpened. “And I mean… a lot.”

“Oh,” Bucky said.

Jason shrugged, amused by the sudden deer-in-headlights look on the face of a literal super soldier. “If you want to ask her out, I’d do it sooner rather than later. She’s… popular with the White House staff.”

Bucky’s throat went dry. “Popular?”

“Oh yeah,” Jason said with a sympathetic wince. “Half that building would ask her to dinner if she’d slow down long enough to notice.”

Bucky did not like that information at all, but at least he now knew he had a chance. 

“Anyway,” Jason picked up a bucket of paint and patted him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

Good luck, indeed.

—

Bucky spent the entire night thinking about you. And by “thinking,” he meant lying flat on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it held the secret to modern adult communication.

He’d practiced the question in his head a hundred times. Then out loud, in the mirror. Then, and god help him, in the shower.

“Would you… do you maybe wanna… no, Barnes, Jesus.”

“Hey, the gala’s coming up and I was wondering— stop. You sound like you’re sprinting.”

“Would you be my plus-one?”

“…Was that too blunt? Not blunt enough? What the hell does a normal human man even sound like?”

By 2 a.m., he’d gotten desperate and asked the toaster.

Spoiler alert: The toaster was no help.

So Bucky woke early, exhausted but determined

He shaved, he combed his hair. He picked the good work suit jacket even because he wanted to be prepared — because he was determined to make the moment happen today.

His heart had other plans, though. It punched at his ribs the entire walk to the Capitol grounds.

This is nothing, he told himself. Just a question. I fought aliens, I fought myself, I can handle asking her to a gala.

He reached the annex building with his pulse basically croaking out of his throat.

He put his hand on the doorknob, and pushed it open.

There you were, in the middle of the room, kneeling on the floor surrounded by folders. Your hair was twisted up with a pencil, muttering to yourself as you compared fabric swatches. Sunlight came through the tall windows and framed you in a warm halo, and for a moment Bucky genuinely forgot what oxygen was.

You looked up.

Your face lit up in a smile. “Oh! Good morning!”

Bucky felt his knees turn to jelly. “Mornin’,” he said, voice cracking on the second syllable.

He cleared his throat immediately, but you didn’t seem to notice.

“Good news,” you said, standing and brushing off your hands, “I’m spending the rest of the week doing the last inspections for your office. If everything looks good, we can sign off on it on next week.”

“That’s great,” he said.

It would’ve sounded casual if his voice wasn’t slightly higher than usual. And if his hands weren’t balled into fists. And if he weren’t swallowing his own saliva out of dehydration.

You tilted your head, curious. “You okay?”

“Me?” His voice squeaked. “Yeah. Yes. Fine. Totally fine.”

He was not fine. He was seconds away from hyperventilating.

But this was the moment. He could feel it. He had the question right there on his tongue, trembling like a tightrope walker ready to step forward.

He took two steps closer.

“…Hey, I actually wanted to ask you—”

“Oh!” You cut him off. You weren’t trying to be rude, you were just… excited. “That reminds me!”

Still, your words slammed into him like a door shutting in his face.

You picked up your clipboard. “I forgot to tell you, I’m working the State Gala on Saturday!”

Bucky froze mid-breath.

“…you’re… working it?” he echoed slowly.

“Yeah!” You beamed, completely unaware you’d just shot down a Howitzer shell of romantic momentum. “It’s the first time the White House has opened the doors to a gala since the Red Hulk incident, so the Chief of Staff wants me there supervising all the historic artifacts and loaned pieces. I’ll be on-site all night doing oversight.”

“Oh,” he said quietly. “…oh.”

You were still talking enthusiastically, oblivious to the ruin behind his eyes. “It’s a big honor. They don’t usually bring preservation people in for social events, but after everything that got damaged, they want someone who knows how to handle the fragile pieces.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

The words he had practiced… just evaporated like steam.

Bucky nodded numbly.

You kept talking, excited and passionate and so wonderfully dedicated that he hated himself for feeling crushed by it.

You idiot, a voice whispered in his head. She has a life. She has responsibilities. Not everything revolves around you wanting to take her out on a silly little date.

“Oh. Okay,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “That’s… that’s good. That’s great.”

“It’ll be a long shift, but I think it’ll be fun.” You gave him another bright smile. “And hey, you’ll be there too, right? Congressman?”

Bucky nodded like a slow-moving automaton. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll, uh… be there.”

Your eyes glittered with excitement. “If you see me, wave. I’ll be the one trying to keep diplomats from touching the antique silverware.”

He managed a smile. “Yeah. I’ll wave.”

You turned back to your clipboard to begin checking over the paint swatches.

Meanwhile, Bucky stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor.

—

He didn't really see you for the rest of the week, save for you rushing in to grab a notebook and then rushing back out to do the finishing touches in his no-longer-leaky office.

In fact, he didn’t really have a meaningful conversation with you until the night of the State Gala.

That night, spotlights swept along the White House façade. Security lined the perimeter in crisp in perfect rows. Every guest arrived with clean attire, attempting to pretend they weren't all terrified that something catastrophic might happen again after the Red Hulk incident.

And Bucky stood in front of his mirror for a full ten minutes doing absolutely nothing except staring at his reflection and trying to convince himself to breathe normally.

He looked fine. He looked good. And since he declined the +1, he asked Sam and Joaquin if they wanted to arrive together. 

But still, his stomach was twisted, and the question he never got to ask still hovered in his chest.

He tried not to think about you as he walked through security.

But the moment he stepped into the ballroom, filled with chandeliers and diplomatic chatter… he saw you across the room.

And his brain short-circuited so violently it felt like static behind his eyes. He could’ve sworn the metal plates of his arm whirred.

You were standing near one of the display cases, talking with Jason and, presumably, his wife, checking a list on your tablet. You wore a fitted blazer, a tailored pant suit, clean lines that made you look confident and sharp and modern —

And Bucky forgot how to breathe. In fact, he stood in the middle of the doorway like an idiot.

“Man, what the hell are you doin’? Move.” Sam, coming in behind him, bumped into his shoulder. “They’re gonna think you glitched.”

Bucky did anything but move.

Sam frowned, following his line of sight. Then let out a dawning whistle. “Oh.”

Joaquin arrived just behind them, balancing two flutes of champagne on his crutch, and nearly spilled both. He has just been discharged from the hospital after his celestial island crash a few days ago, but he didn’t want to miss this. “What’s going on?”

“I think,” Sam teased, "It's a girl.”

“Shut up,” Bucky muttered, his throat tight.

Joaquin finally looked at you, before looking back at his friend. “You gonna close your mouth or should we get you a bib?” he teased.

But Bucky couldn’t look away.

You were laughing at something Jason’s wife said.

Jason caught sight of Bucky first. He elbowed his wife and gestured. She looked over, whispering something that made Jason chuckle. They both waved.

That’s when you turned.

And when you saw him, your face lit up just like it always did. You excused yourself from the couple and walked toward him, tablet tucked to your side. The crowd parted around you as if gravity had a favourite.

Sam muttered under his breath, “This boy’s about to faint.”

Joaquin whispered, “Do you wanna borrow one of my crutches, man?”

Bucky wanted to punch both of them.

When you reached him, he straightened his posture so quickly he nearly knocked into a waiter.

“Congressman,” you said, grinning. “You clean up well.”

He swallowed  too hard, too obvious. “You — you look…”

Your eyebrow lifted.

Bucky panicked. “Professional,” he blurted.

Behind him, Sam slapped a hand over his own face so loudly a senator turned around.

And you…just gave him a gentle laugh.

“Well, that’s the goal,” you said, smoothing your blazer. “Everything looks stable so far. No damage, no mishandling, and only one attempt to touch the 1800s silverware.”

Joaquin leaned to Sam and started whispering something he could not make out. 

Bucky ignored them.

Or… he tried to.

“How’s your night going so far?” you asked.

Bucky opened his mouth.

Before he could find a syllable, you were called back by a White House staffer waving frantically about lighting levels along the artifact wall.

You touched his arm, nothing but a quick, professional brush, but it burned like electricity streaking through every nerve.

“I’ll be around,” you said, giving him an apologetic smile before stepping away to handle the situation.

Bucky watched you disappear into the throng.

He didn’t realize he was staring until Sam elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“So,” Sam said, drawing out the word with unbearable smugness, “What are you gonna do about her?”

Bucky glared. “I’m not— I wasn’t— I just—”

Joaquin raised his champagne. “To the congressman’s crush.”

Bucky hissed, “Lower your damn voice—!”

Too late. A passing intern glanced over, intrigued.

Sam threw an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Relax. Nobody’s paying attention. Except us. And everyone with eyes.”

—

An hour later, Bucky found himself needing to get out of the crowded room. He wasn't a big fan of being stuck with most people he had to pretend to like, and the two people he actually liked, Sam and Joaquin, were teasing him relentlessly.

The moment he slipped through the back door that led to the garden he let his shoulders drop. Outside, the world was quieter, and easier to breathe in.

He scrubbed a hand over his stubble, exhaling. Just a minute, he told himself. Just one.

But then he saw you.

You were leaning against the stone ledge with your elbows braced behind you, head tilted slightly, listening to the wildlife who had made a home in the garden. The yellow wash of the exterior lights softened the shadows across your face and lit the stray strands of your hair like they’d been painted there.

“Oh.” Your eyebrows lifted. “You needed air too?”

He nodded, trying, and failing, not to look like he’d just walked into the one place he hadn’t expected to find you. “Yeah,” he said a little too quickly. “Just… needed a minute.”

You gave him a knowing little smile. “Let me guess. Captain America got wine drunk and won't shut up.”

He huffed a laugh. “Somethin’ like that.”

You pushed off the railing and faced him, your eyes shifting from amused to genuinely concerned. “Are you… okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure he could trust his voice.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Just… crowds. And the attention. You know.”

You nodded, stepping a half-step closer. “I get that.” You turned your gaze back to the building, exhaling in awe. “I mean… look at this.” You gestured toward the illuminated exterior. “It’s the White House, Bucky. I don’t think it’s ever going to feel normal.”

He watched you, not the building. That, and this was the second time you ever called him just Bucky.

“What’s goin’ through your head?” he asked.

“I just…” You laughed slightly, shaking your head. “I never thought I’d ever get to be part of restoring something with this much history.”

He leaned against the railing beside you, close enough to feel your warmth. “What do you like about it?” he asked quietly.

You blinked, surprised he could still stand hearing you geek out after sharing an office with you for three months. 

“Old buildings are… honest.” You touched the railing again, this time feeling the texture. “I can try to fix every scratch… but none of it gets erased.”

He swallowed. Perhaps he had more in common with historical buildings than he initially thought.

“And the White House specifically…” you went on. “Great things happened here. Terrible things too, if we’re being honest. Horrible decisions, extraordinary moments, tragedies, victories. It’s… all of it deserves to be preserved because it’s a reminder of how far we’ve come, and how far we still have to go.”

His human hand clenched shook, only a little.

You didn’t notice. Or if you did, you pretended not to.

“So when I think about being able to help restore even a tiny piece of it…” Your eyes glinted with a faint shimmer of a tear. “I feel lucky to get to honor the good with the bad.”

Bucky didn't know it yet, but part of you weren’t just talking about the White House.

“Most people only want the good parts and pretend the mistakes didn’t happen,” he sighed, “But you… you wanna keep the whole story.”

You gave a shy smile. “Someone has to.”

He nodded, eyes dropping to your hand resting on the stone.

And that’s when he reached out, like approaching a wild animal that might spook.

His fingers brushed yours first, and you didn’t pull away.

So he breathed out shakily and slid his hand over yours.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Bucky?” you whispered.

“I…” The word trembled, so he tried again.“I don’t… I’m not good at talking about things.”

You stepped to the side, closing the space until your shoulder brushed his arm. “Hey,” you encouraged. “It’s just me.”

He looked down at your joined hands like he wasn’t sure they were real.

“What are you…?” You hesitated, breath catching in your throat. “What are you trying to tell me?”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t wanna fuck things up.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.” His voice cracked. “I usually do.”

You reached up, and cupped his jaw with your free hand, thumb brushing lightly along his cheekbone.

“You can tell me anything,” you whispered, leaning in just a fraction, “You know that.”

He mirrored your movement, slowly, like gravity was pulling him.

Your noses brushed, breath mingling with his.

And just as you were about to lean in the final inch, the door flew open.

Jason’s wife poked her head out, flustered. “Oh! Sorry—um, we need your help. The kitchen wants to use the vintage ceramic, and they need your approval.”

You jerked back, heart racing. “Right. Yes. Of course.”

You turned to go, then paused in the doorway.

“Bucky?” Your voice was small. “After the event… Can you drive me to the office? I…I have a surprise for you.” 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll be there.”

You nodded, eyes lingering on him for a beat longer than necessary before you slipped inside.

—

Bucky wasn’t sure exactly when the night had finally wound down. He only realized it when he looked around and suddenly everyone was packing up, putting on their jackets, and the staff started doing the mundane end-of-event cleanup that always happened after big government functions. The buzz, the chatter, started dissolving.

But he couldn’t relax, couldn’t check out. Not when he was waiting for you to finish off your to-do list.

He waited off to the side, leaning against a marble pillar, arms folded loosely. His eyes kept drifting back to you, crouching  beside a table, double-checking inventory forms against the vintage ceramics the kitchen had used, Jason and his wife were fluttering nearby like a frantic bird, talking to a curator about something Bucky wasn’t really listening to.

“Bucky,” Sam said as he passed, giving him a side-eye. “You know you look like a dude waiting for his date to finish saying goodbye to her friends, right?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Shut up.” 

Sam said his goodbyes and chuckled with Joaquin all the way out the door.

But Bucky didn’t move. Not even an inch.

Eventually, you closed the last storage crate, pressed your signature onto the final form, and handed the clipboard back to Jason with a smile. 

You stretched your back with a small, relieved noise and that was when you spotted Bucky’s

“Thank you for waiting,” you said.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, pushing off the pillar. 

“Well,” you said, picking up your bag, “I hope you weren’t bored out of your mind.”

“Watching you do inventory?” Bucky made a face. “Absolutely riveting.”

You snorted. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

He reached for the stack of loaned items you were carrying, but you held them tighter.

“No, no,” you protested, stepping back. “It’s fine, I’ve got it.”

“Come on,” he said. “Let me take it. Your arms must be tired.”

You huffed a small laugh, finally relenting and handing over the boxes. “Thanks.”

—

The drive was quiet, save for the low hum of the engine filling the space as he pulled out of the parking lot.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye.

He was focused on the road, but his human pinky ticked every few seconds, like he was holding something behind his teeth.

“So…” you ventured, voice light. “You had a good night?”

“Mm-hm.”

“You okay?”

“Yep.” he said, looking back at the road. “Just… thinking.”

“Oh God,” you joked. “Should I be concerned?”

“Probably,” he deadpanned.

You nudged him again. “Tell me.”

He shook his head. “It’s not important.”

You didn’t press. You didn’t need to. 

When you finally reached the Capitol, you unbuckled your seatbelt.

“Come on,” you said. “Let’s go inside.”

—

The office annex building was quiet at night. You flicked on the lights, illuminating the long hallway and the row of newly imported bricks lining either side like little islands. 

Bucky followed you to your desk before you paused. 

“Okay,” you said. “Close your eyes.”

Bucky tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

He snorted. “Not usually how command structures work.”

“No,” you agreed, stepping closer. “But humor me.”

He hesitated for exactly one second, before sighing and closing his eyes.

You smiled to yourself, reached into your drawer under your desk. You pulled out the small brass key, and gently took his hand.

His eyes twitched. “Do I get to open them now or…?”

“Hold on.”

You placed the key in his palm. The cool metal clinked against his vibranium fingers, and he automatically closed his fingers around it.

“Okay,” you said. “Now open them.”

Bucky blinked, adjusting to the light again before looking down at what he was holding. For a long moment, he simply stared. “This is—”

“Your office key,” you finished.

“You’re giving it back.”

“You can move back on Monday,” you confirmed. “Everything’s cleared and reassigned.”

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. He turned the key over in his hands like it was precious. “Oh.”

You tilted your head. “Isn’t it a good thing?”

He shook himself out of whatever thought he was having and forced a smile. “No, yeah, This is good.”

“You don’t sound sure,” you frowned, only a little.

“I am,” he said quickly, looking back down at the key again. “I just… the surprise,” He lifted the key slightly. “Was this it?”

You chuckled, smiling. “No.”

“Then what is?”

You reached silently into your drawer again.

Bucky watched with wary curiosity. His lips parted as you pulled out a thick folder, worn at the edges from being thumbed through repeatedly.

“Here,” you said. “This is the surprise.”

You held out the folder between you, your fingers brushing against Bucky’s ever-so-slightly as you offered it.

“What… what is this?” His had a glimmer of curiosity lighting up his eyes.

You let out a small breath, “The Capitol Code of Ethics.”

He stared at you, like you had just handed him a live grenade. “The… what?”

“The ethics code,” you said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I… did a little research.”

“Research?” His brows knitted together. “Why?”

You shrugged, leaning a little closer, letting the air between you thrum with unspoken tension. “Because… Jason thinks you have a crush on me.”

Bucky froze. The folder stopped mid-air as if the weight of your words had shifted it. “What?”

“And,” you added, smiling faintly, “I wanted to see if it mattered. You know… for rules. Protocol. Technicalities. Stuff like that.”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “Wait… I… Jason said…” His voice cracked slightly, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to repeat it aloud.

“Well,” you started, your eyes locked on his. “Is it true?”

You weren’t asking for gossip. You weren’t asking for validation. You were asking because the surprise would only matter if it was…. True.

Bucky swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Here goes nothing.

“Well… yeah.”

You let a small smile pull on your lips, “Good to know,” you could barely contain your smile. “Because I stayed up all night last night checking if this is permissible.”

Bucky tilted his head, the ghost of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “Permissible?”

“I wanted to check if any sort of relationship is even allowed,” you said, stepping slightly closer, letting your shoulder brush against his. 

You flipped the folder open, pointing to one section after another, letting your finger trace the lines. “See here?”

“Yeah?”

“If you look at the lines here, Article 4, Section B, Subsection 3— it specifies that personal relationships are only restricted when there’s a direct reporting line. And technically, that’s not… you know, us. I mean, I work for the Capitol, not directly for the… the government. So, technically…”

Bucky blinked at the page, then back at you. He seemed to be trying to absorb it all, but his attention kept flicking to your face, the way your hair framed you. You could see the realization dawning in his eyes: nothing in these pages prevented what could happen between you two, and perhaps, this obsession with doing things right was a reminder why he was falling so deeply in love with the woman fixing his stupid office leak. 

“And then,” you continued, pointing at another line, “even here, see—restrictions apply only if there’s a financial oversight or direct decision-making authority. You’re not my supervisor, so—”

He tilted his head, his eyes dropping to your lips. “You are… incredibly thorough,” he pointed out, a smile playing on the edges of his mouth that made his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners.

You blinked, caught off guard by how warm his voice sounded, how it seemed to soak straight through the seams of your blazer.

“Well, someone has to be,” you said quickly, stepping back toward your desk as if distance would slow the heat pooling under your skin. You thought, stupidly, that you could actually confront this without feeling nervous. For a while, your job distracted you. But now… now you weren’t so sure. “If I’m not thorough then people poke holes in the process, and then something gets misplaced, or mislabeled, or re-shelved in the wrong archival tier, and suddenly we’re dealing with an interdepartmental meltdown because Congressman Barnes spilled coffee on a historically significant desk— not that I’m saying you would—well, maybe you would—actually, you know what, that’s not the point—”

Bucky’s smile widened as you gestured at everything and nothing, warming up into a full-blown rant.

“And all of this,” you continued, pointing at the piles of carefully organised samples and paperwork, “this entire annex is technically under my jurisdiction. Which means if anyone asks why you’re here or why you have access to the high-value pieces or why you are breathing near a pre-1850 limewash fragment, I can justify it with a protocol exception. A very rare one, but still a valid one, and it’s completely fine—”

“Hey,” Bucky said softly.

You didn’t hear him.

“—because interdepartmental cooperation is a thing, and temporary workspace consolidation is allowed under subsection four of the—”

“Hey,” he repeated, stepping in.

“—the resource allocation addendum, so this falls under standard procedural—”

You turned, mid-sentence.

Bucky mustered all his courage, reached out, fingers curling around your waist with a certainty that stole the air from your lungs, and pulled you in until his mouth met yours.

He kissed you, brushing slowly once… then again… giving you every chance to stop him, to shove him back, to say anything resembling “no.”

You didn’t.

He was gentle, almost like asking for permission. His lips felt enough to pull the air out of your lungs but soft enough that you felt yourself melt before your brain could catch up. You inhaled against his mouth, hands instinctively curling into the front of his shirt, and the world narrowed to the faint rasp of his breath, the fact that he was kissing you like he’d been waiting weeks for you to stop talking.

You pulled back a fraction, eyes wide.

Bucky’s hands slid down to rest at the line of your jaw.

“So…” he asked, a little unsteady. “Was that okay? You know. According to protocol?”

Your heart thudded once.

“Um,” you said, trying not to sound like your bones had liquified. “Yes.” You gulped before continuing. “Definitely yes.”

Bucky looked incredibly relieved, his eyes just shy of smug.

“Good,” he said.

You swallowed. “Good?”

“Good,” he repeated, leaning in just enough to brush his forehead against yours. “Because I really want to do that again.”

You made a sound that sounded so pathetically helpless.

And when he kissed you the second time, you kissed back without a single thought of protocol left in your head.

And as he hummed into your opened mouthed kisses, it deepened faster than either of you probably meant it to, your fingers sliding into his hair as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer like he’d been starving for this.

You nudged him back step by slow step, your hips brushing, breath mingling, until the backs of his thighs hit the edge of President James Buchanan’s old desk.

Bucky broke the kiss with a, eyes half-lidded, voice a little rough. “You sure you wanna do this on here?”

You laughed against his mouth, tugging him back into another lingering kiss, the kind that made his breath stop.

“He was a dickhead anyway,” you dismissed between kisses, your lips brushing his, your hand sliding up the front of his shirt while your fingers made their way and curled at his collar. “So fuck his desk,” you whispered.

Bucky laughed in disbelief, his forehead dropping against yours as his hands tightened at your waist, holding you to him like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to again. “Or maybe,” he suggested with a coy smile, “we can fuck on it instead.”

“Well,” you pretended to consider it even though your mind was pretty much made up, “at least it’ll be good for something.”

Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 1 September 2025

She found him by the window.

Not pacing, not sitting — just standing there, spine straight and hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes fixed on something beyond the lights of Monaco. His phone rested on the side table, screen still lit up, the Team 33 group chat open.

Ana didn’t have to read it to know the shape of it.

She knew that posture.

Knew it from long nights in hotel rooms, from debriefs gone sideways, from sim sessions when his jaw clenched like he was trying to bite down the whole world.

Max didn’t do messy emotion. He did containment. Quiet. Precision.

Until it cracked.

She stepped closer, saying nothing at first. Just standing there beside him until he glanced her way, eyes shadowed.

“Did you talk to Jos?” she asked gently.

He exhaled through his nose. “Raymond did most of the talking. Jos was busy reminding me that I won.”

Ana didn’t say anything.

“I don’t think he understands why I’m upset.”

“I don’t think he’s ever really wanted to,” she said softly.

Max’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile. “That’s the problem. If I had crashed… it would’ve been my fault. If I won, it’s because I’m gifted. There’s no room for anger in his version of things. Only results.”

Ana looked at him carefully.

“Do you want to be angry?”

He looked out the window again. “I don’t know what I want to be. I just… I don’t want to have to survive a race weekend just to make people proud of me.”

That hit her harder than she expected.

She knew what it meant to survive things.

And she knew — now, standing in the low light of her apartment, heart open and aching — that Max Verstappen was not proud of himself tonight. He was exhausted. He was gutted. He had driven like a ghost out of Genk and scared everyone, himself included.

“You can be angry,” she said quietly. “You should be. What Red Bull did wasn’t okay.”

He didn’t respond for a long time.

Then: “He said I was trusting my gut. Like that made it noble. Like I’m supposed to be grateful that I guessed right.”

“You shouldn’t have had to guess.”

Max turned toward her. “I hate that it still matters what he thinks.”

Ana reached for his hand.

He didn’t stop her.

“I hate that every time I win, there’s this voice in my head that sounds like him,” Max said. “And that if I win wrong, it’s worthless.”

“It’s not,” Ana said, fingers brushing his wrist. “It was never worthless.”

“I don’t feel proud,” Max whispered. “I feel… hollow.”

She didn’t answer him with words.

Ana wasn’t good at comfort. Not in the way people usually meant. She didn’t coo, didn’t placate, didn’t offer soft reassurances she didn’t believe. She loved in edges — in data and clarity, in protection and presence.

But still—

She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him, and pressed her face into his shoulder.

Max didn’t move for a second.

Then he sank into it. Into her.

He buried his face in her neck and let out a breath that felt like breaking.

She held him tighter.

“I’m not good at this,” Ana murmured. “But you don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

His arms wrapped around her waist like she was the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

“You don’t have to be good at it,” Max said into her skin. “You just have to be here.”

“I am.”

“Always?”

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“Always.”

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 2 September 2025

The room smelled like pesto and passive aggression.

Ana leaned over the lunch table, tapping her spoon against the edge of her soup bowl while Bono poured himself another coffee and Kimi poked suspiciously at something green on his plate. Valterri, as usual, had brought his own lunch in a tupperware the size of a briefcase.

"Zandvoort was a bloodbath," Bono said finally, like he’d been waiting for someone to open the floodgates.

"That wasn’t a race," Ana replied dryly. "That was a weather-based hostage situation."

Kimi gave a quiet, tight-lipped nod. His shoulders were still stiff — even now, days later.

"You alright?" she asked him, softer now.

Kimi didn’t answer immediately. Just nudged a piece of pasta around his plate.

"Didn’t like it," he muttered. "Rain came down and I—I didn’t know what to ask for. I couldn’t see. I felt—blind."

Ana’s heart cracked just a little. She remembered the data from his lap. The steering corrections. The growing lift points.

"You came in at the right time," she said. "That was the right call."

"I didn’t want to call it too early," he admitted. "Didn’t want to mess the strategy."

"You wouldn’t have," Bono said. "And it was smart. You knew your limits. That’s a strength, not a weakness."

Ana nodded. “We’d rather box early than box from a crane.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Valterri broke it first. “Max could have ended up in the barrier. Easily.”

"Yeah, well," Bono added, "GP texted me the next day. He threatened to stage a mutiny if we ever pull something like that with Max next year”

Ana snorted into her water.

“Sounds like GP,” Valterri said with a smile.

“I hope you told him that we won’t do that,” Ana said drily. 

“I did,” Bono promised him. “Also if we ever did, he would have to fight me for the mutiny rights.”

Kimi blinked. “What’s a mutiny?”

“It’s when we lock Toto in the simulator bay and take over the race strategy,” Valterry said sagely.

“Tempting,” Ana muttered. Then added, more serious now: “I’m never going to let anyone on this team sacrifice a driver like that. Not on my watch. Not ever.”

They all fell quiet again for a moment.

Kimi shifted in his chair. “I was scared,” he admitted, quietly.

Ana reached over and rested a hand briefly on his arm. “Good. You should be. That’s what keeps you alive in this sport.”

He didn’t answer — but he didn’t flinch either.

Valterri glanced at Ana. “You know, I’ve been talking to Cadillac.”

Ana raised an eyebrow. “That’s serious now?”

He nodded. “Could be a done deal soon. They want a veteran alongside Perez.”

“You’d be good for them,” she said. “If they’ve got any sense, they’ll thank their lucky stars. You and Sergio? That’s more race IQ than most teams get in five seasons.”

Valterri gave her a wry look. “You angling for a commission?”

Ana just smiled.

“Monza next,” Bono said.

Kimi perked up at that — just slightly. “My home race.”

Ana tilted her head. “You’re already forgetting Imola?”

He grimaced. “Throttle failure.”

Ana reached for her coffee. “It won’t happen again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she said, firm now. “Because I rewrote half your torque response maps myself last weekend. Monza’s ours. Maybe you’ll even win it.”

Kimi’s eyes widened. “You think so?”

“I think you’ve got the pace,” Ana said. “You had it in Zandvoort. The car’s good. Your head’s better. And Monza’s where legends get made.”

Kimi looked down, smiling faintly into his plate.

Valterri raised his fork. “To Monza, then.”

“To Monza,” Ana echoed.

“To not dying in the rain,” Bono added cheerfully.

They clinked their mugs together.

And for a moment — just a moment — Ana let herself believe they were on the cusp of something better.

Even if Zandvoort had been a nightmare.

Even if the season was chaos.

They still had each other.

And Monza was next.

***

Group Chat: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Yuki Tsunoda, Liam Lawson, Isack Hadjar, Oliver Bearman, Esteban Ocon, Gabriel Bortoleto, Nico Hulkenberg, Kimi Antonelli, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly, Franco Colapinto, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Alex Albon, Carlos Sainz, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso)

Carlos Sainz: This is not a joke. We need a proper conversation with the FIA. Zandvoort should have been red flagged.

Fernando Alonso: Agree. There was no visibility. No grip. We were gambling with lives out there.

Lando Norris: I couldn’t see the apex in turn 1. At all. Just mist and vibes.

Oscar Piastri: Same. First time I’ve ever had to fully guess a braking point on instinct and hope.

Pierre Gasly: I was hydroplaning down the straight. Like. The straight. Not braking. Just full aquaplane.

Charles Leclerc: It wasn’t just difficult. It was dangerous.

Max Verstappen: Conditions were worse than Spa 2021. And we raced through them.

Charles Leclerc:Some of us watched people die in the rain. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jules.

Pierre Gasly: I couldn’t stop thinking about Antoine. And his accident wasn’t even in the rain. 

Franco Colapinto: Yeah well. I did end up in the wall.

Liam Lawson: Not your fault, mate. You couldn’t see anything. 

Valtteri Bottas: The spray was like driving blindfolded. Red Bull keeping Max out on slicks in that was insane.

Alex Albon: Agreed. He stayed out ten laps longer than anyone. One mistake and that would’ve been fatal.

Oscar Piastri: We didn’t belong out there. Not even Max.

Max Verstappen: Thanks for the confidence 😅 But yeah. I couldn’t see shit. Aquaplaned twice on that last stint.

Lando Norris: You were a miracle away from the wall. Like actual divine intervention level luck.

Fernando Alonso: It shouldn’t come down to luck. We’ve made progress — halos, barriers, safety protocols. But this? This felt like ten steps backwards.

Valtteri Bottas: In that last stint, I was aquaplaning on straights. Not even braking. Just skating.

Kimi Antonelli: I was scared. Not ashamed to say it. First time I’ve ever been scared in the car.

Lewis Hamilton: You’re not alone, kid. And you shouldn’t have been put in that position.

Carlos Sainz: We’ve come so far with safety but races like that prove it’s still not enough. There should be clear thresholds for visibility and grip.

Fernando Alonso: And we need consistency. If Spa was too dangerous in 2021, this should have been too.

Oscar Piastri: It’s the double standard. If a rookie bins it in those conditions, it’s “inexperience.” If a veteran like Max somehow survives, it’s “brilliance.” Either way, it's roulette.

Isack Hadjar: Half of us were driving by instinct.

Yuki Tsunoda: More like prayer. I was yelling on the radio the whole time.

Gabriel Bortoleto: They wouldn’t have run an F2 race in that. So why are we expected to?

Ollie Bearman: Because we’re the show. That’s how it felt.

Lance Stroll: Yeah. Just keep the cameras rolling, no matter what.

Nico Hülkenberg: It was like the old days. That’s not a compliment.

Charles Leclerc: If we don’t speak up, it’ll happen again. Next time, we might not be so lucky. I would rather not attend another funeral.

Carlos Sainz: We’re calling a GDPA session before Monza. Fernando and I will bring this straight to the FIA.

Fernando Alonso: We want your input. All of it. Videos, data, comms. Build the case.

Lewis Hamilton: I’ll back anything that puts safety first. We’re still losing friends. Still burying drivers. It’s not acceptable.

Pierre Gasly: I’ll bring the onboard from Lap 14. It’s terrifying.

Max Verstappen: Even with the win… I agree. I shouldn’t have finished that race on slicks. I didn’t finish it proud.

Valtteri Bottas: None of us did.

Lando Norris: So we fix it. We fight like hell to fix it.

Isack: Honestly, I was terrified. I didn’t even tell the team. Just kept driving.

Franco Colapinto: Same.

Oliver Bearman: Yeah. I didn’t want to sound weak. But I couldn’t see my own steering wheel in sector 3.

Yuki Tsunoda: Nobody should have to prove courage in weather like that.

Max Verstappen: I only stayed out because I didn’t trust the pit calls. But I was sliding every corner.

Oscar Piastri: The fact that even you were nervous? Says everything.

Lando Norris: Honestly, we need to stop pretending it’s still the 90s. We don’t need to “man up” through danger.

Esteban Ocon: It’s 2025. We shouldn’t be gambling with lives.

Charles Leclerc: Not again.

Pierre Gasly: Not ever.

Carlos Sainz: I spoke with some of the FIA stewards already. They said the data showed “driver control remained possible.” But “possible” isn’t good enough.

Fernando Alonso: Not when five of the best drivers on the grid couldn’t hold the car steady. Not when three rookies spun on the same lap. Not when Max stayed out because he didn’t trust the pit wall.

Max Verstappen: I didn’t. I drove on instinct. And I shouldn’t have had to. That’s not racing. That’s survival.

Valtteri Bottas: It felt like 2007 Fuji in a nightmare.

Lewis Hamilton: We’ve made progress over the last decade. Halo. Tyre barriers. Virtual safety car. But we are still reacting after something happens. What happened on Sunday shouldn’t have been allowed. Not under any regs.

Carlos Sainz: Exactly. Conditions were unfit. If Max almost binned it — and Max is Max — then the rest of us had no business being out there. Especially the rookies.

Valtteri Bottas: Thank you. No shame in red flagging. That’s what race control is there for.

Ollie Bearman: I didn’t know where to put the car. Just held the wheel and prayed.

Kimi Antonelli: I was scared. Not scared of losing the car. Scared of not making it home.

Liam Lawson: They left us out there like it was a simulation. But this is real. We’re not pixels.

Fernando Alonso: We need stronger protocols. More power to the GPDA and team reps. No one should have to “guess” their way through a race.

Isack Hadjar: Red Bull rolled the dice with Max and he made it work. But if he hadn’t — if he crashed like Colapinto — everyone would be screaming now. Why wait for blood?

Pierre Gasly: It’s always like this. Something almost happens and then the FIA acts shocked later.

Charles Leclerc: Then let’s get ahead of it. Carlos, Fernando — as GPDA leads, can we draft something?

Carlos Sainz: Already started. We’ll circulate a safety proposal by Friday. If the FIA won’t act, we’ll make them listen.

Lewis Hamilton: Good. Because one more race like that, and we might not all be here to text about it.

Oscar Piastri: 🫡 Count me in.

Yuki Tsunoda: Me too.

Gabriel Bortoleto: Even rookies should get to feel safe. We’re not expendable.

Nico Hülkenberg: We’ve lost too many drivers already.

Fernando Alonso: We’ll call a meeting before Monza. And we make this very clear: The sport exists because we agree to race. If the conditions make that impossible, we stop.

Max Verstappen: Yeah. Even I’m saying this now. And you all know how much I hate stopping.

Lando Norris: Hell’s frozen over then 😂 But yeah. I’m with you. All of you.

Alex Albon: Us vs FIA? Or are we doing the group therapy thing?

Charles Leclerc: Both.

***

Autodromo Nazionale Monza, Monza, Italy - 4 September 2025

The sun was bright but soft over Monza. Warm enough to feel like home, but not so scorching it made the fan zone unbearable. Kimi was doing his usual Thursday rounds — signing hats, taking selfies, ignoring the lingering nerves that always settled in his chest before a home race.

There were dozens of outstretched arms. Flags. Shirts with his face. Handmade signs. And then—

“Wait,” Kimi said, pausing.

A girl — maybe fifteen, wearing a custom Mercedes tee with his rookie number embroidered in silver thread — was holding out a bracelet. Woven. Neon green and black. The kind of thread bracelet he remembered making at summer camps.

It said: ALTAIR.

He blinked at it.

“Oh,” the girl said quickly, as if worried she’d overstepped. “I made it because of Project Altair. It’s your update, right? I read about it online. I just thought—it’s really cool. So I made this one. And, um—these too.”

She held out her other hand, sheepishly, revealing a whole bunch more. Each one handmade. Some said ALTAIR, others MERCEDES or KA#12.

Kimi stared at her.

Then grinned.

“Do you—uh, do you mind if I take a few?” he asked, already reaching. “These are amazing.”

The girl lit up like a floodlight. “Of course!! Take as many as you want!”

He carefully picked out a handful. Three Altair ones, two with Mercedes, and a silver-threaded KA#77 that looked particularly impressive.

“Thank you,” he said, genuinely. “Seriously.”

And then—because he was Kimi Antonelli, and he had zero chill when it came to people he admired—he made a beeline for the garage as soon as he could.

He found Ana in her usual spot, standing with Bono and one of the systems techs, arms crossed, frowning at telemetry. Her wrist brace was finally gone, and she looked—well. Like herself again. Sharp. Focused. Dangerous in that uniquely Ana way.

Kimi approached slowly.

“Hey.”

Ana glanced over, distracted. “You’re not due in meetings for another twenty.”

“I know. I just—uh.”

He held out the bracelet.

Mint green and black.

ALTAIR in black block letters.

Ana stared at it for a second. Then looked up at him, brows raised.

“Got it from a fan,” Kimi said, shrugging. “Thought you should have one too. Since, you know... you built it.”

Ana blinked. Her mouth twitched.

“You’re giving me a friendship bracelet.”

“Well, it’s got your project name on it,” Kimi said defensively. “And it was either that or the KA#12 one, and I figured you probably didn’t want to wear my initials.”

Ana laughed, soft and surprised.

She took the bracelet from his outstretched hand and turned it over in her fingers. “Thank you,” she said. “This is actually kind of... perfect.”

Kimi gave a proud nod. “Altair deserved merch anyway.”

Ana smirked. “If you podium this weekend, I’m ordering keychains.”

Kimi beamed.

Deal.

***

Instagram Post:  @/mercedesamgf1

Comments: 

@/formulafangirl92: KIMI. GAVE. HER. THE. FIRST. ONE. I CANNOT FUNCTION

@/engineerdaddiesanonymous: Altair: now available in race pace and sentimental value™

@/aerodynamxqueen: “she made it fast. i just drive it.” — KIMI PLEASE

@/chaosonthepitwall: Toto 100% has a drawer of these like they’re Pokémon cards.

@/gridwifez: Ana Wolff unintentionally becoming the grid's most adored engineer is my Roman Empire.

@/sarasslicktire: Did this bracelet go through wind tunnel testing or what 😭

@/bottastic: Valtteri’s gonna show up next week with a matching one and no context.

@/garagegoblinz: I’m sorry but a Mercedes engineer having Taylor Swift energy was not on my 2025 bingo card

@/skycommentaryteam: Honestly the fastest friendship bracelet in F1 history

@/formulalover_44: Kimi giving Ana a friendship bracelet is SO middle school bestie behavior and I’m here for it 😭💙

@/rbrgirlies: “She made it fast. I just drive it.” EXCUSE ME I’M SOBBING????

@/f1wagsupdates: Kimi Antonelli walking into the garage and asking for TEN bracelets is the softest thing that’s ever happened in F1.

@/susiewolffsupremacy: Mercedes said ✨systems engineering but make it emotional✨

@/chaoticgridgp: NO BUT KIMI REALLY SAID "MY ENGINEER" LIKE ANA DIDN’T CODE HIS CAR INTO A GODDAMN WEAPON

@/altair.stans: This is officially the Altair Era™ and I hope everyone is wearing their friendship bracelet accordingly.

***

Twitter Thread: Friendship Bracelets

@/gridgoblin: kimi antonelli handing out friendship bracelets like he’s in a girl scout troop and ana wolff is the troop leader. i’m unwell.

@/bonosteabags: “she made it fast. i just drive it.” OH TO BE A SOFTWARE ENGINEER WITH A 200 IQ AND A TEENAGER WHO WORSHIPS YOU

@/tiarasandtelemetry: altair isn’t just an upgrade. it’s a love language.

@/kimination47: kimi antonelli asking for TEN??? give this child merch. give him stickers. give him emotional stability.

@/fernandosburner97: no because imagine being ana wolff. your teenage prodigy is handing out bracelets with your software’s name on it like it's a cult relic. goals.

@/formulaemotions: that’s not a bracelet. that’s the softest PR move of the season and i am in love with it.

@/mclarenmoms: i just KNOW lando and oscar are going to start handing out bracelets that say VROOM VROOM or something stupid

@/gridsweethearts: kinda beautiful that ana wolff got handed the first bracelet. kinda makes me wanna cry.

@/f1thegirlies: THE FACT THAT KIMI GAVE THE FIRST BRACELET TO ANA??? I am on the FLOOR. That’s her son actually. 

@/gridchaosupdates: kimi saw a friendship bracelet and said “i must give one to my engineer mother” i am crying real tears 

@/kateluvsf1: Altair is such a cool codename and now it has FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS??? Mercedes marketing team you win. #DrivenByAltair

@/softpiastri: Mercedes being like “she built it, he drove it” about Ana and Kimi is the emotional validation I needed today

@/chaoticgridenergy: I need Mercedes to mass produce those Altair bracelets IMMEDIATELY. For science. For my mental health. For the culture. #f1merch WHEN?

@/alonsoapologist: Valtteri is in this story too, right??? Give my man a bracelet 😭 #JusticeForBottas

@/f1girliesunite: KIMI GIVING ANA A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET FOR BUILDING HIS CAR I’M ACTUALLY WEEPING 😭😭😭 #Altair #MonzaGP

@/gridtea: Altair friendship bracelets. Driver-engineer duos. Monza. Emotion. Mercedes Marketing Team you will ALWAYS be famous 🫡

@/softestw14: “she made it fast, I just drive it” —Kimi Antonelli about Ana Wolff please inject that directly into my bloodstream

@/shutupfernando: kimi antonelli is a literal teenager and still knows how to appreciate the woman who built his victory-contending car. some of y’all in this paddock should take notes.

@/albonasboba: valterri bottas better get an altair bracelet too or i riot

@/chaoticf1gf: The fact that this child asked for TEN BRACELETS and gave the first one to the woman who coded his car from the ground up? I’m sobbing.

@/susiewolffnation: Ana Wolff built Altair. Kimi drives it. And now there are friendship bracelets. Women in STEM and vibes only.

@/paddockcryptid: Altair bracelets. Hugs in engineering bays. Rookie drivers being soft. Max switching teams. The 2025 season arc is actually unhinged and I love it.

@/formulagenz: KIMI SAW THE FRIENDSHIP BRACELET AND IMMEDIATELY THOUGHT OF ANA WOLFF??? I AM IN PIECES 🫡🫠😭

@/gridchaosupdates: kimi: can i have one also kimi: takes ten and gives the first to ana wolff like the world's fastest golden retriever

@/ana_wolff_updates: altair? more like alt-cry mercedes you had no right to be this soft #altairbracelet #kimiantonelli

@/kimisleftboot: altair friendship bracelets. i repeat: ALTAAAIR FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS. this team is weaponizing serotonin now.

@/sillyseasoncryptid: ana wolff, who BUILT the altair system, getting a bracelet with its name on it from the kid she made fast… no I’m fine. i’m normal. totally fine. 🧍‍♀️

@/cursedpitwall: this is so much better than red bull telling their drivers to “just send it.” mercedes: here’s a friendship bracelet and a god-tier car red bull: here’s silence and wet slicks

@/tiarasandtelemetry: kimi: “she made it fast. i just drive it.” me, sobbing: where’s my ana wolff??? where’s my altair??? where’s my bracelet???

@/alonsofan123: not to be dramatic but ana wolff is the future of formula 1 and i would die for her

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: Did you see the bracelet post?

Max: You’re a celebrity now. Again.

Ana: I didn’t even know they were going to post it. Apparently Kimi asked the comms team if they could.

Max: Wait. Kimi Antonelli asked for a social media post?

Ana: I know. I nearly fell out of my chair.

Max: So just to recap: You built a system that made a teenager fast enough to rival God And he gave you a beaded bracelet like it’s arts and crafts in Monaco summer camp.

Ana: Don’t forget: it sparkles.

Max: You kept it, didn’t you.

Ana: Of course I kept it. It’s in my desk drawer next to my USB encryption keys and one very suspicious biscuit.

Max: You’re a menace.

Ana: Twitter is calling me “Mother.” Do with that what you will.

Max: You are.

Ana: What, Mother?

Max: No. The best. The fastest. The one who keeps us all from spontaneously combusting. Especially me.

Ana: ...I’m blushing in the telemetry lab. Thanks for that.

Max: Bracelet’s cute. But you know I’d build you a throne out of titanium and carbon fiber if you wanted it.

Ana:I don’t want a throne. I just want you.

***

Autodromo Nazionale Monza, Monza, Italy - 6 September 2025

The air in Monza always tasted different.

Maybe it was the humidity clinging to the late-summer heat. Maybe it was the sun-baked asphalt or the scent of burnt rubber. Or maybe it was just the weight of history—years of legends, heartbreaks, miracles. 

Ana had walked every major track on the calendar, but Monza still made her feel like she was standing in the middle of something ancient and alive.

There was a moment—just a moment—after the final lap times dropped for Qualifying, when the pit lane noise fell away.

Kimi Antonelli P1. Valtteri Bottas P2.

Front row lockout.

And for three full seconds, Ana forgot how to breathe.

She stayed seated, still staring at the timing screen, as though it might vanish if she looked away.

But they stayed.

P1 – AntonelliP2 – Bottas

There was silence.

One breath.

Then: The garage erupted.

Yells, cheers, hugs—someone knocked over a stack of wheel guns in the celebration. Bono punched the air. Valterri’s engineer nearly tackled a mechanic. Kimi’s performance engineer just sat down and sobbed. Ana didn’t blame him.

Mechanics were pounding each other on the back. Even Toto clapped—once, sharp, jaw tight but proud.

Ana didn’t move at first. Just stared at the screen like she didn’t quite believe it.

Kimi Antonelli. Pole. At Monza.

Valtteri Bottas. Second.

A Mercedes front row lockout.

In Monza.

In front of Kimi’s home crowd.

On a weekend that, statistically, shouldn’t have belonged to them.

Her headset crackled. “P1, P2. Repeat—P1, P2. We did it.”

Holy hell.

Bono’s voice cut back into her headset, a little breathless. “That’s a one-two, We did it.”

She exhaled. Finally. “Copy,” she said. “Nice work.”

Kimi was screaming something in Italian over the radio—half words, mostly joy—and Ana felt herself smiling before she even registered it. She turned slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of the team rushing toward the pit wall monitors, already forming the beginnings of a celebratory mob.

A mechanic clutched his heart. “He’s going to cry.”

“I am crying,” said another.

Project Altair had been a gamble. A mid-season systems rework. Weeks of modeling, thousands of lines of calibration code. 

She’d poured her heart into the project, designing the interface like it was an extension of Kimi’s hands, fine-tuning the predictive modelling so precisely that even Valterri had said it felt like the car knew what he was about to do before he did it.

And today, it had worked.

Flawlessly.

Ana stood, finally. Her hands were trembling.

Ana tucked the tablet under one arm and stepped out toward the pit lane just in time to see Kimi climb out of the car and raise both fists to the sky like the boy in him couldn’t believe the man had done it.

He had. On home soil.

She felt a lump rise in her throat. Stupid. Sentimental.

But hell—wasn’t this why they did it?

Behind her, someone grabbed her arm—Valtteri, still in helmet and suit, grinning like a man with nothing left to prove but everything left to give.

“Nice setup today,” he said, voice muffled through the visor.

She patted his arm, proud. “Nice drive.”

He pointed at the screen with a gloved hand. “Tomorrow, yeah?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Let’s finish it.”

Kimi came sprinting like a kid at Christmas, —mechanics dragging him into a hug, someone draping an Italian flag over his shoulders. He spotted her. 

Ana barely had time to brace herself before he threw his arms around her.

“You did it,” he shouted, eyes bright. “We did it!”

She hugged him back—harder than she meant to. “You did it, Kimi.”

“You said maybe I’d win!” he gasped, giddy, the flag slipping from one shoulder. “You said!”

Ana didn’t argue. She just nodded and let him hug her. “Pole is a good start,” she said dryly.

“I could kiss you,” he declared.

“Don’t,” she said, swatting him off. “You’re sweaty and I’m not your type.”

Kimi laughed, bright and delirious with adrenaline. “Altair is magic!”

She rolled her eyes. “Altair is torque settings and brake balance.”

“It’s you,” he insisted, before bounding off toward the others again.

Ana looked back at the screen. Still P1. Still P2.

Racing wasn’t fair. That it never had been.

But maybe, just maybe, Monza was trying to be.

Tomorrow was the race.

But today?

Today was worth remembering.

Mercedes. One. Two. In Monza. Her car. Her drivers. Her team.

Altair sang like a symphony.

And Ana? Ana stood at the heart of it all.

***

Autodromo Nazionale Monza, Monza, Italy - 6 September 2025

The first time Toto Wolff had heard the roar of an Italian crowd like this, it had been for Ferrari.

Now, it was for them.

For Kimi Antonelli—who had just taken pole at Monza. For Valtteri Bottas—a living legend and consummate teammate in P2. For Mercedes—a team that, six months ago, had been written off.

And somewhere between the chaos of parc fermé and the flurry of broadcast cameras, Toto found himself standing at the back of the garage, watching his daughter work.

Ana was halfway through a conversation with Bono and one of the performance engineers. Headset still on, sleeves still rolled up, her team polo smudged faintly with oil where someone had clearly hugged her too hard mid-celebration. 

She was pointing to a readout on a tablet, explaining something about the balance offset mid-corner and how Altair had compensated in real-time based on grip projections. Her voice was calm. Measured. Technical.

Toto understood what she was saying.

But God, he couldn’t have built it himself if he tried.

Ana didn’t just read data—she interpreted it, preempted it, taught it how to evolve. She treated the car like a living system—something organic, something that could be loved into brilliance.

It was the same way she treated people.

He waited until she finished talking. Then stepped closer.

He let her finish. Waited until the others had filtered away, until the bay was quieter. Only then did he speak.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve worked with a lot of smart people.”

Ana didn’t look up. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“I mean it,” Toto said, stepping closer. “I’ve worked with analysts who could recite every sector delta from memory. Strategists who could predict tyre degradation down to the tenth. Engineers who could find an extra tenth just by looking at a wind tunnel model.”

Finally, Ana glanced over her shoulder.

Toto smiled. “And then there’s you.”

She snorted. “What, I just am the wind tunnel?”

“You’re terrifying,” he said mildly. “In the best possible way.”

Ana blinked, then slowly turned to face him fully, tablet still in hand. He didn’t miss the slight favoring of her left hand. But her eyes were bright. Alive.

“You built that system from scratch,” he said quietly. “That’s what made the difference today.”

“It’s not just the system,” Ana said. “It’s Kimi. And Valtteri. And the whole setup team. Bono. Shov. Software. Chassis. Aero. Everyone.”

“Don’t do that,” Toto said, gently. “You always deflect when it’s about you.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

He stepped closer.

“You designed Altair to think the way Kimi drives. To learn with him. To adapt to him. You rewrote our baseline data model for dynamic circuits. You installed an AI feedback loop and made it intuitive. You gave the drivers a car that wanted to be driven.”

Ana looked down, a little red in the cheeks now. “It’s not perfect yet.”

“No. But it got us a front row in Monza.”

“Fair.”

Toto smiled, softer now.

“You know what my favorite part was?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t even celebrate at first. You just… kept watching. Like your brain was still running simulations.”

Ana shrugged. “Somebody had to.”

“No,” Toto said. “Somebody got to.”

She blinked.

“You’ve always been the smartest person in the room,” he said. “And now the room knows it.”

Ana exhaled slowly. “I didn’t do it to prove anything.”

“I know,” Toto said. “But you did.”

There was a beat of quiet between them, filled only by the distant hum of cooling fans and the tick of a timing system resetting for the next session.

Finally, Ana murmured, “You think we can hold it tomorrow?”

“I think,” Toto said, “if the car holds together, and the weather stays sane, and Kimi doesn’t spontaneously remember he’s nineteen and indestructible—then yes.”

Ana gave a small laugh. “So… you’re saying there’s a chance.”

“I’m saying,” Toto replied, “that whatever happens, you already did something extraordinary.”

Ana looked at him for a long time.

And then, quietly, she said, “Thanks, Papa.”

It hit him like a soft punch to the chest.

Every time.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for her tablet. “Let’s go talk strategy for tomorrow. You can explain your genius to the rest of us mere mortals.”

Then, quieter, he said, “I’m proud of you.”

Her mouth twitched.

But she didn’t say anything for a beat.

She looked down at her tablet, like she didn’t quite know what to do with praise that wasn’t coded in sarcasm or directives. Then she said, quieter now, “You’re proud because the car worked.”

“I’m proud because you made it work.”

She glanced at him.

Toto hesitated. Then added, “And because you do all this with no ego. No press. No interviews. Just… pure capability. You’re the smartest person in this garage.”

Ana smiled slightly. “Don’t tell Bono that.”

“Bono knows.”

She let out a soft breath—something like relief mixed with fondness. 

Toto reached over, squeezed her shoulder.

“You’re extraordinary,” he said. “And I hope you know that.”

She didn’t reply—but she leaned her head against his arm, just for a moment.

That was enough.

He looked back toward the garage, where the silver cars waited, haloed in afternoon light. One with a rookie’s name. One with a veteran’s.

And behind both of them?

His daughter’s fingerprints.

Altair, indeed.

The little girl with hair too blonde and eyes too guarded, left on his doorstep like an afterthought.

Now the woman at the helm of a factory team. The one everyone looked to when the track went dark.

He squeezed her shoulder one last time. “You did good, Sternchen.”

Ana gave him a rare, soft smile.

“Thanks, Papa.”

She was the future of Mercedes.

And today, the world had seen it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Max: P6 never looked so depressing Behind both your cars both Ferraris and a McLaren Do you know how humiliating that is

Ana: I watched it happen in real time You were very cute Snapping the wheel like it had insulted your ancestors

Max: It did insult my ancestors My poor slicks were like “please, father, no”

Ana: You still wrangled a P6 in a car that tried to kill you last week I’m impressed Your inner Genk demon remains undefeated

Max: That demon is so ready to be unleashed on a car that doesn’t fight back I looked at that W16 today and nearly proposed to it

Ana: Max. It’s a car. It doesn’t even have a personality.

Max: You coded the personality That car knows what love is

Ana: It better Because it’s getting you next year And you’re a lot

Max: You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to that Your cars today looked insane Smooth. Composed. Fast in all three sectors Kimi had pace Valterri looked like he wanted to fight God

Ana: We’ve been testing a new mapping loop I’ll walk you through it next week

Max: You mean next year When I’m driving one

Ana: Next year you’ll get your car

Max:Deal. I’ll try not to crash behind your golden boy in P1 tomorrow.

Ana: Do that and I’m not sharing the launch mapping file with you next year

Max: 😐

Ana: Be nice. We worked hard for that front row.

Max: I know I’m proud of you But I’m also slightly offended you built something this good without me

Ana: You’ll survive Now go get some sleep Big race tomorrow, Verstappen

Max: Fine But I’m dreaming of silver cars with your name on the code

Ana: You sap

Max: Only for you

Ana: Goodnight, Max

Max: Goodnight, Doctor Wolff Tell Altair I said hi 💫

***

Team Radio Transcript - Monza

Driver: Kimi Antonelli

Race Engineer: Peter Bonnington ("Bono")

[Formation Lap] Bono: All systems are good, Kimi. Let’s bring the tires in gently. Brakes look solid. You know what to do.

[Lap 1 – Lights Out] Bono: Alright, Kimi. Race start, race start. Valterri on your right. Kimi: Got it. (Kimi holds P1 into Turn 1. Valterri tucks into P2.) Bono: Beautiful launch. Great job. Valterri behind, no threats from the Ferraris yet.

[Lap 4] Bono: Gap to Valterri 1.1 seconds. You’re managing well. Keep it smooth. Kimi: Front tires feel good. Balance is nice. Bono: Copy. Just keep building the delta. Let them chew each other up behind.

[Lap 5]

Bono: "Gap to Valterri, 1.4 seconds. Behind him, Hamilton, Leclerc, Norris, and Piastri all within DRS."

Kimi: "He’s defending?"

Bono: "Like a lion."

[Lap 10] Bono: Update — Ferraris and McLarens starting to struggle on rears. You’re in clean air, you’re in control. Kimi: Car’s really settled. I can push a little more if needed. Bono: Just manage for now. Long game, Kimi. Long game.

[Lap 15] Bono: Valterri’s holding them off behind. You’ve got clean track. Gap to him now 5.4 seconds.

[Lap 20] Bono: You’re hitting all target deltas. ERS management excellent. Kimi: Any weather concerns? Bono: No rain forecast. Clear skies all the way. Keep doing what you’re doing.

[Lap 25] Bono: Box, box. Time to cover the undercut. Kimi: Copy. Box this lap. (Kimi pits for new mediums. Flawless 2.3s stop.) Bono: Exit is clear. 

 Kimi: Car still feels amazing. Grip on these is strong.

[Lap 30]Gap to Valterri is now 9.8 seconds. Kimi: Copy. How are the others? Bono: Hamilton and Norris behind Valterri, but he’s got them under control. You’ve got a Mercedes wall behind you.

[Lap 40] Bono: Fuel levels optimal. Temps all good. You’re free to push. Kimi: Going for FL? Bono: If you feel like it. Kimi: Alright. Let’s send it.

[Lap 41] (Kimi sets the fastest lap.) Bono: That’s purple. Fastest lap of the race. Kimi: How fast? Bono: 1:20.901. The Tifosi just went quiet. Kimi (laughing): Love that.

[Lap 53 – Final Lap] Bono: Last lap, Kimi. Gap behind is 10.4 seconds. No threats. Bring it home. Kimi: I’ve got it. (Smooth final lap. Kimi crosses the line.)

[Chequered Flag – Lap 53]

Bono (voice cracking): “THAT’S IT, KIMI! P1!! YOU WIN MONZA!!”

Kimi: “…We won?”

Bono: “YES. You won. P1. Fastest lap. Led every lap. That’s a Grand Chelem. AT HOME.”

Kimi: Are you kidding me?!

Bono: Not kidding. It’s yours. What a drive. What a weekend.

Kimi (quietly): “…Oh my god.…That’s for the home crowd. Grazie a tutti. This is insane. 

***

Autodromo Nazionale Monza, Monza, Italy - 7 September 2025

By Lap 15, Ana knew they had it.

She didn’t say it aloud—never did—but the numbers were talking. Tire degradation looked textbook. Fuel trim was exactly as simulated. Kimi was driving like the car was built into his spine. Valterri was defending with the kind of quiet, stubborn determination that made Ana want to send him an expensive bottle of whiskey and a Finnish flag.

She stood behind the pit wall, headset tablet balanced against, barely blinking as data scrolled across the screen. Altair was humming—engine maps, throttle overlays, live temps, everything. It was working.

She'd built this.

Kimi Antonelli was leading a Grand Prix at Monza with a systems package she had personally written.

Valterri was holding off two Ferraris and two McLarens like he had nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon.

And the car wasn’t just holding.

It was thriving.

“Ana,” Bono’s voice said in her ear, just as Kimi crossed the line for Lap 53. “I swear, if this holds… we owe you a statue.”

“I’d prefer funding for the next round of dyno tests,” Ana replied flatly.

Next to her, someone cracked open a Red Bull—irony not lost on anyone in the garage—and said, “They’re sending Bono up to the podium!" he said. "But honestly? It should be you."

Ana blinked. “Thank you, no.”

“What? Why not?! You built the damn car—”

“I don’t do podiums,” Ana said flatly. “That’s Bono’s domain. And Kimi’s moment. Not mine. I’d rather be leashed to the MGU-K and dragged down the pit lane than go up on that podium,” Ana muttered, then added after a beat, “And also, it’s not just me. It’s the team.”

But it was hers too.

When Kimi crossed the line—P1, fastest lap, every single lap led—she didn’t whoop like the engineers around her. She didn’t cry like one of the newer data interns. She didn’t even smile.

She just exhaled. A long, quiet breath. One she hadn’t realised she’d been holding for months..

It was done.

It was perfect.

It was hers.

And when Bono radioed Kimi with the final result, Ana closed her eyes for one second and let herself feel it.

They didn’t just win Monza.

They dominated it.

And she built the damn thing.

***

Autodromo Nazionale Monza, Monza, Italy - 7 September 2025

She wasn’t supposed to be there.

Toto had already assumed Ana would vanish the moment the checkered flag fell—retreating to the back of the garage, some corner of the tech truck, or maybe the sim lab in Brackley via teleportation, just to avoid the crowds. She hated moments like these. The noise. The press. The cameras. The way celebration always felt too loud and too shallow.

So when he caught sight of her hovering just outside the barrier near the base of the podium, his first reaction was confusion. His second was concern.

She looked like she was trying to disappear in plain sight.

Black Mercedes polo, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense twist, tablet still under one arm like she might need to flee and rerun telemetry. Her eyes flicked across the crowd, pupils too wide, shoulders drawn tight. She wasn’t fidgeting—but only because Ana never fidgeted. Not in public.

But he knew her tells. The rigidity in her spine. The slight flutter of her fingers against the tablet. The almost imperceptible tilt of her head like she was scanning for exits.

He was next to her in a few strides.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Everyone knows you hate this part.”

Ana’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “It’s Kimi’s first win.”

Toto looked at her.

Then past her, to where Bono was already clambering onto the team podium step with that grin that always made him look thirty years younger. Kimi was bouncing in place next to the P1 sign like his adrenaline still hadn’t settled. The crowd was roaring. Italian flags waved in a sea of scarlet and silver.

Toto turned back to Ana.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Then we’ll stay.”

She started to nod—then froze as the mass of photographers surged closer, jostling. Someone’s elbow clipped her side. A camera bag nearly swung into her. Her mouth tightened, and she rocked back a step on instinct.

Toto didn’t even think. He stepped behind her, broad shoulders squared, and wrapped one arm around her—not holding, just anchoring. Then he gently guided her a half-step forward, tucking her in front of him.

Letting her use his body like a shield.

He moved without thinking.

Toto shifted behind her—just a fraction—and angled himself like a wall. Six-foot-five of Austrian shielding. One arm braced at her side, subtly holding back the press of people. She didn’t react, but she stepped closer. Didn’t leave.

He gently put his hand on her back. Not guiding. Just anchoring.

The anthem started. Kimi was grinning like the teenager, which he still was, and Bono had a champagne bottle in one hand and disbelief in the other. Valterri clapped with quiet pride.

And Ana?

She stood under the Italian sky, surrounded by noise and chaos and cameras—and didn’t flinch.

Not once.

When Kimi turned and pointed at her, lifting his trophy like it was a salute, Toto felt her go still. Just for a second.

“He’s proud of you,” Toto said softly.

Ana didn’t speak.

But she didn’t leave either.

So he stayed behind her. Let the world press close. Let the champagne fly. Let the cameras flash.

And kept the chaos from ever touching her.

Because she built the system that brought them here.

And he would shield her with everything he had.

And Toto stood still, six-foot-five of Austrian granite, blocking out the worst of the crowd while his daughter—his daughter—stood and watched a car she’d built bring them home a Grand Chelem.

She didn’t cheer.

Didn’t wave.

But he felt the tension in her shoulders ease.

And for Ana, that was everything.

“You did good,” he said into her ear, quiet enough only she could hear.

“We did,” she said.

And this time—just barely—she smiled.

***

Transcript: FIA Pre-Race Press Conference 

 Location: Autodromo Nazionale Monza, Monza, Italy Date: 7 September 2025 Participants:

Kimi Antonellie - Mercedes -  P1

Valtteri Bottas - Mercedes -  P2

Lewis Hamilton - Ferrari -  P3

Moderator: “Welcome to the post-race press conference for the 2025 Italian Grand Prix. We are joined by our top three finishers: race winner Kimi Antonelli from Mercedes, second place Valtteri Bottas also from Mercedes, and third place Lewis Hamilton driving for Ferrari.

Kimi, first of all, congratulations. Your first Formula 1 win, in your home race, here at Monza. Just… how does that feel?”

Kimi Antonelli: grinning “I don’t even know what to say. I grew up coming to this track. I’ve watched from the grandstands, I’ve watched from the paddock, and now I’m standing here with a Grand Prix win? It’s insane. The car was perfect. Like—genuinely perfect. I could place it anywhere. From the first lap, I felt like I had it under me, completely. So yeah. I’m emotional, but I’m really proud.”

Moderator: “Valtteri, P2 for you, making it a Mercedes 1–2. You had quite the job holding off two Ferraris and two McLarens for most of the race. How was it from your perspective?”

Valtteri Bottas: “Busy. laughs But honestly, the car had so much stability, I was able to focus on managing tyres and positioning without worrying about surprises. The upgrades worked beautifully. Kimi had a little bit more in him today—he was flying—but for me, that’s one of the most satisfying second places I’ve ever had. I knew I was helping deliver a 1–2 at Monza. That’s special.”

Moderator: “Lewis, P3 for Ferrari on home soil. The Tifosi were very loud when you got out of the car. Can you tell us about your race and your thoughts on Kimi’s win?”

Lewis Hamilton: “First of all, huge congrats to Kimi. That was a mega drive. To win your first race here, under pressure, with that kind of composure—it’s something else. I’ve known Kimi since he was a kid in the paddock. It’s been amazing to see him come up.

As for the race—yeah, it was intense. We gave everything we had today, and I think the fans appreciated that. The Mercedes cars were just in another league with the upgrades this weekend.”

Moderator: “Kimi, you mentioned the car was perfect. A lot has been said about the ‘Altair’ upgrades Mercedes brought. Can you talk about how much of a difference that made this weekend?”

Kimi Antonelli: “Oh, massive. Honestly? Night and day. I think the whole systems team deserves a trophy. The way the car rotated, how it behaved on throttle, even the way we managed tyres—everything just clicked. It felt like I had a new kind of confidence today, and that’s down to the work everyone’s done in Brackley. Especially Ana Wolff and the systems division. She told me before the race it would hold. And it did.”

Moderator: “Valtteri, any thoughts to add on the upgrades?”

Valtteri Bottas: “I’ve driven a lot of cars over the years, but this package feels alive. It responds exactly how you want. Full credit to the whole team. It’s not just power or downforce—it’s the harmony. Today felt like 2019-level Mercedes. Maybe even better.”

Moderator: “Lewis, one final thought on Mercedes today?”

Lewis Hamilton: “I hate to say it—but they nailed it. It’s what you want to see in F1: a young driver winning with a team that got everything right. I just wish I was the one in the car doing it. laughs But nah, Kimi earned that. Everyone saw it.”

Moderator: “Kimi, last question—your first win, and it’s a Grand Chelem. Pole, win, fastest lap, and every lap led. That’s an incredibly rare feat.”

Kimi Antonelli: softly, almost stunned “Yeah. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. But if it had to happen anywhere—this was the place.”

Moderator: “Thank you all. Congratulations again, Kimi. See you in Baku.”

***

Transcript – Post-Race Interview, Monza GP (Max Verstappen, P9)

 Sky Sports F1, 7 September 2025

Reporter: "Max, tough race today — P9 after some difficult strategy calls and a car that didn’t quite seem to have the pace. But on the other end of the paddock, Kimi Antonelli just took his first win for Mercedes. Does that make you feel optimistic about what’s coming next year?"

Max Verstappen (smiling faintly): "Yeah. I mean, of course. You see how strong the car was today, how well Kimi drove it — that gives me a lot of optimism. He was faultless. That’s what you want: a package that lets the driver push and trust it fully. I’ve said it before, but I wouldn’t be making the move if I didn’t believe in the team and the direction they’re going. Watching Kimi win today — that just confirmed it."

Reporter: "Any envy watching that podium?"

Max: (chuckles) "A bit. But mostly motivation."

Reporter: “Anything you’d say to Kimi?”

Max: “Congrats. He earned that one.”

Reporter: "Thanks, Max."

***

Autodromo Nazionale Monza, Monza, Italy - 7 September 2025

The moment the cork popped, it was chaos.

Kimi barely had time to raise his arms before the first bottle hit him square in the chest, cold and sticky and perfect. He could hear Bono yelling something triumphant—probably in a mix of English and whatever local dialect he defaulted to when emotional—and Valterri laughing like a man who’d just run twenty years of weight off his shoulders.

It was still sinking in. He’d won. At home. In Monza. His first Grand Prix victory. His first Grand Chelem. Pole. Fastest lap. Every lap led. Win.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in his bones. The anthem still rang in his ears.

Kimi turned just in time to catch another bottle lobbed by one of the race engineers, dodged left, and laughed like he hadn’t in months. The garage was packed wall to wall with bodies and glittering champagne arcs. Someone had already started a chant—Antonelli! Antonelli!—and someone else was waving a giant Mercedes flag like they were invading a small country.

And then he saw her.

Ana.

Standing slightly apart from the main chaos, sleeves rolled up, hair damp from someone else’s spray, arms crossed like she hadn’t built the entire car that had just rocketed him to a win. She was trying to be invisible again. Even now.

Kimi grinned.

She spotted him too late.

“Ana!” he shouted over the din, already grabbing another bottle.

She backed up half a step. “Don’t you dare.”

He advanced anyway. “You made Altair.”

“I’m serious, Kimi. I will reassign your performace engineer—”

“Then he can watch this in HD.”

And with a victorious cackle, Kimi popped the cork and aimed the full force of a champagne stream straight at her.

Ana shrieked and ducked, hands flying up—but not fast enough. She caught the full brunt of it across her chest and shoulders, spluttering through the spray.

“You absolute menace!” she gasped, wiping champagne out of her eyes.

Kimi just laughed harder, wheezing now. “It’s your fault. You built the monster. I just drove it.”

“I built a car, not a hydraulic cannon! You maniac!”

Valterri wandered over, grinning. “Should’ve known better than to come out here in dry clothes.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be in the photos,” Kimi said. “She hates attention.”

“I still hate attention,” Ana muttered. “You owe me dry clothes and a dry dignity.”

Kimi handed her the half-empty bottle. “Want revenge?”

She stared at it, then at him.

Then raised it—and sprayed him directly in the face.

The team howled.

Kimi was drenched. Grinning. Breathless.

And happier than he ever remembered being.

**

Later that night, once the paddock began to quiet and the crew filtered out for beers and stories, he found Ana standing by the pit wall.

“I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “Thank you.”

She glanced at him. “You did the driving.”

“I did,” he agreed. “But you built Altair. And I know what it felt like before. You made this possible.”

Ana shrugged, almost uncomfortable. “It’s my job.”

“No,” Kimi said. “Your job is systems. You built a weapon. That’s not just a job. That’s you.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then, to his surprise, Ana smiled.

A real one.

“I’m glad it was you,” she said. “For the first win.”

Kimi looked back out at the now-empty track.

So was he.

***

Twitter Thread: A Grand Chelem

🏁 @/F1Official:

💬 BREAKING: KIMI ANTONELLI WINS AT MONZA!

🏆 Pole position

🏁 Race win

⏱️ Fastest lap

📊 Every lap led

🇮🇹 A Grand Chelem at home.

@/GridGremlin: KIMI ANTONELLI. GRAND CHELEM. AT MONZA. I am actually crying. We witnessed history. The prodigy just became the prince. 🇮🇹👑

@/SebsGhostwriter: Kimi: wins his first race at his home GP with a Grand Chelem Valtteri: plays defensive king Lewis: gracious in defeat Mercedes: back on top Altair: goes orbital Max Verstappen: smiling quietly like he knows next year is his F1 is eating again.

@/tifosispiritual: i know i’m a ferrari fan. i know leclerc was cooked by lap 20. but i stood up and clapped when kimi took the flag. because that’s a kid from bologna who just conquered monza in front of his people.

@/padDOCKed: someone said “Ana Wolff built the system and Max Verstappen’s gonna drive it” and now I need to lie down

@/beyonddrs: Kimi Antonelli lifting the trophy and pointing at Ana Wolff in the crowd like she’s the reason for everything??? He’s just like us fr. He worships her.

@/alpineapologist: Ana Wolff is trending above Kimi Antonelli. This woman BUILT a car so fast she hijacked the entire race weekend from the garage. Mercedes is no longer Toto’s team. It’s hers now.

@/chaoticneutralf1: valterri bottas holding off 4 race-winning drivers so that a teenage rookie and an autistic systems engineer could make history at monza? this is the best anime of 2025

@/f1outofcontext: [Photo: Toto standing behind Ana like a human wall while champagne explodes] Caption: bodyguard mode: activated

@/gp_lurker: imagine being one of those engineers who said Ana Wolff was too cold to lead a department and now she’s got drivers winning Grand Chelems at Monza in her car AND THE INTERNET WORSHIPPING HER 🫡🫡🫡

@/laurentrossiiscrying: Ana Wolff: exists The Grid: 😭🥹👑🤯🔥 The Fans: 🛐🛐🛐 The Ferraris: 🫠🫠🫠

@/smootherthanlando: Toto shielding Ana like a literal granite wall while Kimi points to her from the podium is THE new religion. we don’t worship team principals anymore. we worship system engineers.

@/formula_one_director: If Drive to Survive doesn’t dedicate a full episode to Ana Wolff building Altair, I will riot.

@/wannabetoto: Kimi Antonelli: “She built Altair. She told me it would hold. And it did.” Me, sobbing into my Mercedes cap: HE BELIEVED IN HER. HE BELIEVED.

@/wft_kimi: I HAVE NEVER SCREAMED LIKE THIS IN MY LIFE He did it. OUR BOY DID IT. AT MONZA. 

@/bonosburnbook: Bono said “you’re free to push” and Kimi said “bet.” Fastest lap like it was a casual side quest 💅

@/overheardinthepaddock: “She said she'd rather be leashed to the MGU-K than go on the podium.” “She built the damn car. She is the podium.”

@/anawolffsource: Ana Wolff’s impact: – First Grand Chelem for Mercedes in years – 0.0 seconds of fanfare – Got champagne-attacked by a 19-year-old Queen behavior. #AnaWolff #Mercedes #ItalianGP

@/womensupportingwomenf1: Shoutout to Ana Wolff for proving that you can be brilliant, introverted, autistic and still own the sport from the back row. You built the spine of a Grand Chelem. That’s legacy.

@/mercnation44: The fact that Ana just stood in front of the champagne-soaked pit wall like a black polo–wearing deity while Bono sang and Kimi cackled... And then tagged Kimi with a bottle to the face?? This team is unhinged and I’m obsessed. #MercedesF1 #ItalianGP

@/tifosiforever:Fun Fact: Kimi Anonellis is only the 3rd driver to earn a Grand Slam during their first race win. The other two were Ayrton Senna and Nelson Piquet. 

@/f1casual: I don’t even care who you root for. That? That was poetry. 19-year-old Italian wins at Monza. With a car built by a woman who never wanted the spotlight. Helped by a Finn who held back the world. That’s Formula 1.

@/f1fluffybullshit: kinda poetic how kimi antonelli didn’t just win monza he conquered it. like. every lap led. fastest lap. pole. in that car. and then turned into a menace with a champagne bottle.

@/f1statmonster: Grand Chelems are rare. Kimi Antonelli just joined a list that includes: — Jim Clark — Ayrton Senna — Michael Schumacher — Lewis Hamilton — Max Verstappen And now… Kimi Antonelli. At home. In a car built on Project Altair. That’s history.

@/leclercsbangs: charles leclerc watching kimi win at monza in a mercedes while he finishes p6 in a ferrari: [insert sad Squidward window meme]

@/mclandowners: lando and oscar watching kimi and valterri cruise to a 1–2 like: 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️ (aka watching their own funeral from the second and third row)

@/f1burnbook: Toto Wolff shielding Ana from the podium chaos like a bodyguard?? Arm around her back?? 6'5” of Austrian protection while she watched her car win Monza?? Father of the year.

@/altairfiles: they said she was too cold too clinical not built for F1 and yet. ana wolff wrote the code that won monza. let that sink in.

@/f1historynerds: kinda wild how the story of Kimi Antonelli’s first F1 win is also the story of Ana Wolff’s engineering masterpiece Altair wasn’t just a car upgrade. it was the moment a woman rewrote the laws of control systems and made a machine sing.

@/tifosipurgatory:

my actual roman catholic grandmother just lit a candle for kimi antonelli after that race. monza is no longer ferrari land. it’s antonelli territory now.

@/mclandocurse:

max verstappen watching kimi win a grand chelem with his future car like: 🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑 (just pacing like a lion in a cage)

@/danieldoesdrama:

everyone’s talking about kimi’s win and max’s existential crisis

but can we talk about valterri bottas being the most competent teammate alive?? ferraris and mclarens behind him and man just shrugged and went “nope.”

@/gridwivesanonymous:

kimi: wins a grand prix bono: goes on the podium ana wolff: gets surprise champagne assassination valterri: vibrates with quiet pride max verstappen: starts planning the 2026 domination

we’re living in a golden age of content.

@/altairsystems:

what do you mean Ana Wolff isn’t on the podium?? give her the damn trophy. give her Monza. give her the FIA.

@/pitlanecryptid: Kimi winning Monza with a Grand Chelem is already historic, but the Mercedes upgrade is BLACK MAGIC. They said "Project Altair" and meant “here’s a f***ing missile.”

@/cursedf1takes: The irony of Red Bull getting out-developed by Toto’s autistic daughter who hates champagne and runs code on no sleep is too poetic. You can't write this shit.

@/tifosimourning: The Tifosi watching a Mercedes rookie win a Grand Chelem at Monza: [Video: girl screaming into a pillow]

@/norrisfanficupdates: Not Max Verstappen looking directly into the Sky camera and being like “I’m joining that.” Sir. We see you.

@/paddockwife: Max talking about Altair like he’s already married into the team 😭 No but imagine 2026 Mercedes with Max and Kimi and Ana Wolff as their tactical weapon???

@/albono_crying: Can we talk about Toto shielding his daughter from the podium crowd like a literal Austrian fortress??? I want that kind of support from my dad.

@/leclercdoestherapy: Charles Leclerc seeing Max and Kimi at Mercedes next year: 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️ (But seriously. Ferrari better react fast or this is 2010s domination 2.0)

@/softlaunchpaddock: Toto standing behind Ana like a literal human barricade and not saying a word while she watches the car she built win Monza is fatherhood cinema. Give them an Emmy.

@/circuitcryptid:Ana Wolff usually never shows up to the podium celebrations, but showed up for Kimi’s first win — and Toto instinctively shielding her without a word

@/austriansteelxbrackleybrains: Ana: I hate attention. Toto: I will become an immovable Austrian wall so no one bumps into you. Father of the year, folks.

@/bonosteaknight: Can someone give Toto a bloody award? Not for team principal. For being the first man to successfully raise a brilliant daughter and step aside so she could outshine him.

@/brackleybloodline: Everyone’s talking about Kimi’s Grand Chelem but I’m still not over the fact that Toto looked at Ana after the race like she personally rewrote the laws of physics. That’s not just pride. That’s awe.

@/gridsuspicions: funny how the man who yells on the pit wall is the gentlest person when it comes to his daughter toto wolff’s arc from team principal rage monster to “I will shield her with my life” is everything to me.

***

Text Messages: Susie Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Susie : You genius. You absolute, ridiculous, brilliant genius.

Susie: Just watched the podium with Jack. He shouted “ANA BUILT THAT CAR” at the TV. 

Susie: I hope you know how proud I am of you. Not just for today. For everything. But especially today.

Ana: The car worked. That’s all.

Susie: No. That car flew. You made Kimi’s first win happen. You made Altair sing.

Ana: I didn’t drive it.

Susie💬: Oh stop it. You built it. You stayed up until 3am to run final simulations. You reprogrammed the torque maps after FP2 like it was sudoku. You built a rocket and handed it to a 19-year-old, and he brought it home. That’s you.

Ana: …He did drive well.

Susie: Yes. Because you gave him something worthy of it. Kimi Antonelli just won Monza. In a car you built. Don’t downplay that. Don’t ever downplay that.

Ana: I don’t like attention.

Susie: Good thing I’m not in Monza then. I’d drag you to the press pen myself.

Ana: You’re ridiculous.

Susie: And you’re extraordinary.

Ana: He tried to drown me in champagne, by the way.

Susie: Good. You deserved it. Champagne and glory, Ana. I hope you feel every second of it.

Ana: …I let him.

Susie: I’m so proud of you. That’s all. Sleep eventually. Hydrate. Tell Max I say hi. Jack says “more wins, please.”

Ana: Tell Jack I’ll see what I can do. And thank you. For everything.

***

Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Victoria: Hi Ana. I hope you don’t mind me texting. I just wanted to say— That was beautiful today. Altair looked like magic. You should be proud.

Ana: …thank you.

Ana: Sorry, I’m just— I wasn’t expecting this. Or… anything, really.

Victoria: That’s fair. Max gave me your number months ago. Said I’d know when to use it. He was right. He usually is, when it’s about you.

Ana: He gave you my number?

Victoria: Relax, I’m not going to post it on the Verstappen family WhatsApp. I only ever text him after races. Win or lose. That’s what sisters do. And after today… Well. You earned this one too.

Ana: That’s not really been my experience with sisters.

Victoria: Then maybe it’s time to have a different kind.

Victoria: You didn’t just build a car, Ana. You built something he chose. And something Kimi just drove straight into the history books. I hope you let yourself enjoy that.

Ana: … I’m trying. It’s not something I’m good at.

Victoria: Well, don’t worry. We’re Verstappens. We’ll drag you into it eventually.

Ana: …thank you. Really.

Victoria: Anytime. You’ve got Max’s back. So I’ve got yours. That’s how this works. 💙

***

Max Verstappen’s Private Jet, Italy - 7 September 2025

The jet door sealed behind her with a soft hydraulic hiss. She stepped up into the cabin still smelling faintly of champagne and brake dust and whatever hell they’d all unleashed on track that afternoon.

Max watched her from his seat and felt his pulse skip.

Ana didn’t look like someone who’d just delivered Mercedes their first Grand Chelem in years. She looked like someone who’d been halfway drowned by celebration and didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Her damp hair was pulled back in a low twist, a few champagne-soaked strands stuck to her neck. She was wearing a black Mercedes hoodie—probably Toto’s, judging by the oversized sleeves. Her hand looked pale and thin in it as she reached up to tuck her laptop case into the overhead bin.

Max stood.

Quietly.

Letting her see him when she was ready.

When she turned, their eyes met—and her whole face softened.

She didn’t smile often.

Not easily, not unless it was earned.

But this one was for him. And it undid something in his chest.

“Hey,” she said, voice low and rough with exhaustion.

Max crossed the space in three steps and kissed her before she could say anything else. One hand braced her jaw, the other settled gently on her hip.

She melted into him without hesitation, arms winding under his jacket, fingers clutching at his spine like he was gravity and she’d been off-balance all day.

When he pulled back, her forehead stayed against his. “Congratulations,” he whispered. “Altair was a monster today.”

She huffed. “He drove it beautifully.”

“You built it beautifully.”

Her mouth twitched. “I built it ruthlessly. There’s a difference.”

“Either way,” Max said, brushing a wet curl from her cheek, “I cannot wait to drive something you built.”

Ana blinked. “You will. Next year.”

He shook his head, smiling. “No, I can’t wait. That’s what I’m saying. Watching Kimi out there—how stable the rear was, how it turned under throttle, how confidently he could go flat through Ascari—Ana, it was like art. Like driving poetry.”

She blinked at him. “That’s a dramatic metaphor for a race car.”

“It’s not a metaphor,” Max said. “It’s the truth. You took that car and made it something else. Something faster. Sharper. Something better.”

Ana flushed. Actually flushed.

Max tucked that away like a secret. Like a treasure. She could command data centers and terrify engineers with a single raised brow, but the second someone called her extraordinary—she ducked her head like she didn’t know what to do with it.

He kissed her again.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “And I’m going to show you, every single day, that you’re more extraordinary than you let yourself believe.”

Ana looked up. “Even when I’m soaked in Kimi’s champagne and smell like a tire blanket?”

“Especially then,” Max grinned. “You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re mine.”

Ana sighed, and for once, let herself lean her full weight into him.

Max held her through takeoff. Through the shift of altitude. Through the quiet descent of adrenaline that always came after a race weekend.

Her breathing evened out somewhere over the Ligurian Sea. And Max let his hand rest over hers where it curled against his chest.

He couldn’t wait for next year.

But more than that— He couldn’t wait for forever.

***

Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 7 September 2025

By the time they reached the apartment, the quiet hum of the jet had faded into memory—replaced by the sound of Sassy’s soft paws skittering on the marble floor and Jimmy’s louder, lazier thud as he sauntered to the door to greet them.

Ana barely had the strength to bend down and stroke between Sassy’s ears.

Her muscles were screaming. Her brain was running low on power, like an overheating server. She had been running on caffeine and adrenaline for hours now—days, really. The last bits of code for the Altair calibration had been finalized at 1:27 a.m. the night before qualifying.

And now the car had won. A Grand Chelem. At Monza.

Kimi had won. Valtteri had protected. The systems had worked.

And she was…exhausted.

“Shoes off,” Max said behind her, already kicking his sneakers into the entryway like he always did. “Bed. Now.”

“I need to answer the data report from—”

“Nope,” Max said, already taking her laptop bag off her shoulder. “No emails. No reports. No engines. Not tonight.”

“But—”

He stepped close. “You just engineered Mercedes’ first front-row lockout since last year. And its first Monza win in seven years. You're going to bed before you code another simulation in your sleep.”

Ana opened her mouth to argue. She wasn’t even sure what the counterargument was—she just didn’t know how to stop.

But then Max took her hand. Gently. Carefully.

And he kissed it.

Slowly. Reverently. Like her fingers were made of glass and gold.

“You made something beautiful today,” he murmured. “That car—Ana, it was perfect. It was yours. And it flew.”

Ana felt something flicker in her chest. Too much. He always said things like that—soft, true things she didn’t know how to carry.

“It wasn’t just me,” she managed. “There’s a whole team—”

“I know that. But you built its spine,” Max whispered. “You made it sing,” Max corrected, already guiding her down the hallway.

She didn’t argue. Not when the bedroom came into view. Not when he turned her toward the bed like it was muscle memory. Not when he stepped away just long enough to draw back the sheets with reverence, as if she were royalty and he was her steward.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly, toes curling on the cool wood floor.

Max turned back toward her. And kissed her hand.

He lifted it with a kind of aching patience, his thumb brushing across her knuckles, lips pressing to the joint of her index finger. Then her palm. Then the heel of her hand.

“Ana,” he said against her skin. “That car today? That was you. Every single lap. Every corner. Every tenth Kimi pulled? That was your work. Your brilliance.”

She tried to scoff, but it came out shaky.

“You’re not just a systems engineer. You’re not just Head of Department. You’re the fucking spine of that car. You made it what it is.”

He kissed her wrist, where the brace had sat for weeks. Then her forearm.

“You made it fast. You made it safe. You made it bulletproof. You gave Kimi something that made him brave.”

“Stop,” Ana murmured, because her throat was starting to close.

But Max didn’t.

He knelt in front of her.

“You built something extraordinary,” he said. “You are something extraordinary.”

Her fingers were already in his hair before she realized what she was doing.

“You can’t say things like that and then kneel,” she said, the words dry even as her voice cracked.

“I absolutely can,” Max said, looking up at her with fire and devotion in equal measure. “And I will. Every time you forget who you are.”

Ana felt her knees buckle. Max caught her with ease, guiding her gently down to the mattress like she was made of starlight.

He peeled her hoodie off carefully, fingers ghosting across the curve of her shoulder.

 “Still smells like champagne,” he muttered. “You smell like a podium.”

“God, you’re so weird.”

He kissed her shoulder. “You like it.”

She did.

She really, really did.

And when he kissed her again—soft, grounding, a little breathless from restraint—she let herself feel it.

Not just the want. Not just the safety. But the joy.

Because she had done something good. And he saw it. And she wasn’t alone anymore.

“Max,” she whispered into his shoulder, the word cracking open between them.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice thick. “You made something perfect today. And now I get to remind you that you are, too.”

Ana didn’t know how to believe it.

But she let him try.

She let him peel her down to the skin, the slow, careful way he always did, as if touching her was a privilege he needed to earn.

He kissed the inside of her wrist, then her elbow, then the place on her shoulder where an old scar ran pale and half-mooned. She felt her body go pliant under him, all the rigid lines of stress and purpose melting out with every touch.

Max never rushed. He treated her like the most complex, delicate machinery—something to be learned and admired, something that deserved reverence. He slid his hands up her arms and mapped the lines of her ribs. He pressed kisses to the hollow at the base of her throat, to the edge of her jaw, to the spot just below her ear that always, always made her tremble.

It was embarrassing, how easily he could make her shiver. How he could undo her with nothing but a palm at her hip, a thumb at the small of her back.

She arched beneath his hands, letting the tension unravel from her neck and shoulders, letting her breath slow into something deeper, something almost animal. Max’s weight settled over her, careful but inevitable, and when she wrapped her arms around his ribs there was a steadiness there she didn’t know she’d been craving.

He buried his face in her collarbone and laughed, just once, the sound as warm as the skin he was tracing down her sternum. “God, you’re so much more than you know,” he said, the words vibrating through her bones. “You don’t even see it, do you?”

“Stop,” she whispered, though it wasn’t a command. More like a plea for mercy. He kept going, every movement purposeful, every word as soft as the touch that followed.

“You’re brilliant. You’re impossible. You never let up for a second, not even when it costs you sleep, or time, or—” His mouth grazed her shoulderand the skin there stuttered under his lips.

Her hands found his jaw and held him, anchoring herself to his certainty, letting it fill the places in her she’d never known were empty. She wanted to say something—thank you, maybe, or don’t leave, or just Max—but the words would have collapsed under their own weight. So she let him talk, let him touch, let him make her believe, if only for tonight, that she was as singular as he thought.

He pushed the hair from her forehead, thumb drawing lazy arcs at her temple. “I love your mind,” he said, voice thick with wonder. “But I’m obsessed with all of you.” He laughed the last word into her neck, the heat of it sending a shudder straight down her spine.

She was so tired—past tired, really, into some new state where everything felt translucent and hyperreal. Light pooled across the sheets and painted his shoulders gold and her hipbones white and the world, for a minute, was just this: a bed, a body, a person who would not let her turn herself into a ghost.

He kissed her. Not hungry, not urgent, but with a kind of patient devotion that made her want to break and melt and laugh, all at once. He traced her lips with his, lingered, pressed his palm to her cheek. She let herself fall into it, let herself stop calculating and anticipating and bracing for the next alert—there were no alarms here, no dashboards to monitor, no lines of code to debug.

Only this: the scent of Max’s skin, the slow shadow of his eyelashes, the weight of him over her, steady and sure.

The feeling of him inside her as her brain finally shut up…the feeling of utterly and completely surrendering to him because she knew that she was safe with him.

She let him in, let him fill her completely, the way sunlight pours into a room that’s been dark too long. His hands were everywhere at once—cupping the back of her head, splayed warm against the small of her back, fingers spread in a careful bracket around her hip.

They found a slow, effortless rhythm together. Ana’s body was still raw from adrenaline and burnt out, but Max’s hands never stopped moving—tracing every seam and scar, every inch of her that she’d spent years ignoring.

She lost her grip on time, on her own body, as he coaxed her out of herself. Every shift and press of his hips was another proof that she could be more than the sum of her parts. It wasn’t just pleasure—though there was that, blooming sharp and then dissolving warm through her core. 

…it was recognition.

It was being known down to the marrow. It was Max seeing her exactly as she was—flawed, brilliant, exhausted, built out of numbers and nerves—and never once flinching.

Ana wasn’t used to that. She was used to being tolerated, used, underestimated. Respected sometimes. Feared occasionally. But never loved in the precise, patient way Max loved her. In the way he held her now—hands splayed, body flush, but eyes soft and open and watching her like she hung stars in his sky.

And maybe she did. Because he was looking at her like she mattered. Like she wasn’t difficult or sharp-edged or too much— But worth it. Worth everything.

Her breath hitched, and Max caught the sound instantly. His hand slid up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “You’re alright,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, Nastya. I’ve got you.”

Ana’s body shuddered around him, and that word—Russian, instinctive, hers—made something splinter and bloom behind her ribs. She hadn’t even realized how tight everything inside her had been wound, until he unraveled it with one word and two hands and a kind of reverence she’d never known she needed.

“Don’t let go,” she murmured, barely audible.

“Never,” Max said, pressing his forehead to hers. “Not in this lifetime.”

And when she came undone—quietly, deeply, her body arching into his like the crest of a wave—he followed right after her, as if pulled by gravity. As if the axis of his world had shifted to where she was lying, flushed and trembling, whispering his name like a secret prayer.

They stayed like that for a long moment.

Entangled. Breath mingling. Sweat cooling between them.

Ana’s fingers found the edge of his hairline, brushing it back from his damp forehead. Max caught her wrist and kissed it again—right over the pale skin where the brace had been, where bone had once splintered under force.

He kissed it like it was sacred.

“You did something impossible today,” he murmured, voice still rough with aftershocks. “You created,” he said. “And you endured. And you led. You were brilliant, and relentless, and the entire garage could feel it. Hell, the whole paddock felt it.”

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Because Max leaned down, kissed her collarbone again, then curled behind her like a shield. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, their legs tangled under the duvet he’d tucked around them.

“I want to drive that car next year,” he whispered against her shoulder. “Not because it’s fast. Not because it wins. But because you built it. And I want to feel what it’s like to fly inside something that you made.”

Ana swallowed hard, staring at the edge of the pillow.

“You’re going to win in it,” she whispered.

Max kissed her shoulder. “Not alone.”

Twitter Thread: Zandvoort 2025

@/TracksideChaos91: Zandvoort in the rain = bullet time. This race should’ve been red‑flagged. Verstappen surviving that… insane.

@/TarmacTerrorFan: Seeing Max, Lewis and Valtteri up there again feels like 2021 redux. Are we about to relive the old wars in new cars?

@/PodiumThrowback:Verstappen‑Hamilton‑Bottas on the podium? 2021 vibes hard. Is the paddock nostalgic or what?

@/SafetyCarShivers: How many times did you see a driver doing more survival than racing laps this weekend? That should alarm the regulators.”

@/CriticCornerF1: Amazing result for Max — but let’s not gloss over the fact it shouldn’t have been possible with that car in those conditions. That’s a concern.

@/EngineeredRisk: They were basically sliding on soap out there. Strategy window looked like Russian roulette. Mercedes played it safe, Red Bull rolled the dice.”

@/PodiumPessimist: Because of the conditions and car problems, you feel like Max saved the race — not the team. That’s both heroic and terrifying.

@/wetweatherwizard: This was one of the most dangerous wins I’ve seen. Slicks in driving rain. Max drove like nothing else mattered. Respect.

@/tacticaltiming: When the strategy dies you need raw gut. Max had it. Everyone else chased ghosts in the rain. #RedBullChaos

@/f1analyst101: We talk about data & models all week. Then it rains and the car slides and it becomes survival of the fittest. Max survived. Big win.

@/safetyfirstf1: That rain hit hard and the visibility was awful. It wasn’t just exciting — it was dangerous. Does F1 even want safe anymore?

@/overtheshoulder: Seeing Verstappen on the podium with Hamilton and Bottas feels like a throwback to 2021 but with extra danger dialled in. One small mis‑read of the wet banked turn and we’re watching white smoke. 

@/tracksidegoblin:Max winning that under those conditions? I’ve seen miracles. But this felt more like survival. Risky rails, slicks in the rain – not a win, a heist.

@/gridlockf1: Hamilton P2, Bottas P3, Verstappen winning with a car that looked ready to spin every lap … this podium screams 2021 redux. Impossible odds stacked.

@/criticalcorner: Love a good race, but Zandvoort turned into a horror show with 0 margin for error. Those on the podium didn’t just race the others, they raced the circuit.

@/orangearmy_fan: Max on that podium looked relieved, not victorious. Because anyone who knows Zandvoort in the rain knows you gotta be lucky AND good. He was both.

***

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Max Verstappen

GP: I swear to god, Max. I nearly put a hole in the wall watching that race.

Max: You’re supposed to be gardening. That doesn’t sound like watering tomatoes and meditating.

GP: I’m gardening rage. My rage is thriving. My rage is flowering in fucking abundance.

Max: Inner Italian’s coming through. Do you need to go shout at the ocean?

GP: Don’t test me. I haven’t sworn at a wind tunnel in two months and it’s catching up with me.

GP: That car looked like it was held together by duct tape and false hope. You should never have been in that situation. Never. And don’t give me the “it was my call” speech — that should’ve been a team decision.

Max: It was chaos. I didn’t trust anyone. And I still don’t know how the hell I stayed upright.

GP: Because you’re you. But that’s not the point, Max. They left you out there with no support, no grip, no strategy, and no fucking backup plan. I could hear the silence on the radio. I felt it. And you still brought it home. At what cost?

Max: Still trying to figure that out.

GP: You shouldn't have to win like that. You shouldn't have to drive like your life depends on it every time the car falls apart. This isn't karting in the fucking rain anymore.

Max: Tell that to Jos.

GP: No thanks. If I wanted to have my blood pressure tested in real time I’d go back to the pit wall.

Max: You’ll be back. Next Year.

GP: I will be. In the meantime, I’ve redirected all my coaching energy into Francesca’s school prep. She starts Bosworth next week.

Max: Already??

GP: Yep. She’s got the uniform laid out and her pencils alphabetised. 

Max: I’m sending flowers to Eloisa. And earplugs.

GP: Send snacks. She’s too proud to admit she stress-bakes when Francesca’s nervous.

Max: Tell Francesca I’m proud of her. And that I’ll send her telemetry data if her new classmates ever doubt her coolness.

GP: Already told her. She said, quote: “Papa, I know Max is fast. I saw the onboard. But also his car was sliding like a baby deer on ice.”

Max: … She’s not wrong.

GP: You scared the hell out of everyone. And whether you want to believe it or not — that win wasn’t luck. It was you.

Max: I don’t feel like a winner.

GP: You don’t have to feel it. You just have to know it. And let the people who love you carry the rest for a bit.

Max: Is that an Italian proverb?

GP: No. That’s just me.

***

Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Victoria:Maxie that freaked me out. I mean—genuinely. I’ve never been scared watching you drive, but that? That wasn’t racing. That was survival. Are you okay?

Max: physically, yeah.

Victoria: emotionally?

Max: …no. not really.

Victoria: You looked wrecked. I saw the post-race footage. You weren’t even smiling. Like, at all. Even Luka noticed. He asked if you were mad at the car 😔

Max: I wasn’t mad at the car. I was mad that I had to do that just to win.

Victoria: You shouldn’t have been in that position. They left you out there like you were disposable.

Max: they did.

Max: I had no data. No feedback. No strategy worth trusting. I drove on instinct and trauma. That’s it. I could’ve ended up in the wall and they wouldn’t have blinked.

Victoria: don’t say that they don’t deserve you. they haven’t for years.

Max: I know. And for the first time in a long time I’m actually glad I’m out after this season.

Victoria: wait. you actually said it. you’re happy to leave Red Bull?

Max: yeah. I’m done being the insurance policy they keep cashing.

Victoria: 🥲 okay i’m gonna cry now. not because I’m sad but because I’ve been waiting for you to say that out loud for years

Max: you and me both.

Victoria: I love you. and I’m so, so proud of you. even if I wanted to throw up during every sector today.

Max: I love you too. Sorry for the scare.

Victoria: just promise me you’ll be safe next time. you don’t have to prove anything anymore, maxie. not to anyone. not even to them.

Max: I know. And I won’t.

Max: Next year’s going to be different.

Victoria: damn right it is. new team. new car. new chapter.

Victoria: maybe a wedding too? 👀

Max: not now, vic

Victoria: fine 🙄 but I’m buying glitter heels just in case

***

Text Messages: Sophie Kumpen & Max Verstappen

Sophie: Max. I watched the race. Don’t tell me you’re fine. Because I’m not.

Max: I’m fine, mama. Tired, but fine. Nothing hurts.

Sophie: You’re not made of glass, Max. But you’re not made of steel either. Don’t lie to me.

Max: I’m not lying. I promise. I got through it. I’m home. It’s done.

Sophie: That wasn’t a race. That was a stunt show. And they left you out there like a crash test dummy.

Max: It was my choice to stay out.

Sophie: Because you didn’t trust them. I know that look. I’ve seen it since you were ten. When you stop listening to the radio, that means you’ve decided you’re alone out there.

Max: It worked, didn’t it?

Sophie: That doesn’t make it right. You shouldn’t have to win like that. You shouldn’t have to drive like that just to survive.

Max: I know.

Sophie: You say that, but you’re still trying to make me feel better.

Max: Maybe a little.

Sophie: Don’t.

Sophie: I’m your mother. Not the press. Not the paddock. You don’t have to play brave with me. I saw your face after the race. I know what it cost.

Max: It’s almost over.

Sophie: Not soon enough.

Sophie: Does Ana know how bad it really was?

Max: She was in the garage. She saw everything.

Sophie: Good. Then you have someone who won’t let you pretend it was just a “difficult race.”

Max: No pretending with her.

Sophie: Good. Because you can’t keep doing this to yourself.

Max: I know.

Sophie: Take care of yourself, Max. Not just your body. The rest of you too. I mean it.

Max: I know, mama. I love you.

Sophie: I love you more.

***

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Peter “Bono” Bonnington

GP: I don’t care that I’m technically on gardening leave. I need you to promise me something.

Bono: That sounds ominous. What is it?

GP: When Max comes to Mercedes next year— You don’t let this happen again. You don’t hang him out to dry. Not like today. Not ever.

Bono: I swear to you— We don’t do that here. We won’t do that to him.

GP: Not even if it’s the only shot at winning?

Bono: Especially not then. We protect our drivers first. Points don’t mean a thing if the cost is a hospital bed. That’s Toto’s line too.

GP: Good. Because I watched him wrestle that RB like it was possessed. And no one said a damn thing on the radio. No backup. No call. Just… silence. That’s not racing. That’s abandonment.

Bono: We don’t leave our drivers behind. And Ana would actually murder us if we even thought about it. You should’ve heard her yesterday—Kimi said the track felt slippery and she called the pit in immediately. Didn’t even wait for the models to catch up.

GP: That sounds like her.

Bono: No margin for risk. No “trust your gut” nonsense. She’s all logic and safety protocols—unless it’s Max, in which case I think she’s five seconds away from trying to figure out how she can get away with installing airbags in his fireproofs next year. 

Bono: We’ve got him, GP. Next year—he won’t have to do it alone.

GP: He’s not used to that. Let him learn it slow.

Bono: We will. One race at a time.

***

Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 1 September 2025

He was making tea when he heard her voice in the living room — not talking to him, but to the cats.

It wasn’t English.

It wasn’t German either.

It was soft and low, syllables sliding gently like the hush of rain over asphalt. 

This was different.

Softer.

More… private.

Russian, he realized. 

Max turned toward the doorway. The late morning light was slanting in through the glass balcony doors, painting pale gold across the floor. He could hear the sound of paws scuffling against tile — Jimmy, most likely, trying to bat a ribbon out of Ana’s hand. Sassy was probably somewhere nearby, too, silently judging the scene with her usual cat disdain.

Ana murmured something else and Jimmy gave a delighted little mrrow in reply.

Max smiled.  He didn’t understand the words, not exactly — but he understood the tone. The affection. The ease.

He’d never heard her speak Russian like that before. Not outside the few phrases she used in exasperation or buried nostalgia. This was something closer to home. Closer to her.

And for a moment, Max just stood there in the doorway and watched.

Ana, in his oversized t-shirt, barefoot, her hair pulled back in a scrunchies.

 Talking to his cats — their cats, really — like they were old friends. Like she hadn’t spent years carefully detaching every part of her childhood from the person she’d become.

Like maybe, just maybe, she was allowing herself to miss where she came from without it hurting quite so much.

She caught him staring as she straightened, Sassy still curled in the crook of one arm like a diva at a photoshoot.

“Apparently my cats are bilingual now,” Max said drily. 

Ana grinned. “You’ll be pleased to know Sassy understands how pretty she is in both languages.”

“She’s more intelligent than most of Red Bull’s engineers, then.”

That earned a soft snort as she set the cat down and crossed the room toward him.

He let his eyes follow her — the ease of her movements, the curve of her mouth still sleepy, the faint imprint of a pillow crease across her cheek. The way her wrist brace peeked out from under the sleeve.

“You have to take that off soon,” Max murmured, nodding to her arm as she perched beside him.

“I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon,” Ana said. “They’ll probably give me a list of exercises and tell me not to do anything stupid.”

“You’ll ignore them, obviously.”

“Obviously.” A pause. “Papa’s picking me up, by the way. So you don’t have to rearrange your afternoon.”

Max just hummed.

She didn’t notice the way he looked at her then — not really. Not fully.

Because it was quiet. Domestic. Uneventful.

But also: hers.

His.

Max loved her in many ways — urgently, desperately, quietly, even angrily sometimes. But mornings like this… they rewired something in him. Grounded him.

She was so careful with the world. So guarded. So stubborn. But here she was, barefoot in his kitchen, talking to their cats in the language of her first heartbreaks. Trusting him enough to exist like this.

And all he could think — as she reached over to steal one of his croissants, as she flicked through her emails with one hand and idly ran her fingers through Jimmy’s fur with the other — was:

I want this forever.

Every morning. Every comment. Every cup of bitter Russian tea she brewed. Every look. Every shrug. Every kiss.

Every version of her — the one who raced through simulations at Mercedes, the one who used data like a scalpel, the one who curled into his side at night and whispered I’m trying.

He loved them all.

He loved her more than he knew how to explain.

And when she looked up and said, “What?” with one eyebrow raised like she knew he was being sentimental, Max only smiled.

“Nothing,” he said, eyes soft. “Just… you’re speaking Russian to my cats. It’s cute.”

Ana gave him a flat look. “I’m leaving.”

“You love them.”

“Don’t start.”

“You adore them.”

Ana pointed at him. “Eat your damn breakfast.”

“Yes, doktor,” Max said, mock serious, and she rolled her eyes like he wasn’t the one who’d won an impossible race two days ago.

Like he was just hers.

And he was. Completely.

***

Wolff Residence, Monaco - 1 September 2025

He’d just slipped his watch onto his wrist when the familiar sound of Susie’s voice cut through the quiet of the kitchen.

“I’ll go.”

Toto looked up from where he was checking his phone. “Go where?”

“To pick up Ana.” Susie was already slipping on a cardigan, her hair still damp from the shower. “From the doctor’s. You were about to head out.”

“I was,” he said slowly. “It’s not a problem.”

“I know,” she said, soft but firm. “But I’d like to.”

Toto hesitated.

Susie looked over at him, one hand on the back of the chair, the other adjusting her sleeve like it was the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it was. Maybe it had become normal over the years—the way Susie moved around Ana, and Ana around her. Quietly, naturally, like they had always known each other.

But Toto knew that wasn’t true.

It had taken time. Years, even. Years for Ana to uncoil from the wary silence she’d worn like armour when she first arrived in his life. Years to start trusting that love didn’t always have to be conditional. That she didn’t have to earn it with perfect grades, or faultless behaviour, or achievements lined up like medals.

He looked down at his keys, then at the woman who knew him better than anyone else in the world, and then—inevitably—at the space in his chest that still ached when he thought of the girl he hadn’t met until she was already half grown.

Toto inhaled, slow and quiet.

“She probably expects me,” he said.

“She’ll be happy to see either of us,” Susie replied. “But today… let me. Please.”

He studied her. The softness behind her eyes. The steel that never wavered.

Then he handed over the keys.

“She hates hospitals.”

“I know,” Susie said. “I’ll bring her coffee.”

“She’ll pretend she doesn’t want it.”

“She always does.”

Toto managed a smile.

He leaned back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching as she tied her hair up with a practiced flick of her wrist. Susie was efficient like that—tidy and swift and capable. But he knew the weight behind this gesture wasn’t about efficiency. It was about something else entirely.

He'd thought about it.

A lot.

The idea had taken root in his mind some time ago—quietly at first, then more persistently. That maybe it wasn’t too late. That maybe names could still be claimed, not just inherited. That maybe Ana could be hers, not just in the way they all already felt it, but in the way the law might one day reflect.