Untitled

“Hey,” Bucky says immediately.

Too sharp.

Too fast.

Your shoulders jerk violently.

His stomach drops.

“Sorry,” he says, softer now. “Sorry, doll. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You don’t answer.

That’s what scares him.

You always answer.

Even anxious, even exhausted, even spiralling—you answer.

Usually with a joke. Usually with something self-deprecating and wry and designed to make everyone else comfortable while you quietly unravel inside your own skin.

But now you’re breathing too fast.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor.

And Bucky realizes with cold certainty:

Oh.

Oh, this is bad.

He’s seen panic attacks before. Hell, he’s had enough of them himself. But yours always look different than his. Quieter. Like you’re trying to contain the catastrophe internally so it doesn’t inconvenience anyone else.

“Can you look at me?” he asks carefully.

Nothing.

He crouches slowly several feet away, metal hand deliberately visible, movements gentle.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s okay.”

Broken ceramic litters the floor between you both.

You whisper something he can’t hear.

“What was that?”

Your voice cracks.

“Everything feels wrong.”

Jesus Christ.

That sentence nearly tears him in half.

Because he knows that feeling.

The horrible skin-tight sensation of existing incorrectly. Like your bones are full of bees. Like every thought in your head is moving too fast and too loud and none of them can be stopped.

Bucky swallows hard.

“What do you need?”

“I don’t know.”

You sound ashamed of it.

Like not knowing is somehow a personal failure.

His chest aches.

“Okay,” he says again. “That’s alright too.”

Your breathing gets worse.

Shorter.

Faster.

Your fingers dig into your sleeves hard enough he worries you’ll bruise.

Bucky looks around the kitchen helplessly.

He knows combat. Extraction. Interrogation. Trauma. Survival.

But this?

You falling apart in front of him while he desperately tries to figure out how to help?

It scares him more than most things.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You shake your head immediately.

“No? Okay. Okay.”

Think.

Think.

Usually when you’re anxious, you like warmth. Blankets. Hoodies. Pressure against your chest.

Pressure.

His eyes flick downward thoughtfully.

“Can I try something?”

You laugh once.

It sounds awful.

“Depends how weird it is.”

His mouth twitches despite everything.

“Probably pretty weird.”

You finally look at him then, eyes glassy and overwhelmed.

“Fine.”

He moves carefully around the broken ceramic before lowering himself to sit beside you against the cabinets.

For a second he hesitates.

This could go horribly.

But then he remembers the way you curl under every blanket in the compound during storms. The way you once admitted sleeping better when Alpine sprawled over your ribs like a furry paperweight.

So Bucky exhales once and says:

“C’mere.”

You blink at him.

“What?”

“Just trust me.”

Which you do.

That’s the dangerous thing.

You always do.

You shift toward him uncertainly, and before he can overthink it, Bucky pulls you gently sideways until your back rests against his chest.

Then he wraps one arm around your middle.

And slowly—carefully—leans enough weight against you that you’re partially pinned beneath him.

Not crushing.

Just heavy.

Solid.

Warm.

The effect is immediate.

Your breathing stutters.

Then slows.

Bucky freezes.

You go still beneath him.

“…oh,” you whisper.

His heartbeat trips.

“Too much?”

“No.”

Another breath.

Slower this time.

“No, that’s—”

Your shoulders finally unclench for the first time since he walked into the kitchen.

“Oh my god.”

Bucky stares at the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“You’re heavy.”

“I’m aware.”

“No,” you say weakly. “I mean—good heavy.”

Something inside him softens so violently it nearly hurts.

Carefully, cautiously, he shifts a little more weight against you.

Your eyes flutter shut.

And then—

Then you melt.

There’s no other word for it.

The tension leaves you in visible increments, your body gradually surrendering under the pressure of his weight and warmth. Your breathing evens out. Your death grip on your sleeves loosens.

Bucky can practically feel your nervous system recalibrating beneath him.

“What kind of sorcery is this?” you murmur.

He huffs a quiet laugh.

“Dunno. Maybe you’re broken.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“You’re calmer.”

“…unfortunately true.”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself.

And because you can’t see his face pressed near your hair, you miss the terrifying realization blooming in his chest.

He likes taking care of you.

Too much.

In ways that feel dangerous.

Because this—holding you down gently against his chest at two in the morning while your breathing evens out—feels more intimate than half the things he’s done with actual girlfriends.

That should concern him more than it does.

Instead, he tightens his arm around you slightly and says softly:

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Don’t move.”

His heart does something deeply embarrassing.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not intentionally at first.

Neither of you discuss it.

But a week later, after a disastrous mission briefing leaves you overwhelmed and shaky, Bucky finds you curled miserably into the corner of the common room couch.

He takes one look at you.

“You spiralling?”

“Maybe.”

“Move over.”

You snort tiredly.

“There is literally no room.”

“I’ll make room.”

And somehow he does.

The others walk in to discover you pinned beneath the bulk of the Winter Soldier like a hostage being gently comforted.

Sam stops dead.

“…what the hell am I looking at?”

Without opening your eyes, you answer:

“Medical treatment.”

Bucky feels you relax further when he settles more weight across you.

Sam stares.

“You’re using Barnes as an emotional support sandbag?”

“Yes.”

“…and this works?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat.

Then Sam points accusingly at Bucky.

“You look way too pleased about this.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Bucky ignores him.

Mostly because Sam’s right.

The horrifying truth is that Bucky likes this arrangement so much it’s becoming a problem.

He likes when you seek him out now.

Likes the sleepy, “Buck?” you murmur from doorways when your anxiety gets bad.

Likes how trusting you are with him.

Likes the way you immediately soften once he presses close.

And he especially likes the fact you never seem afraid of him.

Not of his metal arm.

Not of his size.

Not of the sheer physical reality of him.

You just curl beneath him willingly like he’s safety instead of danger.

It ruins him slowly.

The worst part is how domestic it becomes.

You’re both pathetic enough not to notice immediately.

It starts with movies.

You’re anxious after a rough therapy session, so Bucky sprawls partially on top of you on the couch while some terrible reality baking show plays in the background.

Then it becomes routine.

You reading while he rests against you.

You napping underneath him.

Your legs tangled together while Alpine sleeps smugly on Bucky’s back like she approves of the arrangement.

One night Natasha walks into the living room, sees the position you’re both in, and physically backs out again.

“Nope,” she says immediately.

You blink sleepily from beneath Bucky’s chest.

“What?”

“I’m giving you both privacy to deal with…” she gestures vaguely, “…whatever this is.”

Bucky frowns.

“We’re watching TV.”

Natasha stares at him.

“You’re lying on top of her.”

“To help her anxiety.”

“Mhm.”

“That’s literally all this is.”

Natasha looks directly at you.

“Are you aware he’s in love with you?”

Bucky nearly chokes to death.

You burst into startled laughter.

“What?”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Men are exhausting.”

Then she leaves before either of you can recover.

The silence afterward is catastrophic.

Bucky can feel heat crawling up his neck.

You clear your throat awkwardly beneath him.

“Well.”

“Nat talks too much.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence.

Then quietly:

“You’re not in love with me, right?”

And there it is.

The moment.

The opening.

The place where honesty could exist.

Bucky should tell you.

He should.

Instead he says, “You’d know if I was.”

It’s a lie.

A terrible one.

Because he is so violently in love with you it feels like organ failure sometimes.

He loves your laugh.

Your stubbornness.

The way you ramble when tired.

The way you pretend your anxiety makes you difficult to love while offering everyone else endless patience and gentleness.

He loves how you trust him with your softest parts.

He loves you so much it scares him.

But you relax at his answer.

And somehow that feels worse.

“Oh good,” you murmur.

His chest aches.

“Yeah.”

You smile faintly beneath him.

“Because that would make this complicated.”

Bucky stares at the ceiling all night afterward unable to breathe properly.

Things get worse after the nightmare.

Not his.

Yours.

Bucky wakes around three in the morning because someone is pounding on his door hard enough to shake the frame.

He’s moving before he’s fully awake.

When he opens it, you’re standing there shaking.

Not crying.

Which is somehow worse.

Your face looks pale and distant and terrified in a way that spikes immediate panic through him.

“Hey,” he says sharply. “Hey, what happened?”

“I can’t calm down.”

Your voice trembles violently.

“I tried—I tried everything and I can’t—”

“C’mere.”

You practically fall into him.

Bucky catches you automatically, metal arm bracing your back while your fingers clutch desperately at his shirt.

Your heartbeat is terrifying.

Way too fast.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

You bury your face against his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I woke you up.”

“I don’t care.”

And he means it.

He’d wake up for you every night for the rest of his life if it helped.

The realization lands hard enough to nearly stagger him.

Before he can think too deeply about that deeply alarming truth, he guides you toward the bed.

“Lay down.”

You obey immediately, exhausted and overwhelmed.

Bucky climbs in beside you without hesitation.

Then carefully—carefully—he settles partially over you, broad chest against yours, one heavy thigh between yours, arms caging you safely beneath him.

The second his weight settles, you exhale shakily.

“There you are,” he whispers.

Your eyes close.

“There you are.”

The room goes quiet except for your breathing gradually slowing beneath him.

Bucky should move once you calm down.

Instead he stays.

Because you’re warm beneath him.

Because your fingers are curled loosely in his shirt.

Because every instinct in his body screams protect protect protect.

And because he’s hopelessly, catastrophically gone for you.

You fall asleep first.

Bucky knows because your grip loosens and your face softens against his shoulder.

He should leave then.

Instead he remains exactly where he is for nearly an hour staring into the dark.

He brushes hair away from your face carefully.

God.

He loves you.

He loves you so much.

And he’s completely fucked.

You realize the truth accidentally.

Which feels fitting.

It happens during a mission debrief after a rough extraction goes sideways.

Nothing catastrophic.

But enough to leave everyone frayed.

You’re wound tight all evening afterward, anxiety clawing under your skin while the team argues over tactical mistakes.

Eventually you stand abruptly.

“I need five minutes.”

Bucky’s up instantly.

“I’ll come with you.”

You don’t even question it anymore.

That should probably concern both of you.

The hallway outside the conference room is quiet.

You lean heavily against the wall, pressing your palms into your eyes.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“For what?”

“I’m being annoying.”

Bucky’s expression hardens immediately.

“You’re not.”

“I’m literally one inconvenience away from imploding.”

“So?”

You laugh weakly.

“So normal people don’t require human compression therapy to function.”

His face softens.

“Hey.”

You look at him.

And Bucky says very carefully:

“There is nothing wrong with needing comfort.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes you.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“You always know how to help.”

The words hit him hard.

Too hard.

Because he does.

He knows your breathing patterns now. Your tells. The difference between stress and genuine panic. He knows exactly how much pressure helps. Exactly where to hold you.

Like your bodies learned each other instinctively.

Your eyes drift across his face.

And suddenly—

Suddenly you see it.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Enough to notice the unbearable tenderness in his expression.

Enough to notice how carefully he handles you.

Enough to realize no one looks at someone they don’t love like that.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky notices immediately.

“What?”

You stare at him.

“You are.”

His entire body stills.

“What?”

“You’re in love with me.”

The silence that follows feels enormous.

Bucky looks almost cornered.

Like you’ve found something he desperately wanted hidden.

Finally, rough and quiet:

“Yeah.”

Your heart stumbles violently.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

A humorless laugh escapes him.

“Because this arrangement only works if you feel safe.”

“I do feel safe.”

“You know what I mean.”

He steps back slightly then, expression tight.

“If I made this weird, I’m sorry. I can stop. I should’ve stopped earlier.”

The thought hits you like physical pain.

“No.”

Bucky goes still.

You swallow hard.

“Don’t stop.”

His eyes search your face carefully.

“Doll…”

“I mean it.”

Your pulse pounds.

Because suddenly everything makes sense.

The gentleness.

The devotion.

The way he always comes when you need him.

And maybe—maybe you’ve been avoiding the truth too.

Because loving Bucky feels terrifyingly inevitable.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I think maybe I’m in love with you too.”

Bucky looks stunned.

Actually stunned.

Like the words physically knocked the air from him.

“You don’t gotta say that because—”

“I’m not.”

You step closer carefully.

His expression turns painfully vulnerable.

“You make me feel safe,” you whisper. “You make my head quiet.”

Something in him breaks open then.

His hand comes up slowly, brushing against your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You have any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“No.”

“You ask for me when you’re hurting.”

His forehead rests against yours.

“You trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

Bucky closes his eyes briefly like that means everything.

Because it does.

When he kisses you, it’s careful at first.

Gentle.

Almost hesitant.

Then you kiss him back and suddenly he’s holding your face like something precious, kissing you deep and aching and relieved.

Years of longing pour into it.

You clutch his shirt instinctively.

Bucky makes a soft wrecked sound against your mouth.

And then—

Because apparently neither of you can be normal people—

He murmurs against your lips:

“You anxious right now?”

You burst into startled laughter.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh my god.”

“You want me to lay on you or not?”

You laugh harder, bright and helpless and happy enough it nearly kills him.

“Only if you kiss me again after.”

Bucky smiles then.

Real and warm and breathtaking.

“Deal.”

And later, tangled together in his bed with most of his weight draped over you while your fingers trace lazy patterns against his spine, you realize something quietly extraordinary:

For the first time in a very long time, your mind is calm.

And wrapped around you like armor, like warmth, like home itself—

“What do you mean?” Victoria’s gaze moved from Trinity to Abbot and back again.

“I mean,” Trinity drew the words out in annoyance, as if it should be obvious what she was getting at without her needing to explain. “He’s cool. SWAT, the leg, him and Robby are besties. Like, what’s his story?”

“Why do you care?” Victoria was so confused as to the point of this conversation.

Trinity shrugged one shoulder. “Thinking about going on nights for a while. It wouldn’t hurt to have an in with the attending.”

Victoria’s eyes went wide before she nodded once as if that made sense. “You should ask him about his wife. He loves talking about her. It’ll totally get you points.”

“He’s married?” Dennis asked.

She looked at him. “Yeah, didn’t you notice the ring?”

“Well, we haven’t really been around him much to be fair,” he said.

Trinity smiled. “Thanks for the solid, Crash.” She hopped to her feet and patted the younger woman on the shoulder as Abbot walked past them to head into the breakroom. “You’re coming with me, Huckleberry.”

“But—What? I was helping Vict—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Victoria rushed to assure him, waving a hand through the air. “I’ll ask someone else.”

As she turned to hurry away, she hoped they hadn’t noticed the gleeful expression on her face.

When they hurried into the breakroom, they found the attending sitting at one of the tables with a cup of coffee. “H-hey, Dr. Abbot,” Dennis greeted.

“What’s up? Why are you here anyway?” Trinity added as she grabbed an energy drink from the fridge.

Jack looked between the two of them with a frown not saying anything. Finally, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Morning admin meeting. Now, what do you want?”

Dennis started to stutter out an excuse but Trinity talked over the top of him. “We were wondering about your wife, is all.”

“My wife.” Jack’s voice was rough, low. His gaze darted between the two of them. “Would you like to hear about my leg next? Why don’t we just rehash all of my trauma?”

Dennis’ eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open slightly. Oh no. Shit.

Trinity sat at the table. “Yes, actually. What happened?”

Jack turned his head slowly to look at the resident, an unimpressed expression on his face. “Robby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with me on the back. They had to amputate.”

Trinity’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit. Really?”

“No.”

Her mouth opened and closed before she said, “Oh.” She glanced at Dennis who stood behind Abbot shaking his head and mouthing the word No. “So, what about your wife then?”

“My wife was the most remarkable woman. I have never and will never love anyone like her. I will love her and only her for the rest of my life.”

Trinity swallowed hard. “What happened to her?”

Jack blinked once. Twice. “Robby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with her on the back. She didn’t make it.” His tone was flat, emotionless.

Trinty physically recoiled ever so slightly. “Listen, I’m sorry if—”

This time it was Dennis cutting her off, just as the breakroom door opened. “Dr. Abbot, we are so sorry. We didn’t mean to bring up any trauma or whatever. Seriously, we were just trying to get to know you.”

“What’s going on in here?” Robby asked.

“We were just asking Abbot about his wife,” Trinity said as she stood.

Robby narrowed his gaze. “And what did Jack have to say about the Mrs.?”

“Just about how much he loved her. It was very sweet really,” Dennis hurried to say before pushing Trinity out of the room.

“I think Crash set us up,” she said once they’d reached the hub.

“Ya think?” Dennis asked, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

“Good for her.”

Dennis just shook his head as he watched his roommate leave to check on a patient. He glanced back to the closed door of the breakroom before walking off himself. Whatever had happened to Dr. Abbot’s wife, he obviously still loved her deeply. Dennis could only hope he’d find a relationship like that someday.

Roughly an hour later, Dennis was heading back toward the hub when he saw you standing next to Robby. He briefly considered introducing himself knowing you were the other night shift attending. His gaze caught on Abbot making his way to you, bag over his shoulder. And his eyes glued to your ass.

Dennis frowned. Hadn’t the man just been extoling his wife’s virtues and now here he is staring at yours? Dennis was oddly offended on Mrs. Abbot’s behalf. He walked over to where the older man was making no effort to hide his obvious leering and stood beside him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I thought you’d never love anyone like you loved your wife.”

Jack huffed a humorless laugh. “You got that right, kid.”

“Then what is this?”

“This is me appreciating what’s right in front of me.”

“Are you staring at my ass again?” you asked, not even glancing over your shoulder.

“I told you if you don’t want me staring at it, you shouldn’t put it in front of me,” Jack said.

Dennis curled his lip. Abbot was disgusting. He’d actually felt sorry for him and now—The thought cut off abruptly as Abbot wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple.

Robby shook his head. “Whitaker, have you two met?”

“No.” Dennis stepped forward as Robby introduced you.

He finished with, “Also known as Mrs. Abbot.”

“Oh.” Dennis processed what he’d just been told. “Oh!”

Jack just grinned as you elbowed him in the side. “What did you do this time?”

“Why do you always think I did something?”

You stared at him without saying anything.

Finally, he said, “Okay. Fair.”

“I don’t…I’m so confused,” Dennis said with a helpless look at Robby.

Robby put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get used to it.

Some of them going as far as to write Sergeant next to it.

You don't remember deciding to take them home with you. One second the box is in your hand and the next it's in your tote bag, signed out of the archive under the pretense of 'research.'

You barely make it in the door before you begin reading, delicately breaking the seal on each envelope and losing yourself in the words. One letter becomes two, becomes three and all of a sudden you've halfway through the box.

They all read the same, for the most part at least. Each falling into one of three categories..

The girls who saw him on film. 

A handful of promotional movies about Captain America and his brave Howling Commandos had graced theaters during the war. You'd seen the tapes deep in storage, even scrubbed and polished one of them for an exhibit about the titular hero a few years back.

These letters were frilly, fluffy and content-less. Girls who looked past the shield and found themselves admiring his trusted companion instead. The ones who thought Bucky looked dreamy, handsome enough to be a movie star. Consequently, they wrote to him like one. Confessions of crushes and fantasies about all the ways he would sweep them off their feet. The girls who wrote to an idea, not a man.

2. The girls who wanted to woo him. 

The first letters were flirty, sure. These though? They bordered on filth, featuring often graphic descriptions of the ways they would welcome him home.

One of them even included a proposal, complete with a photo of her wearing lingerie. Despite time, it's untouched, saved from light damage or fading. The original nude. She would have loved Snapchat. 

The heartbreaking ones.

The girls who knew him. The ones who grew up on his block, or met him at a dance hall. The girls he took to Coney Island and the ones who remember meeting his friend Steve. 

These are the letters with dried tear stains marring their penmanship. The ones that made your chest ache and heart bleed. These were the letters you wished he had gotten to read.

Slowly, you get to know Bucky as the charming man in the letters comes to life. 

You try to consolidate him with the version you've seen on the news, your brain struggling to conceptualize that the Winter Soldier is the same man who took Delores to the Stark Expo. Or Gwen to the soda fountain.

It becomes a hobby, every free moment spent researching. You watch every video of him can find, interviews, security footage, random sightings of him on the Subway. You scrub through every second, searching for any trace of the man in the words you've read.

You come up empty, every clip leaving you more discouraged. 

This Bucky is certifiably grumpy. He doesn't smile, at least not on camera. He answers with grunts, runs a hand through his hair and huffs in frustration. His eyes don't shine, there's no gleam like the girls write about. Just an overwhelming sadness.

An interview sticks with you. One from his campaign where the host had asked him a cheeky question about an older photo that had resurfaced.

"Looks like you were quite the lady-killer Barnes." He goaded, playing a shitty swoon sound effect.

Bucky hardly reacts, no huff into the microphone or twitch of his lips. "Don't think I even know that guy anymore." He says, no trace of humor in the words, just pure, heartbreaking honesty.

From everything you've seen, you can't help but believe him.

Then, a few days later you find it during a late night scroll. Aimless and half-asleep, you almost miss it.

Cat video. Like. Scroll. Car chase. Scroll. Martini recipe. Bookmark. Scroll.

Bucky Barnes on Capitol Hill helping Senior Congresswoman Jones down the steps. Scroll.

You freeze. Suddenly wide awake, you swipe back.

There, filmed from probably fifty feet away on someone's phone, is the first remnant of Bucky Barnes you find.

Her hand is in the crook of his elbow while Bucky acts as a human guide rail, moving at a third of his normal pace as he walks with her down the steps.

You can see their mouths moving but can't hear them. The fine lines around Congresswoman Jones' eyes crinkle as she grins, a laugh bubbling from her throat.

Next to her Bucky is smiling. A true, honest, All American smile that makes your heart stop.

It's obvious now, how this man is the same boy who would throw his jacket over a puddle for his date. The boy who shook every father's hand and never brought girl home past curfew.

You don't know how you missed it before, its impossible to ignore now.

Your mission changes shape.

You buy special paper, crisp bright white card stock. The kind that feels expensive even when you fold it. You pair it with a new pen, a gel roller that promises not to smudge.

Then, like the thousands of women who came before you, you write to a solider.

Unsure what else to do, you tell him everything. From finding the letters, to reading them, to the videos.

You say you don't know that version of yourself anymore, but Bucky you still are him. I hope these help you see that for yourself.

You sign it like they all did too, bright red rouge at the bottom of the page.

Before you can think better of it, you seal the envelope, address it to Congressman Barnes and slide it into the mailer with the rest of the letters.

You pay a egregious amount to ship it, and when they take the package from your hands you say a silent prayer your boss didn't have any secret plans for them.

Then, with no other choice, you try to move on. Your nights go back to movies and books, doing your best to resist searching his name every time you open Google.

It's nearly two weeks later when it arrives.

A light blue envelope addressed to you, post marked from Washington DC.

It's written on government letterhead, topped with fine penmanship. Distinctly masculine in the way all men who were taught cursive is. It's only about twenty words long, but your heart stutters nonetheless.

Thank you, these mean more than you know.

Are you ever in DC?

-(Please don't call me Congressman) Bucky Barnes.

Event Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

A week later, you found him in the kitchen at 3 a.m., hunched over a cup of coffee he hadn’t touched.

“I had a dream,” he said, without prompting. “My mom was there. She was makin’ biscuits. The way she used to. Had flour all over her apron and hair pinned up. She was humming something... I think it was Patsy Cline.”

You crossed the room slowly, joining him at the table. He didn’t look up.

“I didn’t wanna wake up,” he whispered.

You reached for his hand — his flesh hand — and let your fingers wrap around his. He was warm. Trembling just slightly.

“She used to tuck a note in my coat pocket before I went off to school. Every single day. Sometimes just a smiley face. Sometimes a quote. She didn’t want me to think too hard — just wanted me to feel loved.”

He laughed, but it was wet around the edges.

“I don’t even know if she made it. Or if my sisters did. It’s been so long... And if they didn’t, I don’t think I wanna know.”

That’s when your heart made a quiet promise.

You were going to find them.

You didn’t tell Bucky. Not right away.

You started by digging through records — public archives, census data, wartime notifications. It wasn’t easy. Most of what existed around the Barnes family ended in a neat little obituary column in 1944.

But then there was a land deed. A renewal notice tucked into a property file in Brooklyn.

A brownstone. Haviland Street.

The name on the deed?

Winifred M. Barnes.

The photo attached to the file was grainy and faded, taken decades ago — but there was something so Bucky about the stoop. The railing was crooked. A planter overflowed with wildflowers.

Still, the real proof came when you knocked on the door three weeks later.

An old woman answered. Her hair was pinned in a tight bun, silver-white, and her eyes — God, her eyes — were the same shade of icy blue you saw in the mirror every morning, staring back at you from Bucky’s sleepy face.

“Yes?”

Her voice was cautious but kind.

You swallowed. “Are you… Winifred Barnes?”

A pause.

“I am.”

You took a shaky breath. “I think… I think your son is alive.”

The woman stared at you for a long, long time.

Then she collapsed into your arms.

Winifred Barnes had survived.

The war. The telegram. The silence that followed.

“They told us James died on the mission. The official report said he fell from a train. But no body… I never stopped believing. Not really.”

You sat with her in the parlor, tucked into an overstuffed armchair while her two daughters — Becca and Nora, now grown — hovered nearby. All three of them still lived together in the old brownstone, a quiet life. Safe. Private.

“We didn’t talk about him after a while,” Nora murmured. “It hurt too much. But Mama… she still set a plate for him every Christmas. Still tucked notes into empty coat pockets.”

You told them everything. As much as you could without breaking the fragile timeline. About Hydra. About his recovery. About Wakanda. About you.

When you showed them a picture of Bucky — one you’d taken last fall when he was holding a mug of cocoa and smiling at your dog like she’d just told him a secret — Winifred pressed it to her lips and cried.

“I want to see him,” she whispered. “Please. Before it’s too late.”

You didn’t tell Bucky right away. You wanted to wait until everything was in place.

So you lied. A little.

“Come with me?”

“To Brooklyn? On a Thursday morning?”

“It’s a surprise.”

He looked at you with narrowed eyes. “You sure it’s not a trap?”

You laughed. “Only if you count cinnamon rolls as weapons.”

He got quiet as the cab turned onto Haviland Street.

“This neighborhood feels familiar,” he murmured.

When you stopped in front of the brownstone, he stared up at it for a long time.

Then: “Why are we here?”

You stepped closer, brushing his arm. “Just… come inside.”

The moment the door opened, time stood still.

Winifred was there — thinner than he remembered, older, but still his mother. Her face crumpled the second she saw him.

“James.”

It wasn’t a question.

Bucky’s eyes filled instantly. His jaw tightened.

“Mama?”

She stepped forward on shaky legs and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

“My boy,” she whispered, over and over, “my sweet boy.”

Bucky dropped to his knees.

Held her like he was afraid she might disappear.

“I thought I lost you,” he choked.

“You never could.”

Behind her, Becca and Nora watched with glassy eyes. Becca was the first to step forward.

“You’re taller than I remember,” she teased softly.

“You still steal the covers?” Nora added.

Bucky laughed — a real, broken laugh that sounded like home.

He hugged them both like he’d never let go again.

The rest of the day passed in pieces of memory.

Winifred sat beside Bucky on the old floral couch, her hand never leaving his. She showed him the recipe box. The coat with the empty pocket. The worn photo of him at 16, grinning with a busted lip and his arm slung over Steve’s shoulder.

He didn’t talk much. Just listened.

Let her run her fingers through his hair.

Let her call him James.

Let himself be someone’s son again.

That night, after you helped Winifred to bed and said your goodbyes to the sisters, Bucky stood frozen on the brownstone stoop.

“She’s really here,” he said.

“She is.”

“And Becca. And Nora.”

You nodded. “They’re safe. They’ve always been safe.”

He turned to you, eyes shining in the moonlight.

“You did this.”

You didn’t answer.

But he pulled you in — hard and fast — and kissed you like it was the only language he had left.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your forehead. “For giving me back a piece of myself.”

You smiled. “You were never missing. Just waiting to be found.”

The next Sunday, you had dinner at the house on Haviland Street.

Winifred made biscuits.

Bucky cried.

And for the first time in a long time, he laughed like a boy again — surrounded by the women who once held his whole world.

And again.

And again.

You had just stepped away from a committee briefing, phone buzzing endlessly in your hand as you slipped down the hallway toward the women’s restroom, intending to glance at whatever staff update your assistant, Amanda, had clearly been trying to send you for the last five minutes.

When you looked down, you saw twenty-three notifications.

Twelve texts.

Three missed calls. One from your mom, and one from your sister-in-law.

And one link at the very top from Amanda.

Amanda: Please call me when you see this.

For a moment nothing made sense. Then you tapped the link.

The headline loaded. It was bold and cruel in the way political headlines often are when they know exactly what kind of blood they’ve drawn.

SENATOR DANIEL REEVES SPOTTED IN LATE-NIGHT OUTING WITH ASSISTANT 

Your brain stalled somewhere between recognition and denial.

You clicked the photo and the floor dropped out from under you.

Daniel stood outside a restaurant you knew intimately. He took you there for your first date, back when you were still both interns and fresh graduates. Back then, you had saved for a couple of weeks just to have dinner there. It felt… special.

But in this picture, he leaned close to a woman who was laughing at something he’d said, her hand resting lightly against his chest like it had been there a hundred times before. She… was his assistant. 

And Daniel was your husband.

Your very married husband.

Your husband, who acknowledged a month ago that your marriage was “going through a rough patch.” 

Your husband, who had, just two weeks ago, sat across from you at the kitchen table and said “we’ll fix this” when the topic of couples therapy finally came up.

You zoomed in.

Not because you doubted it was him. Because some irrational part of your mind wanted to confirm it again.

Ugh. That fucker was wearing the navy coat you bought him last Christmas.

You felt a hollow void open inside your chest.

Your hands started shaking.

You didn’t realize you had stopped breathing until you were gasping for air, pressing your forehead to the heels of your palm.

Another notification slid across the top of your screen.

Breaking News Alert.

Then another.

Then another.

It hit you all at once. That if it was on your phone, it was on everyone’s phone.

Every aide. Every journalist. Every colleague in the building.

News spreads fast in The Capitol, faster than wildfire.

“Oh my God,” you whispered to no one.

Your voice sounded thin against the polished marble walls.

You swiped through the article quickly, your pulse racing quicker with every line.

Multiple sightings.

Witnesses confirm the pair appeared affectionate.

Sources say the assistant has been working closely with Reeves for months.

Months. Months?!

Your stomach twisted violently.

Four months ago was exactly when things had started going wrong between you and Daniel. He started coming home late, neglecting anniversaries, and stopped asking you about your day. 

You had thought the solution was communication, therapy, maybe working harder.

God, you had been trying so hard.

Meanwhile he had apparently been working somewhere else entirely.

Your phone buzzed again.

Amanda: Please tell me you’re not seeing this for the first time right now.

You locked the screen and shoved it in your blazer pocket. You couldn’t look at it anymore.

You braced both hands against the sink and leaned forward, breathing slowly through the tight ache pressing against your ribs.

It would've been better if he had come to you and said “hey, by the way babe, I have a mistress.” It would have been better, however painful, if this was a conversation happening behind closed doors.

But no, this was public. He couldn’t even spare you the humiliation.

He had turned your marriage into a spectacle.

And now, your colleagues and acquaintances were probably looking at the article, looking at those photos, thinking poor thing about you.

Your throat tightened.

For several long minutes you didn’t move.

You just stared at the marble veins in the floor and tried to will your body to stop shaking.

You could stay here. Skip the rest of the day. Let Amanda handle the meetings.

Disappear before you had to see the looks. Before you had to see him. Because Daniel was in the building today. After all, the Senate was in session.

Your chest tightened at the thought of running into him in the hallway like nothing had happened while the internet dissected your marriage.

Another buzz vibrated faintly through the fabric of your blazer.

Amanda again, probably.

You closed your eyes. You didn’t want sympathy. You especially didn’t want pity.

Slowly, you straightened your posture and unlocked the cubicle. You walked out toward the sinks, wiping under your eyes carefully, checking your makeup in the mirror.

Your hair was still perfectly pinned, your clothes were spotless.

If someone walked in right now they would see exactly what they expected to see: just another congresswoman. Not a woman whose marriage had just detonated across the political news cycle.

You inhaled slowly, then you reached for the door.

—

The hallway outside was alive with movement, staffers moving between offices, aides carrying stacks of folders, conversations unfolding in murmurs that seemed to falter the second you stepped into view.

Two interns standing near the far wall abruptly turned toward their phones as if something fascinating had appeared on the screen.

News spreads fast.

Your heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as you walked.

“Congresswoman?” Amanda appeared from around the corner almost instantly, clearly having been searching for you. Her eyes softened the moment she saw your face.

“Oh— oh my God,” she breathed, lowering her voice. “I probably startled you, and I think you know, so I’m so, so sorry.”

You forced a small smile that felt painfully stiff around the edges. “I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Amanda’s eyes said she didn’t believe you for a second.

“You don’t have to be,” she replied gently. “If you want, I can cancel the committee hearing and move your meetings to tomorrow.”

You appreciated the kindness in her voice, but the idea of being pitied by your own staff felt unbearable.

“I’ll go to the hearing,” you said, straightening the stack of papers in your hands even though they were already perfectly aligned. “We still have votes this afternoon.”

Amanda hesitated like she wanted to argue, but she nodded.

“Okay,” she said with a nod. “If you need anything, I’m right outside.”

You walked toward the chamber doors feeling every pair of eyes in the hallway flicker toward you.

The doors opened.

And almost instantly, eyes were on you.

Some colleagues offered careful smiles of solidarity. Others avoided your gaze completely. A few simply stared.

Your chest tightened as your eyes scanned the room automatically.

And there he was. Daniel, sitting across the chamber. He was laughing with another senator as if this were just another ordinary legislative afternoon. The sight of him there, composing himself so casually, so completely unbothered, sent a surge of anger through the fog of humiliation.

For one terrible second you thought your composure might shatter right there in front of everyone.

Then someone stepped into stride beside you.

You turned your head slightly.

Bucky Barnes was there. You had known him from day one of campaigning. After all, he was running for New York’s 8th congressional district when you were running for 9th. It was no secret that you both admired each other’s policies and were rooting for each other to win. It was certainly no secret either, that you both became good friends after collaborating on a couple of bills yet to be passed. 

Today, though, he was the only one who didn’t look like he pitied you. He simply noticed the tension in the room and chose, very intentionally, to insert himself into it.

He didn’t look at you immediately.

He simply matched your pace as you walked across the chamber floor. Then, quietly enough that only you could hear him, he said, “Hold your head up.”

You glanced sideways.

His eyes were fixed forward, adding to his statement. “You did nothing wrong.”

Oh.

Bucky finally turned his head slightly, blue eyes meeting yours with confidence that cut clean through the shame crawling under your skin. 

And somehow, impossibly, your spine straightened just a little as you stepped forward onto the chamber floor with Bucky walking beside you.

—

The divorce did not happen overnight. 

It happened slowly, in a hundred little fractures that spread through your life like cracks in glass.

The first few days after the article broke were chaos. You had lawyers calling, statements drafted, reporters circling the Capitol like vultures, but eventually the frenzy settled into the process itself.

You filed for divorce three days after the photos surfaced.

Daniel didn’t fight the filing itself, which almost made it worse, because the lack of resistance felt less like regret and more like indifference.

What he did fight was everything else: Assets, the house, statements.

The two of you moved through the legal process like hostile diplomats forced to sit at the same table while pretending civility still existed. Meanwhile, life inside the Capitol kept moving whether your marriage had imploded or not.

Bills still needed votes. Committees still met. Legislation still moved forward.

And you showed up to every single one of them, chin high, voice steady, refusing to let anyone say your personal life had weakened your work.

Still, there were days when the weight of separation pressed down so hard it became difficult to breathe.

Those were usually the nights.

Because nights meant going home, and home was no longer a place of comfort.

The house in Georgetown was large enough that you rarely saw Daniel if you didn’t want to, but the knowledge that he was there was enough to break you. 

His shoes still sat by the door. His books still filled half the study. And he had moved into the guest bedroom with a kind of passive-aggressive politeness that somehow made the whole situation worse. You had gone from starry-eyed lovers to strangers sharing square footage.

So you started staying late at the Capitol.

Your office lights became one of the last ones on most nights, the glow spilling into the corridor while the rest of the building emptied out.

Amanda noticed first. Your assistant had an uncanny ability to read your moods without you ever saying a word, and one evening she gently set a mug of tea beside your laptop and said, “You know you’re allowed to go home before midnight.”

You huffed a tired laugh. “Home is… complicated right now.”

Amanda didn’t push.

She just gave you that sympathetic smile of hers and started reorganizing the stack of briefing folders on your desk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Even when you told her to go home, she refused to leave you alone.

Then, one day, around seven or eight in the evening, you heard  a knock on your office door.

It was Bucky, standing there with a paper bag of takeout in one hand and that crooked half-smile he wore whenever he caught you buried under paperwork.

“You still working?” he’d ask, like the answer wasn’t painfully obvious.

You blinked at him in confusion.

“The cafeteria closed,” he explained, lifting the bag slightly. “I figured you hadn’t eaten.”

Inside were four  containers.

One for you. One for him. And two for Amanda, and his assistant, Heather. 

Those dinners became a routine, and they were strangely comforting.

The four of you would eat around your desk while legislative drafts sat half-finished beside containers of noodles or pasta or whatever Bucky had picked up on the way over.

Sometimes Amanda and Heather would stay for a while, laughing at one of your dry remarks or telling some ridiculous story about another office’s interns.

But eventually you’d glance at the clock and gently nudge her toward the door. “It’s late,” you’d say. “Go home to your family. Both of you.”

She’d hesitate. “You sure?”

You’d nod toward the man leaning back in the chair across from your desk.

Bucky smiled at both your assistants and smiled, “I’ll keep the congresswoman company.”

You would raise an eyebrow at that. But you never complained. 

Amanda and Heather started giving each other lifts home. And over the past couple of weeks, you’ve heard that they’ve become good friends.

When Bucky stayed, the two of you would talk about policy. Sometimes about nothing at all. Sometimes you’d just sit there in silence while he read through something on his tablet and you worked through another stack of documents, his presence grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

One day, Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest. “So,” he said. “How bad was today?”

You hesitated, but you told him anyway. About the lawyers, about Daniel refusing to compromise on the house, about the exhausting, endless back-and-forth that made every conversation feel like a chess match.

Bucky listened without interrupting.

His expression darkened slightly whenever Daniel’s name came up.

“That guy’s an idiot,” he muttered at one point, “I never liked him and he never deserved you.”

You huffed a small laugh. “That’s the official congressional assessment?”

“That’s the polite version.”

And somehow, without ever formally arranging it, Bucky kept appearing at your office with dinner more often than not.

Sometimes it was takeout. Sometimes it was food he’d cooked himself.

“You know you don’t have to keep doing this,” you told him one night as he handed you a container of pasta, Heather and Amanda already home at this point.

“Sure I do.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. 

And just like that, when you finally did go home, the house felt less suffocating because the evening hadn’t been spent alone.

—

The morning of the move started earlier than you expected.

You were already awake before the alarm went off, lying stiffly in the bedroom while pale morning light crept through the curtains and painted long gray lines across the ceiling.

For a few seconds you forgot where you were in the process of everything. But then you remembered that you had boxes stacked downstairs. The realtor’s sign was still planted in the front yard. Your married life was being divided into labeled cardboard.

And Daniel, still technically your husband, still occupying the guest bedroom at the end of the hall like an unwelcome ghost that refused to leave. And it was even worse today: he was working from home. 

You rolled out of bed.

Today was supposed to be simple. You were just packing the last of your things, moving small items to the new apartment you got on the other side of town before movers came to take the big stuff next week. You had even requested leave to do this. 

At least, that had been the plan until someone knocked on your front door at eight in the morning.

You frowned as you walked downstairs, still tying the belt of your robe.

When you opened the door, Bucky was walking casually against the porch railing like this was just another ordinary morning, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a paper bag of coffee cups in one hand.

Behind him sat an empty pickup truck.

You blinked. “…What are you doing here?”

He lifted the bag slightly. “Breakfast.”

Your eyes flicked behind him, “And the truck?”

Bucky pushed the sunglasses up into his hair and grinned. “Moving day.”

You stared at him. “I told you the movers weren’t coming until next week.”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping past you into the house like he’d been invited hours ago. “But you told me you wanted some stuff out before then. You said you were gonna do it today.” He glanced around the living room, already full of half-packed boxes. “Figured you shouldn’t do it alone.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“You have a job,” you said weakly. “Like… a whole congressional office.”

“Relax,” he replied, setting the coffee cups on the kitchen counter. “Told my staff I’d be late. Besides, it’s a slow day today”

“I… thank you.”

He handed you one of the cups. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

You accepted the cup automatically. “I didn’t expect a congressman to show up as free labor.”

Bucky smirked. “Maybe I should start charging consulting fees.”

You chuckled, only to be interrupted by a faint creaking sound from upstairs.

Both of you froze. Your stomach sank immediately.

Bucky noticed the shift in your expression. “That prick living here?” he asked quietly.

You nodded once, jaw tight. “Guest room.”

For a moment Bucky said nothing, then he took a slow sip of his coffee. “…Huh.”

You cleared your throat.

“Anyway,” you said briskly. “There are boxes in my study and the closet upstairs.”

Bucky rolled up the sleeves of his Henley without another word. “Lead the way.”

The next hour passed in an almost domestic rhythm.

Bucky carried boxes like they weighed nothing, his metal arm making quick work of small bits of furniture you had been dreading trying to move. Thank god for the super-soldier serum, I guess. 

At one point he lifted an entire filing cabinet with his metal arm.

You paused halfway through packing a box and stared. “Show-off.”

He shot you a lazy grin. “See something you like?”

You snorted and went back to wrapping glassware in newspaper.

For a little while you almost forgot Daniel was in the house. Well, that is until Bucky walked into the front yard carrying another box and suddenly slowed to a stop near the truck.

You were right behind him. “What—”

Then you saw what he saw: Daniel, staring out the window from the guest bedroom upstairs. His arms were crossed, glowering at the former winter soldier. You could feel the icy hostility radiating from him through the glass.

Your stomach twisted. Of course he’d noticed. Of course he’d chosen to stand there like a bitter marble statue of disapproval.

Bucky, on the other hand, looked amused. 

“Oh,” he muttered under his breath.

You groaned softly. “Bucky—”

Too late.

The absolute menace raised his metal hand and waved. The kind someone might give a grumpy neighbor across the street.

Daniel’s expression darkened instantly. The stare he shot downward could have frozen lava. Was he… jealous?

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Bucky lowered his hand, entirely unbothered. “What?”

“You are unbelievable.”

“He was staring,” Bucky replied defensively. “I figured I should say hi.” 

“He’s my husband.”

“Only technically,” Bucky corrected, glancing up at the window again with another faint smirk.

Daniel was still staring daggers at him.

If looks could kill, Bucky would have been vaporized on the spot.Instead, the man beside you simply adjusted the box in his arms and started walking toward the truck.

“You know,” he added casually over his shoulder, “for a guy who screwed things up that badly, he’s got a lot of nerve glaring.”

You hesitated in the driveway. Then despite everything—the tension, the awkwardness, the looming divorce—you started laughing.

A real laugh. The first one you’d had in weeks.

Bucky paused beside the truck and glanced back at you. The corner of his mouth lifted.

“See?” he said.

“What?”

“Moving day’s already an improvement.”

Behind you, the guest room curtain snapped closed with a sharp flick. And Bucky looked entirely too pleased with himself.

—

Two weeks later, the hearing room buzzed with the restless murmur that always came before things officially began.

Senators and representatives filtered in through the side doors, coffee cups in hand, their conversations signifying business as usual.

Bucky sat back in his chair at the long polished table, flipping lazily through the briefing packet his staff had handed him that morning.

He wasn’t really reading it.

He’d already gone over the important parts earlier.

Truthfully, his mind kept drifting somewhere else entirely.

Two days ago, he helped you finally move away from your old house, to a top-floor apartment across the river. He had sat there with you, surrounded with half-unpacked boxes and the faint smell of fresh paint where you’d decided to redo the living room wall over the weekend.

He could still picture you standing in the middle of the place with your hands on your hips, trying to decide where the couch should go while he held a bookshelf in one arm like it weighed nothing.

You’d laughed more that day than he’d heard in months.

That memory alone was enough to keep a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Today, though, you weren’t here. You were asked to speak at a conference halfway across the country, and all Bucky could do was count the seconds until he could see you in person again. 

His thoughts were interrupted when the chair beside him scraped against the floor.

Bucky didn’t look immediately.

“Morning, Representative Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes lifted, and there he was. Senator Daniel Reeves.

Bucky held his gaze for a second before leaning back slightly in his chair. “Morning, Senator Reeves.”

Technically, it was respectful. It was exactly the kind of exchange expected between two elected officials in a room full of witnesses and microphones. Still, there was a tension sitting in the space between them that had nothing to do with legislation.

Daniel’s jaw was shut tight. His fingers drummed once against the table before he leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so it didn’t carry. “Some nerve you’ve got.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

Daniel’s eyes flicked around the room briefly before landing back on him. “Coming into my house like that.”

There it was.

Bucky had been expecting this conversation eventually. He just hadn’t expected it to happen in a hearing room.

He closed the folder slowly and rested it on the table. “You mean the house that’s currently for sale?”

Daniel ignored the comment. Instead, he turned his head slightly.

“Let me guess,” he continued bitterly. “You’re sleeping with my wife too, huh?”

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, he almost said ‘you mean the wife that filed for divorce?’ cheekily, but he didn’t need to say that to get to his nerves. “I’m not,” he said calmly. “Though I’d be an upgrade.”

Daniel huffed, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Clearly, he was getting angry.

Bucky tilted his head a little. “I know, former assassin and all. Hard to believe, right?”

Daniel’s expression darkened.

Bucky leaned forward, resting his forearms casually on his knees as if they were discussing committee scheduling instead of personal insults.

“And even if we were sleeping together,” he continued, voice light but cutting underneath, “at least it wouldn’t be with a subordinate.”

He paused just long enough for the implication to settle.

“And I wouldn’t have to get the ethics committee involved.”

Daniel’s face went rigid. For a moment, the senator looked like he might actually say something explosive. His hands curled slightly against the armrests of the chair.

Bucky could practically hear the anger grinding behind his teeth.

But what exactly was Daniel going to do? Start a shouting match in the middle of a hearing? Swing at a super soldier? The idea was almost funny.

“Anyway,” Bucky added casually. “You might want to focus on the hearing. Wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself twice in one year.”

Daniel exhaled through his nose and looked away first.

Bucky leaned back again, flipping open his briefing packet like the conversation had never happened.

But there was a faint, satisfied smile on his mouth.

Because if Daniel Reeves thought intimidation was going to work on him, he had severely underestimated who he’d chosen to sit next to.

—

By the time you returned to your Capitol office a few days later, everything felt better.

Nothing in your life had technically resolved yet—the divorce was supposed to be finalized today, but you haven’t heard any notification from the court, so that was going to be keeping you uptight for a while— but at least you weren’t waking up in the same house as Daniel anymore.

And apparently, removing one toxic husband from your daily living situation did wonders for your mental health.

Your new apartment still smelled faintly like fresh paint and cardboard, half the kitchen was still in boxes, and you had spent twenty minutes that morning looking for a coffee mug before remembering you’d packed them in the wrong container.

But it was peaceful.

Amanda noticed immediately.

Your assistant had an uncanny radar for your moods, and by the time you finished skimming through the morning briefings she had already placed a cup of tea beside your elbow and given you a curious little smile.

“You seem… less tense today,” she observed carefully.

You leaned back in your chair, considering that. “I think not living with my soon-to-be ex-husband has improved my outlook on life.”

Amanda snorted. “Valid.”

By the time the hallway outside your office had softened into the late-afternoon lull, you glanced at the clock on your desk.

Thirty minutes before Amanda’s shift would end.

Normally she’d still be out there organizing tomorrow’s schedule with laser-like efficiency. Instead, she tapped against your door before it opened slightly.

Amanda poked her head in. “Hey, um…”

You looked up. And she was holding her bag already. Interesting.

“I finished everything early,” she said, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “If it’s okay… could I maybe leave a little early tonight?”

You blinked in mild surprise. Amanda leaving early was practically a historical event.

“Oh,” you said immediately. “Yes, of course.” Then you tilted your head. “Is everything okay, Amanda?”

Her expression brightened. “Oh yeah! Totally fine.” She shifted her weight, a little shy suddenly. “I’m actually… going on a date.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

Amanda nodded quickly. “With Heather.”

There was a beat of silence before your entire face lit up. “Oh my god.”

Amanda laughed nervously.

You leaned forward in your chair like you’d just been handed the most delightful piece of gossip in the building.

“Oh my god!” you repeated with full-blown enthusiasm. “Amanda!”

She covered her face with one hand. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” you insisted, already grinning. “I’m being supportive.”

Amanda shook her head, laughing.

“So what’s the plan?” you pressed. “Dinner? Drinks? Something fancy?”

“Just dinner,” she admitted. “There’s this little Italian place near Dupont.”

“That’s cute,” you said immediately, pointing toward the door. “What are you still doing here? Go!”

She blinked. “Go?”

“Yes, go!”

“I still technically have fifteen minutes before I really have to—”

“I can survive without you for fifteen minutes,” you said firmly. “You deserve a life outside this office.”

Amanda hesitated. “You’re sure?”

You waved a hand toward the hallway. “Get out of here and have fun. Text me tomorrow if she’s terrible.”

Amanda grinned. “Deal.”

She turned toward the door, then paused. “Oh! I ran into Representative Barnes earlier.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

“He just said he’d swing by after work and asked if you’d still be here,” she said, failing to hide the grin creeping across her face.

You could physically feel your cheeks warming. 

Amanda leaned forward slightly. “…Sooooooo.”

You hesitated before admitting, “It is his birthday today.”

Amanda’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait… really?”

You nodded once, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “I didn’t actually think I’d see him,” you admitted. “He mentioned something about having a busy schedule.”

You hesitated, then added, “But now that he’s coming by… maybe I should grab a cake or something?”

Amanda immediately nodded. “Oh, that’s a great idea! I can run across the street and pick one up for you. I still have time.”

You looked up at her, already shaking your head. “No, no,” you said. “I want it to be… personal.”

Amanda’s grin returned instantly.

“Oh,” she said, dragging the word out knowingly. “Personal.”

“Amanda.”

“Leaving!” she laughed, slipping out the door. “Good luck with the birthday boy, congresswoman.”

The door shut before you could playfully throw a paperclip at her.

—

A knock came at your office door about fifteen minutes after you picked up his cake.

You didn’t even have to look up.“Come in.”

The door opened, and Bucky stepped inside.

He filled the doorway the way he always did, with broad shoulders, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, tie already loosened like the day had irritated him just enough to stop pretending to be perfectly put together.

In one hand, he held a white bakery box.

Your eyes immediately dropped to it.

“What’s that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly.

Bucky kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot and walked further into the office.

“Well,” he said casually, setting the box on the corner of your desk, “I figured it’d be rude to show up empty-handed.”

You stared at him for a moment.

Then, slowly, you reached down beside your desk.

Bucky watched with growing suspicion as you lifted another bakery box and placed it next to his.

He blinked. “No way.”

“It’s your birthday,” you chuckled sweetly. "Don't act so surprised.”

Bucky only shrugged, sitting on the chair across from you. “I stopped counting after ninety-nine.”

“Super soldier problems,” you rolled your eyes as you tilted your chin at the box you got him. “C’mon then. The birthday boy should go first.”

Bucky laughed under his breath and shook his head, flipping open the lid of your box before you could protest.

Inside sat a small round cake, white frosting neatly piped along the edges. Across the center, written in careful blue icing:

Happy Birthday!

For a second, he just looked at it, before his eyes lifted up to yours. 

“Well,” he said, nudging his own box forward, “now I feel like mine might be… slightly less classy.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see this,” you shook your head with a smile.

You flipped open his box and immediately burst out laughing.

Written across the frosting in large, somewhat chaotic letters was:

CONGRATS ON THE DIVORCE. YOUR EX WAS A DICKHEAD.

You covered your mouth, laughing harder. “Bucky!”

“What?” he said, spreading his hands defensively, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him completely. “It felt appropriate.”

You shook your head, still laughing.

“This might be the most ridiculous cake I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, in my defense,” he said, nodding toward the other box. “I didn’t know I had competition.”

You grabbed the plastic knife from the side of the box and started cutting into both cakes.

“There,” you said, sliding a plastic plate toward him with a slice of each. “Balanced.”

Bucky picked up the fork and examined the plate thoughtfully.

“I can’t believe,” he said, “we’re celebrating my birthday and your divorce at the same time.”

You lifted your fork.

“Technically,” you said, “not divorced yet. Still waiting.”

Bucky waved his hand dismissively and took a bite of cake.

“Whatever,” he said through the mouthful, clearly unimpressed with legal technicalities. “We’re still celebrating my birthday and your divorce at the same time.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

For a moment the two of you just sat there on opposite sides of the desk, sharing cake and laughter while the late afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows.

Bucky glanced down at the birthday cake again, that crooked smile returning.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair.

“I could say the same for you,” you said. 

Still, neither of you sounded like you regretted it.

—

The office was quiet now. The Capitol hallways had emptied hours ago, leaving only the hum of the ventilation and the occasional shuffle in the halls. The chaos of the day was a distant memory.

Bucky had set a bottle of non-alcoholic wine on the side table, and you appreciated it, considering you had a busy day tomorrow and couldn’t afford a hangover. “To be fair,” he had said with a smile, “I couldn’t get drunk even if I tried.” Super soldier metabolism, he reminded you with a shrug, and you laughed, shaking your head.

By some unspoken momentum, you ended up on the couch in your office. You sat with your back against the cushions, Bucky lounging with his head resting lightly in your lap. His hair tickled your fingers as you brushed it back absent-mindedly, and you noticed, not for the first time, how easy it felt to just be near him.

You talked about work, as one does when they can finally breathe. Bills, committees, schedules. This type of talk has always been mundane with Daniel, but with Bucky, somehow, even spreadsheets sounded playful.

“And Amanda’s on a date with Heather tonight,” you said casually, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

Bucky lifted his head slightly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Wait… my assistant Heather and your assistant Amanda?” His tone was teasing, incredulous.

You leaned down a little, brushing your fingers lightly across his temple. “Yep. Your takeout nights probably helped,” you said with a mischievous glint in your eye. “They’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

He chuckled that warm sound that made your chest feel too full. “Is that why you suggested they hitch a ride with each other all those times? You secretly an office matchmaker?”

You laughed, leaning a little closer. “Wasn’t my intention. I just thought we should let them have fun while I had better things to do.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows, and he smirked. “Better things, huh?” His tone was light, but there was heat in it too, like he was daring you to elaborate.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your fingers linger in his hair a second longer than necessary. “Much better things.”

He hummed, clearly pleased with that answer, and shifted slightly so his head nestled more comfortably in your lap. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of your skirt. Your fingers traced idle circles across his temple, the motion intimate without a word being spoken.

For a few minutes, the two of you just stayed there, accompanied by laughter, playful nudges, and endless banter that made the rest of the world fade away.

And when your phone buzzed, you reached for it casually, expecting maybe another work email, another minor update.

Instead, the subject line made your heart skip: Court Notification.

You tapped it open.

The words on the screen seemed to float for a moment:

The judge has signed the final order. Your divorce has been finalized.

You blinked, letting the relief wash over you like a warm tide. Months of tension, uncertainty, and dread suddenly seemed… lighter. You could finally breathe again.

Bucky, still lying with his head in your lap, must have sensed the shift. His eyes lifted, scanning your face. “Everything okay?” he asked.

You nodded slowly, unable to stop the small, relieved smile from tugging at your lips. “It’s… done,” you said.

He let out a low whistle. “Wow… I—“ in all fairness, he hadn’t expected to be here for this part. “Are you okay?”

You swallowed, and your reply was final. “I feel… nothing.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Nothing?”

You shrugged, almost imperceptibly, but your voice was firm. “I thought I’d be sad. I thought I’d scream. Cry. Throw up. I… absolutely feel nothing for the bastard.”

Bucky let out a laugh, almost nervous, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. “Wow,” he said. “You’re braver than I thought. Or maybe just more vindicated.”

You sighed. “Probably both.”

Bucky got up and leaned forward slightly, reaching for the other cake plate. “In that case…” He took a bite of cake, chewing thoughtfully. “This calls for more cake.”

You rolled your eyes, though a grin tugged at your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugged, mock-offended. “Hey, your divorce is my birthday present. Let me celebrate it.”

What? What was that supposed to mean?

You watched him take another bite of cake, perfectly calm, like what he said had no implications on your life. 

Your divorce is my birthday present.

Your stomach flipped slightly.

That… was a weird thing to say. Except it hadn’t sounded weird when he said it. It sounded almost relieved.

You looked at him again.

Bucky was leaning back against the couch cushion now, one arm draped along the backrest, fork loosely balanced between his fingers. 

Your divorce is my birthday present.

The sentence replayed again in your head, slower this time.

Not your divorce is unfortunate. Not your divorce sucks. Not sorry about the divorce.

No. Instead, it was his present.

Your chest tightened.

Why would that be a gift?

Unless…

You barely had time to think before the words slipped out. “Kiss me.”

He froze, lips parting slightly, clearly amused.

“What?” he said.

You leaned in closer, heat rising between you, voice firmer this time. “I’m a single woman again. Fucking kiss me, Barnes.”

That was all it took.

The relaxed, amused look he’d been wearing all evening disappeared instantly. 

One second he was leaning against the couch. The next he was sitting up and reaching for you.

His human hand came up to your face as his metal fingers slid along your waist.

The movement wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t careful.

It was decisive, like he had already imagined doing it a hundred times.

He kissed you. 

Not rough, but heated, immediate. His hand tightened slightly against your cheek as he pulled you closer, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss. The world outside your office seemed to disappear completely, months of stress and divorce and humiliation fading into nothing.

There was only the warmth of his hand, the pressure of his mouth against yours, and the dizzying realization that this had been lingering  between you far longer than either of you had said out loud.

You kissed him back without thinking.

Your hand slid instinctively to the collar of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as the kiss deepened. It wasn’t delicate or tentative. It was pent-up.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

His hand was still cupping your face, thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone. His forehead nearly touched yours, his breathing just a little uneven now.

“You,” he said, shaking his head a little in disbelief, “have absolutely no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“How long?” you asked, breathless.

Bucky let out a chuckle, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to compose himself and failing spectacularly.

His blue eyes met yours again, warm and completely unapologetic. “Long enough that I was starting to think it might never happen.”

“Well,” You laughed and kissed him again, playfully pecking the corner of his lips this time. “Hope this means you had a happy birthday, Bucky.”

Through an affectionate smile and lust-lidded eyes, he pulled you in closer as his metal finger traced the skin showing above your shirt. He was making his intentions very clear, and you weren't complaining at all. “You still have no idea.”

⁀➴ Bucky Barnes

✗♡ your divorce is my birthday present by @aquaticmercy summary: Bucky’s birthday just happens to be the same day your divorce becomes official. +blue: this fic played out like a movie in the best way, the buildup of their relationship is just sooo perfect! it has all the yearning and slow burn that just makes you absolutely melt! also sassy bucky for the win!

✗♡ you're married?! by @astronautlawliet summary: Bucky and reader are secretly married. Stolen moments and private nights filled with softness Bucky shows no one else, until Yelena starts becoming suspicious. +blue: this fic just has the sweetest domestic fluff, and all the fun dynamics of a secret relationship. it's everything Bucky deserves and more. ✗♡ house call by @heldbybarnes summary: you’ve been setting off your smoke alarm on purpose just to get sergeant barnes at your door — broad shoulders, wet gear, and all. but tonight, the game catches up to you. +blue: this broke my brain in the best way possible. every line just pulls you into the next until you're in deep. I will never look at firefighters the same way again. ✗♡ the winter between us by @/heldbybarnes summary: he doesn’t remember you — not your face, not your name, not the life you built together. but when you cry, something in him aches. so you stay. and you make him fall in love with you twice. +blue: I don’t have words to explain all the things I felt about this. Truly the most incredible writing. Kennedy has a way with angst that hits me right in the chest every single time. ✗♡ no one sees by @/heldbybarnes +blue: this one broke my heart into tiny little pieces. It's also one of the most realistic depictions of Bucky’s trauma and PTSD that I have read and captures the pain and loneliness of loving someone you can’t reach in the most beautiful way… ✗♡ the house on haviland street by @/heldbybarnes +blue: this is one of the most heartwarming beautiful fics i've read. ✗♡ like he means it by @marvelstoriesepic summary: you can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you. +blue: this made my heart acheee, the angst of longing for someone who’s right there but also out of reach was just so perfect ✗♡ if there's a letter in your bag for me by @pinksplace summary: you find a box of long forgotten love letters all addressed to the same man, Bucky Barnes. +blue: this one has stuck with me ever since i read it, it’s such a creative interpretation of a prompt on “love letters” and is written so so beautifully. i just love the idea of bucky knowing he’s so loved and being reminded of who he is ✗♡ feeling kinda freaky (maybe it's the club lights) by @/pinksplace +blue: this one in particular has me in a chokehold and is one i revisit (the fact that it's inspired by chappell roan just makes me love it all the more), but i implore you to check out the full pinktober masterlist because it's one of the sexiest things i've read. ✗♡ show me again by @artficlly summary: you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.  +blue: just 17k words of absolutely captivating writing. every part of reader's magic is written so beautifully and is so immersive that i could FEEL it as i was reading! highly highly recommend!

✗♡ please, please, please by @nonotwithoutu summary: You work at a high profile sex club, the kind where tastes are perfectly tailored and privacy is guaranteed...at the steep cost of the membership fee, that is. Working the glory hole is hardly the most glamorous part of the job. Most times such strict anonymity is less of a kink than it is a mask, a veneer of sensuality for assholes, unfaithful spouses, and people with something to hide. You don't know his name. You've never seen his face. Sometimes he's consistent like he can't stay away, and other times he disappears for weeks on end. So why can't you get him out of your head? +blue: i can't even count the amount of times i've re-read this fic. i've recommended this fic to everyone i know. the tension is built up so well and the writing is so immersive and intense in the best way that I had to just stare at the wall after reading as if i had just come back from an encounter with bucky. it is so so hotttt and also has the most perfect little angst easter eggs.

✗♡ snickerdoodles by @brnssldr summary: you bake bucky his favorite cookies even though you're allergic to the cinnamon in them. when he finds out, he's not letting it slide. +blue: oh my god the absolute fluff that is this fic. it is so cozy and warm and comforting and i just love bucky being so so loved!

✗♡ rewrite the narrative by @drabblesandsnippets +blue: bucky being so down bad for reader and knowing exactly how to bring you out of your head and be in the moment with him. this was so so incredibly hot but also felt so realistic in the best way?

✗♡ (i only came to this) party 4 u by @street-smarts00 summary: For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you.  You barely went to team bonding and you NEVER went to Tony Stark's parties. Well, not until last night. And you’re never going again.  Because of James Bucky Barnes. +blue: you know when you just want to yell at the characters because they're both so oblivious and it's sooo obvious they want each other?? this fic is that, the mutual pining is just so perfect!! also i fell in love with the idea of shy reader who only goes to the party for bucky!!

✗♡ operation: kiss by @queen-of-the-avengers summary: you have a weird way of communicating with your upstairs neighbor, and all of your friends start to plan on getting you two together. Operation Kiss is underway, even though there are a few hiccups on the way. +blue: i love love love a neighbour!bucky fic and this one is one of my absolute faves. it is so incredibly sweet and fluffy and had me squealing while reading.

✗♡ unauthorized response by @lolobeey summary: the experimental neurobond was an accident. Getting stuck with Bucky Barnes was just your luck. Now you’re linked—body, mind, and something worse: sexual tension. You’ve got 72 hours to resist him. And every hour, it gets harder to remember why you should... +blue: this fic genuinely was so immersive that i felt like I had a neurobond with bucky and felt every single intense emotion. enemies to lovers, forced proximity and feeling every bit of bucky's desire in your own body. ding ding ding ticks all my boxes!

✗♡ cabin fever by @blowingbarnes summary: Bucky and you have been sneaking around in secret for a while. Not for any particular reason aside from not wanting all of the questions from the team. But now, your schedules haven't been lining up. +blue: i'm gonna say it, this is the best smut i have ever read on this site. bbl is the smut queen fr fr. no but the relationship between reader and bucky is so perfect and this somehow made me so emotional while being completely soaked at the same time??

✗♡ substance F52.8 by @/blowingbarnes summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs? +blue: bbl writes build up and desire in the most incredible way, this one will have you clawing at the walls, going absolutely feral (just like bucky in this fic) this was my first sex pollen fic i read and i am now hooked forever (seriously, i've re-read it more times than i can count)

✗♡ ya gotov otvechat' by @/blowingbarnes summary: The Soldat had been observing you for weeks. One day, looking at you from the rooftop one building over isn't enough anymore. +blue: after i read this, i genuinely just had to sit and stare at the wall (with my ruined panties) because my brain was so thoroughly gone after reading this.

⁀➴ series

✗♡ counting the red flags by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two summary: Y/N has dates on dates but she’s unhappy, because she can’t find a good man. Maybe she should look elsewhere. +blue: one of the first series i read for bucky and it has stuck with me! gin writes slow burn so perfectly, the angsty plot twists will have you screaming and throwing your phone (in the best way).

✗♡ hold the line by @unificsation summary: he called on a whim and ended up thawing desires long lost. you thought it was just another routine, until your body showed you otherwise. lines tangle, cross, and blur—and not just on the phone. or: congressman james buchanan barnes finds a curious business card. +blue: i don't know how to explain how much i loved this series. the idea of bucky being so down bad for you even over the phone and you feeling something different to what you usually do to the point of breaking the rules for him. this series was so so hot and i love the dynamic so much.

✗♡ rodeo the red carpet (farmer bucky au) by @singulartoast summary: A storm blew you off course and into his bed leaving an invisible string tying you to rugged farmer Bucky Barnes. Can he rodeo the red carpet while you write melodies in meadows? +blue: farmer bucky oh how i love you! these fics just play out like the most perfect rom-coms and farmer bucky (and toast) will have you giggling, swooning and clawing at your sheets. I've said this before but this is my favourite AU I've read on here!

✗♡ o come all ye faithful by @/epiphanyrogers summary: you'd both agreed it was for the best. bucky's new role as congressman, yours as US ambassador in london, meant that time zones, distance, and duty had slowly, but inevitably, unravelled what had once been a passionate marriage. but a divorce would be “bad for optics”. so the decision was made - publicly married, privately not. it works. mostly. until bucky shows up unannounced to your embassy party, finding you very cosy with your lawyer. and it turns out bucky barnes doesn't share what's his. +blue: if you want a fic that will make you feel ALL the things, this is the one. Bucky is characterised so perfectly to the point where he is so infuriating, but you also just want to hold him and maybe push him against a wall. the smut in these are so so delicious and the absolute heartbreak of losing someone you thought you'd have forever had my chest achinggg. this is one of the best exploration's of bucky's character and sense of self after everything he's been through.

⁀➴ Steve Rogers

✗♡ a fever he can't sweat out by @epiphanyrogers summary: the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you. +blue: sex pollen is one of my favourite tropes and Maddie did this so so perfectly! sex pollen!steve has me in a chokehold. mads characterises steve so so perfectly, even when he's absolutely feral and not himself and muttering under his breath ahhhhh okay i'll shut up now because i could go on about this fic forever. READ IT!!

✗♡ repercussions by @love-stucky summary: you couldn't behave, now steve's making sure you face the consequences. +blue: this is one of the first steve fics I read and I swear it just got me hooked! oh my godsss this is so hot, i was biting my fist while reading. the way Jazz writes reader being so desperate for steve is incredible (and so relatable fr)

so i'll admit I haven't read too many steve fics yet, but trust me that's gonna change soon and I'll be adding my faves here as I go

Ortho had a reputation and Brendon had leaned into it wholeheartedly. Fast, brutal, precise, and deeply uninterested in anything that didn't have to do with bone mechanics or operative planning. 

Park the Shark. He'd heard the name passed between residents in the corridor like a warning, and he hadn't minded. Warnings kept the noise down.

He was, all told, completely fine.

And then he met you. At the hospital coffee counter on a Wednesday morning, over a cup of black americano, and everything went sideways.

The barista set his coffee down and he was on his way to get it. Pretty normal stuff. Stuff that happened everyday. 

But before he could get there, there was you, his cup in your grasp, and then between your lips. 

He'd opened his mouth to say something. Sharply, probably. The same voice that made interns forget how to speak. But then, you drank. 

Your face did something spectacular. Nose scrunching up, eyes going slightly wide, mouth opened like a fish, as though you were offended, devastated, betrayed by a fucking beverage. You stared into the cup for a full second like you were waiting for it to apologize. "Okay," you said, to the cup, mostly. "That's — what is that?"

Brendon stared at you.

"What'd they put in this?" you continued, as if you were workshopping a complaint, a comical lilt to your voice. 

In the fifteen seconds of you taking his drink and drinking it, it didn’t occur to you that you’d just consumed something belonging to someone else. The coffee — he didn’t think you’d agree for it to be called a coffee, to be really honest — had shaken you so much that it took you a minute to compose yourself. 

When you did, you turned the cup in your hand, read the side and looked up, a sheepish smile on your lips. 

As you found him just standing there, gaze locked on you, your eyes dropped between him and the cup. "Oh, it's got your name on it." You had the audacity to look adorable — what the fuck did he just think? "Is this yours?"

Brendon nodded. Fucking nodded. 

Embarrassment should not have looked that good on anyone. How could someone look like that while questioning life decisions, evaluating choices that led to this moment?

"Right." You set it down on the counter between, like you were disarming a situation. "Sorry. I genuinely thought — mine's supposed to be a latte and I just grabbed it, I wasn't looking at the name. I'm really sorry."

Dark circles under your eyes, hair pulled back like it was done in thirty seconds without a mirror, lime green scrubs that had no reason looking good, no reason making you look good. Who even looked good in that colour? Who even chose that colour? 

You were somewhere between mortified and trying to hold it together, which was fair, because you had just walked up to a stranger's drink and had at it. "Can I at least — I'll pay for a new one, here—"

You were reaching into your pocket and Brendon, who had been on the verge of saying something very reasonable like it's fine, not a problem— "No."

Accidentally spoke in the voice. He didn't always mean to use, it just comes out that way by default, making fourth-year residents straighten their spines. And he’d used it. To you. 

You looked up at him with an expression he could only describe as a deer having second thoughts about the road.

He hadn't meant — he wasn't angry. He'd said no out of reflex. Most things he said were out of reflex, and now this person was staring at him like he'd personally threatened her. He had the strange and unfamiliar experience of wanting to walk it back. "I meant—" he started.

But you'd pulled yourself together, apparently deciding that whatever his problem was, it was his problem. 

"Okay, no." You held your hands up, like you were placating a toddler. "Noted. For future reference though, why would you get it like that, it's — is this fun for you? Like do you enjoy it?"

He blinked, heat rising up to his cheeks. He could only hope you didn’t notice it.

What you did notice was that he looked clueless and you clarified, "the coffee," you pointed to his cup. "There's nothing in it. I took one sip and I think my tongue is still reeling from it."

"That's what coffee tastes like," Brendon said.

"That's a very sad thing to believe." You stated, completely without malice, which made it worse somehow. A genuine opinion. To make matters worse, you were already looking back toward the counter, scanning for your actual order.

Brendon stood there holding his americano while everyone else and everything else continued their life, including you. 

The barista called your name. You went to get it, came back briefly into his sightline, and gave him a small, still-somewhat-mortified wave on your way out the door.

He watched you go and drank his coffee, the same one your lips touched. It tasted exactly like it always did, which was fine, he liked it fine.

Do you enjoy it?

He took another sip. It was objectively bitter.

Lime green. A colour he couldn't immediately place. It bothered him, sitting in the back of his head while he moved through his afternoon. 

PTMC colour-coded by department. He knew this. He just didn't have them all memorized, a gap he'd never needed to fill before.

He decided to ask his ward nurse, Delgado, at the end of his post-ops. Casual as he could make it, which for him was still pretty clinical — "lime green. You know which department?" 

Delgado looked up from her chart. "Lime green," she repeated, slowly, like she was checking the words for a hidden compartment.

“Yeah.” 

“Are we talking about scrubs here, Dr Park?” She had her eyebrows crossed like she was trying to read him. 

“Yes.”

“Neonatology,” she answered. 

Four floors up, the opposite end of the building, behind two sets of badge-locked doors and a hand-washing protocol longer than some of his procedures. He'd been in there exactly twice in his career, both times for consults that took fifteen minutes and ended in a referral elsewhere.

It made sense. You looked like sunshine incarnate, all airy and beautiful, effortlessly skilful — not that he’d seen you work, but he had an idea. 

"Right." He turned back toward the board.

"Dr. Park."

"Mm."

"Are you — Is there something involving neonatology that I should know about?"

A small, unwelcome lurch happened inside his chest. He kept his face the way he kept it in the OR — nothing on it, nothing to read — and he could tell, with horrible clarity, that it wasn't working.

“Something?”

“A case?” 

Brendon could see that she’d worded it carefully. "No."

"Okay," Delgado said. "No reason then." She didn't believe a word of it and had decided not to push, which was worse because he could’ve handled an argument. An argument had an end.

Without looking at her, he said, “you can go.”

"I'm charting."

"You can chart elsewhere."

"This is the nurses' station, Dr. Park."

She was smiling. He knew that without even looking. He went back to his board and did not say anything else, hoping this was the end of it. 

It was in no way shape or form, the end of anything. It only took him five minutes to look it up. Not you specifically, he wasn’t doing that. Yet, the back of his mind supplied. 

He was just reading about fellowship timelines, the NICU admission criteria for some reason? He also learned it’s two or three more years of training, all of it happening four floors above his OR in a unit he had approximately zero clinical reason to enter.

The fact that he even went down this road is embarrassing. But he went a whole another mile. 

Clavicular fractures were the most common birth-related bone injury. Unfortunately — now, he hated himself for even thinking the word — they were managed entirely conservatively. Swaddle the arm, follow up in two weeks. It wouldn't require an orthopedic surgeon, much less him, to stand in a NICU looking purposeful.

For about four seconds, he entertained inventing a reason. He got as far as picturing himself walking through those doors in his scrub cap with some flimsy excuse half-formed, and the picture was so stupid — so transparently, embarrassingly stupid — that he closed his laptop immediately.

The hospital was large and your departments were, in practical terms, on separate planets. 

You’d been in the coffee shop on Wednesday, which meant you probably used it, which meant theoretically he'd encounter you again just by existing in the building. He told himself he wasn't going to engineer anything, he was just aware of the possibility. That was all.

Two days passed. He did four surgeries including a complicated tibial nail revision that took three hours and came out beautifully, and one very satisfying conversation with a referring physician who had misread an MRI and needed correcting. Normal week, right? 

Next day, he got his coffee at six forty, same as every morning, and stood at the counter a beat longer than the transaction required, scanning the line behind him without meaning to. Nobody in lime green. He told himself that meant nothing, took his americano, and left.

Friday, same thing. He noticed himself doing it the second time, which didn't help — like catching his own reflection mid-expression and not recognizing the face looking back.

He didn't see you. Abnormal week. 

ER consult. Friday, mid-afternoon. A fracture dislocation that the ER attending had flagged as needing operative planning. Brendon came down at two-thirty, and found Abbot by trauma three looking over a film.

Coming down to the ER wasn't his favorite part of the day. Not the work — the work was fine, usually obvious, usually somebody else's problem until it became his — but the way the place ran, all motion and noise hot under his skin. Abbot, somehow, thrived in it.

They'd gotten through about two minutes of the consult — Abbot walking him through the case, Brendon pulling up the images, the two of them doing back-and-forth of people who'd worked a building together long enough to skip the preamble. Uneventful. 

But then the ER entrance on the left side of the bay opened and you walked through it.

Same lime green scrubs and a your Dunkin' cup in hand. Shen next to you, also holding a Dunkin' cup, saying something Brendon couldn't hear from this distance, and you were laughing. Brendon, to his disappointment, noticed it was not a poilte laugh. Your shoulder bumped into Shen’s with the force of it, a fully open-mouthed laugh, and you looked gorgeous.

The sight in front of him was only fogged by the fact that it was Shen who was at the receiving end of it.

The blush climbed before he could stop it, heat crawling up the back of his neck and into his ears. He thanked every god he didn't believe in, that Abbot was still looking at the film and not at him.

Brendon's jaw locked. Back teeth coming together, the muscle in his jaw pulling. He knew it’d give him a headache if he kept it up. 

He didn’t really know Shen, not really. Having entirely met him through corridors and in consultations. But in that moment he decided, with an immediate, total conviction usually reserved for diagnoses, that he didn't like him.

Because he didn’t want to stare, he looked back at the X-ray on the tablet. "So the fracture pattern —" he spoke.

"You okay?" Abbot cut in.

Brendon looked at him. Abbot looked like he already knew the answer and was just asking to pull his leg, like most ER attendings. 

"Fine," Brendon said. "The fracture is comminuted. Needs ORIF. I’ll book an OR, do it first case tomrorw morning."

Abbot nodded as he scribbled on the iPad. Didn't look fully satisfied with the fine but let it go. Brendon knew that about Abbot — the latter picked his moments.

Brendon looked back at the X-ray.

In his peripheral vision, you and Shen had stopped near the nurse’s station, still talking. You had the cup halfway to your mouth, nodding at whatever he was saying, and then you laughed again, smaller this time, shaking your head. Like whatever Shen had said was ridiculous and you were conceding it anyway.

His molars hurt from pressing down too hard. "ORIF tomorrow, first case," he said again, to the iPad at his hand, to no one.

"You already said that," Abbot noted.

He pulled up the next item on his consult list — a possible Montaggia fracture, a cakewalk for him, nightmare for others. "I'm confirming."

He was not confirming. He had no idea why he'd said it twice. 

You'd moved further into the ER now, past his sightline, and he found himself looking at the entrance you'd come through for a second before he caught himself and looked back at Abbot. The latter was watching him like he was trying very, very hard not to smirk.

"Do you need something?" Brendon asked.

"I'm just standing here," Abbot said.

"You're doing something with your face."

"I'm a person, Park, my face does things." Abbot tucked his hands in his pockets. Nodding towards the general direction of where you might be standing, Abbot said, "I didn't know you knew anyone in neonatology."

"I don't," Brendon interjected soon. Too soon. 

"Hm." Abbot’s head did a sweep of the ER, probably searching for you, and then looked back at Brendon. "Right."

Brendon put his iPad under his arm, said he'd have the operative plan by end of day and walked back toward the elevator, which took him directly past the nurse’s station, where you had apparently remigrated with Shen, talking to the desk coordinator about something.

He did not slow down.

But in the two seconds he passed within range, he did clock that you smelled like coffee and something warm underneath it, something sweet, vanilla maybe. You didn't notice him, but Shen did and nodded. Brendon nodded back and kept walking, very normal. Walk of a man who was fine.

The elevator took forty-five years to arrive.

He stood in front of it for all forty-five of those years, staring at the closed doors with his hands in his coat pockets, acutely, miserably aware that Park the Shark had just sped up his pace to get past a girl with a Dunkin' and was now standing at an elevator hoping it would hurry up.

Somewhere behind him, he was fairly sure, Abbot was still smiling.

It was a horrible week for the ortho residents. And it wasn’t even Tuesday. 

It wasn’t because of the caseload. The caseload was what it always was, a rotating carousel of fractures and dislocations and the occasional spectacular screw-up from another department who'd missed a bone scan. 

No, the residents had a terrible week because Brendon Park had decided, somewhere between Friday evening and Tuesday afternoon, that their technique was uniformly sloppy and their pre-op prep was an embarrassment to the profession, and he'd said so. Repeatedly. In front of each other.

It wasn't personal. He thought so and would tell you so, if anyone asked him. No one was brave enough. 

His residents just kept standing in his eyeline when he was already irritated, and that was their problem, really.

Delgado, to her eternal credit, had not said a single word about it. She'd watched him tear into a second-year over a chart — like who enters the date wrong? — and kept her face entirely professional. The kid went pale, stuttering through his apology, and Brendon didn’t care. 

He'd noticed it himself. The snapping. He was moving through the ward with even less patience than usual, which was saying something. He did a K wire banding, ate lunch at his desk, reviewed post-op films, and at six-fifteen found himself at the hospital coffee counter scanning the room before his order was called. It was mortifying enough on its own, and you weren't there, so it brought double the mortification. 

He went back Tuesday. Sat down, which was something he genuinely had never done. He had always taken his coffee to go. There was no reason to sit, the hospital was across the street, he drank it walking. 

But this time, he sat. Kept his phone out, drank his coffee and checked his messages. He absolutely did not look at the door every ninety seconds.

You weren't there Tuesday either. Which was fine. People had schedules. Neonatologists especially — the NICU didn't exactly run on a nine-to-five, he knew that much. He'd looked it up. For professional reasons, of course. For someone who’d prided himself for working 24/7, he was humbled real quick. 

Wednesday, he sat again. He had a consultation at nine, no reason to rush. He could drink his coffee like a human being who used chairs. He pulled up his post-op notes on his phone, found Abbot's message about a fracture dislocation follow-up, which Abbot didn’t have to do but does it anyway. Abbot was like that sometimes. 

When he looked up, his coffee was in front of him. And so were you.

Lime green scrubs, your own drink in your other hand, and you were sliding his cup toward him. The look on your face that said you'd been watching him not notice it for at least thirty seconds. He had been reading an MRI report. A fascinating one.

"I really should get you a coffee," you said.

Brendon laughed. It was him. That was his laugh. Coming out of his face, in a coffee shop, at seven in the morning.

It came out before he could stop it or do anything about it. Just a short, but real sound, surprising him enough that he almost looked around to check if someone else had made it. 

You were watching him with that same expression from the first time, like you found him interesting the way you'd find an unusual rock formation interesting. Curious but not unkind. It was doing things to his blood pressure.

"You're still doing that to yourself, I see." You nodded at his cup.

"It's coffee."

"Doesn't taste like it, though." Your nose scrunched up, just like the first time, just as adorable. Did he just say adorable again? 

He picked up the cup, took a sip purely out of spite, and looked back at you.

You sat down across from him. Which he had not expected and also had absolutely expected. Two things existing simultaneously, almost fucking him up. 

"You're here a lot," you said.

"The hospital's down the street."

"Is it?" You glanced at him, stirring your drink. "Because I've only ever seen you take it to go, and now you're sitting." You took out the stirrer and placed it on a tissue. "Three days in a row."

The back of his neck went warm, mouth opening to say something. Deny it probably, which was stupid and a waste of time. But you interrupted him. 

Brendon Park is not someone who’s interrupted. People let him talk, and only think about answering when they’re sure he’s finished. 

You, on the other hand, did not care. "You're kinda hard to miss with all the brooding going on."

"I don't brood."

You took a sip of your drink, watching him over the lid, expression doing a tremendous amount of work without saying anything. 

He held your gaze. You lowered the cup. "You totally brood. It's an ortho thing, right? Comes with it."

"You know I'm ortho?"

"Everyone knows you're ortho." You said it completely matter-of-factly. Like, yes Brendon, the sky is blue and you’ve got an Ortho bro vibe going on. "You have the whole —" You made a vague gesture in his direction, encompassing, apparently, all of him. "You've got the OR energy."

"Half the people here have OR energy. It's a hospital."

"No, see, ER people have this sort of —" you tilted your head, "— controlled chaos thing. They're always braced for something. But, you walk around like you’ve won everything already. It's very obvious, easy to pick out."

Pick out what? Him from a line-up?

He watched you say all of this with zero self-consciousness, just stating observations, a woman delivering a verdict. He realised his coffee was halfway to his mouth and he hadn't drunk it. You talked about him like he was a case study, and he was sitting there letting you, taking all of it.

"So where else do you brood," you asked, "besides here and the OR?"

"I don't brood."

"Besides here and the OR?" You prompted, dismissing his non-answer. 

"The ER… sometimes," he heard himself say it. See, he did not think of saying it, but said it anyway. Crystal-clear experience of a man who had just walked directly into something. He'd had five years of attendings trying to catch him out on rounds. None of them had managed it. You'd done it in under ten minutes, twice, while drinking a latte.

You made a sound. Not quite a laugh, more like an intake of breath with amusement in it. "The ER."

"Consults."

"Right." You traced the rim of your cup with one finger. "Were you in the ER last Friday?"

And… there it was.

He could've said he didn't remember. He could've been very busy, very unbothered, a man who passed through ERs constantly and didn't register the days. He was a surgeon. He was in various hospital departments routinely. There was nothing notable about Friday.

"Yes," his mouth admitted.

You nodded slowly, like something had confirmed itself. "I thought I saw you. You walked really fast."

He put his coffee down. "I had somewhere to be."

"Okay." The word stretched, like you weren’t entirely convinced. He wouldn’t blame it, he wasn’t exactly convincing. An infant could catch him in a lie, and you apparently were their queen. You went quiet for a second and then looked back at him, debating whether to say it or not. Affirmative won apparently. "You saw me with Shen."

It wasn’t a question. And he wasn’t exactly thrilled to answer it. He'd spent five days being awful to residents over it. A little late to play it cool.

"I figured." The amusement on your face was warm rather than sharp, which made the ache in his chest somehow worse. Whoa, whoa, what ache? "We have a thing going, me and Shen. Whoever lost the bet had to do the coffee run. I'd just lost." You paused. "For the fourth time. I'm apparently terrible at predicting admission numbers."

"The fourth time," Brendon parotted.

"In a month. I know." You shook your head, shaking the thought, a soft sigh leaving your parted lips. "I don't know why I keep agreeing to it. Every time I'm like, this time I'll get it right, and then the board goes completely feral and I'm standing at Dunkin' at two in the afternoon getting Shen's ridiculous—" You stopped to look at him, and he had his utmost attention on you. "Anyway. That was just the loser tax."

Loser tax. He sat with this for a second. The whole week reshuffled. Him being a monster to those unsuspecting residents — it’s not like it's unwarranted, but still. 

You and Shen, a bet. A coffee run. A losing streak that apparently had nothing to do with the bond between the two of you and everything to do with ER admission patterns, which, if he was being honest, were genuinely unpredictable, nobody could forecast those accurately, it wasn't —

"You walked so fast," you spoke again, this time interrupting his thoughts. He noticed you liked to do that, keep him on his toes. There was a laugh behind it now, delighted almost. "I didn't know an orthopedic surgeon could move like that without a reason."

"I had a reason."

"What was it?" You prodded.

I just couldn’t stand you bumping shoulders with Shen like you belonged together. 

His eyes dropped to his coffee at his hand and found you again. You looked back at him. You had the same ‘interested in rock formation’ thing going on, except closer now and clearer somehow. He had the increasingly urgent sense that you knew exactly what you were doing.

"You were with someone.” He sighed.

A smile adorned your lips like you’d won, finally beat him. 

Like your mind was displaying in neon, Sunshine neonatologist : 1. Big bad ortho guy : 0. 

You let it sit there between you while you took another sip of your drink. "I was getting Shen's order," you said finally. "Because I lost a bet."

"I know that now."

"But you didn't walk fast because of Shen specifically. Did you?"

His molars found each other again. What is with you and asking him impossible questions? Was this like your hobby? Hit the ortho guy until he falls over? At what point in medical school had someone taught you to do this, and could he have a word with them?

Without giving him a moment to recover, you spoke again. "So," you set your cup down, straightened up a little in the chair, met his eyes with an expression so direct it nearly made him blink. "When are you buying me a coffee?"

He stared at you. Staring was not his thing. He assessed, evaluated, and arrived at conclusions. What he did not do was stare, sit with his mouth slightly open like a fucking goldfish. 

"That's what you've been trying to do, right?" Your voice was mild, conversational, voice of a woman confirming a meeting time. "For three days. In a row. Sitting here."

The heat that climbed his face was complete, total and immediate, and there was absolutely nothing to be done about it. Park the Shark. Sitting in a coffee shop for three days like a golden retriever who'd learned to use a chair.

You laughed. It filled the air and came right back to him. And he thought, sitting there red-eared with his black coffee, that it was the best sound he'd heard all week.

Possibly longer.

He only remembered that you asked a question when you raised your eyebrows. Right. The question. Which he totally didn’t forget when he was staring at your lips and thinking about how they would feel pressed to his. 

"I have a nine o'clock," he said. "Seven works."

"That's very early."

"You work in a NICU. You guys are up since five."

You looked at him for a moment and he had no idea what you were looking at. But he sat very still, which was insane on his part. He only hoped he passed whatever test you were conducting. Apparently having looked enough, you picked your cup up, along with the tissue paper and the stirrer you discarded, and stood. "Seven," you said. "Don't brood while you wait."

He watched you walk out. He looked down at his americano. He drank it.

It still tasted exactly like it always did, and he liked it fine, and he was aware, in a dim and reluctant and completely inescapable way, that this was probably not going to be the last time he sat in this coffee shop.

Not by a long shot.

MY MASTERLIST !

Brendon doesn’t get home until eleven. 

You’re curled on the couch under the fluffy shark-patterned blanket you’d gotten him for his birthday (he’d told you it was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen, then proceeded to use it basically every day since), and the TV is playing some Netflix romcom you don’t really care about. He’d texted you somewhere around six telling you there was a trauma incoming and to not wait up for him, which meant you’d of course waited up for him. 

In the year the two of you’ve been together, you’ve learned that there’s no way to predict how trauma cases will impact him. There are days he comes home like nothing happened, days he comes home even more smug than usual. Then there are the days where he loses a patient or the outcome isn’t what he was hoping for, but he’s typically quick to make peace with it. He’s calculating, pragmatic. He knows when the odds are unfavorable and doesn’t dwell when they beat him.

Then there are days like today. 

Days when you know something has gone wrong the moment he steps inside the house. He’s not particularly talkative as a baseline, but usually he’ll at least call a greeting. Today there’s nothing but stony silence. The only sounds are the slight shuffle of him taking off his shoes and the click of the closet opening so he can hang up his coat. When he finally steps out of the mudroom and into the den, he does barely more than nod at you before disappearing upstairs.

You’re not upset. You might have been, once upon a time, but you know him well enough by now to know this is just how he copes. He’ll probably take a shower, eat something sad and beige and protein-heavy, then curl around you in bed like you’re the only soft thing in a world full of edges. He might talk to you, he might not. But he’ll hold you, and you’ll let him, and that’ll be enough for both you.

You sit quietly for a moment, expecting to hear the shower come on, and are startled when he instead comes back down the stairs wearing training shorts and an old t-shirt. 

“Bren?” you question softly.

He pauses. His spine is rigid, his jaw tense, and you can see the weight of every life he’s ever held resting on his shoulders in that moment. Something heartbreakingly vulnerable flashes in his eyes so quickly you almost miss it, before he hides it behind iron walls.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

Then he disappears into the basement. A few moments later, the sound of weights clanking together floats up the stairs.

Your heart squeezes, but you don’t follow him. You know he needs to work through whatever it is on his own. Instead, you turn the volume on the TV up to give him some privacy and busy yourself with cleaning. 

You grab his bag from where he’d dropped it in the mudroom and unpack it — putting the food he didn’t eat back in the kitchen and plugging in his laptop to charge. You wash the few dishes in the sink by hand and then spend some time prepping lunches for both of you for the following day. Then you go upstairs and throw his dirty scrubs in the wash along with a few other things. Really, there’s not enough laundry to warrant a load, but you need something to occupy you. No matter what he said, you won’t be able to sleep knowing how upset he is. 

Eventually, the load finishes, and you put it in the dryer. Then that finishes, too, and Brendon is still in the basement. A glance at the clock tells you it’s nearing 1:00 AM. You bite your lip. You’re exhausted, so you can only imagine how tired he must be. He’d been out the door by five that morning, and you know he’d had no break between his regular shift and the emergency trauma. You also know he hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, if his mostly untouched lunch was anything to go by. 

You start folding laundry while glancing at the clock every five seconds. You want to give him his space, but you’re also getting increasingly worried. You’re not quite sure where the line is between letting him process and leaving him to suffer alone. Eventually though, when you’ve reorganized your nightstand twice, when the hour hand is closer to the two than the one, you decide you should at least check on him. 

You pad softly down the stairs to the first floor and then pause at the doorway to the basement. You can no longer hear weights shifting around down there. In fact, it’s eerily silent aside from the low hum of the TV, and you feel a frisson of nerves as you descend the dimly lit stairs. 

“Bren?”

He’s sitting on the FID bench facing the wall of mirrors. Several dumbbells are discarded at his feet. Sweat stains his shirt and his brow, and he’s still breathing heavily from whatever set he just finished. He’s still apart from the rising and falling of his chest though, his eyes fixed unseeingly on one of the heavy rubber mats lining the floor. He doesn’t even move when you say his name, and you’re not sure if it’s because he can’t hear you or because he doesn’t have the energy to respond.

The two of you exist in silence for a long moment, and you know he won’t break it unless you do. Carefully, like you’re afraid any sudden movements will make things worse, you cross to the mini-fridge on the back wall. You grab a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap as you walk back across the room to stand next to him.

“You should drink something,” you say softly, holding it out to him. 

He might not want to talk about anything, but you can at least take care of him physically. Or you can try. He doesn’t take the water, and you only hold it out for a second longer before recapping it and setting it at his feet. Worry grips your chest like a fist.

“Do you-”

“You should go.”

You freeze. Your first reaction is hurt, which you quickly shove as far down as you can — this is about him, not you. Then comes the instinctual urge to obey. If he wants you to go, then you will. But just as your body is about to turn and move on its own, your mind catches up. 

“You said I should go,” you venture carefully. “Does that mean you want me to?”

He doesn’t say anything, which tells you more than if he had.

Feeling steadier now than you did a second ago, you go to round the bench and stand in front of him, only for his hand to shoot out and keep you from coming closer.

“You can’t be around me right now,” he reiterates tightly.

“Because of me? Or because of you?”

His gaze snaps up to you then, and you inhale sharply at what you see there. Fury, bright and sharp, cuts through you like a blade. Right alongside it is grief so raw it’s almost anger in itself. There are other emotions buried there, too — frustration, self-loathing, hopelessness — so many that he looks like he’s drowning in them.

“Careful,” he says lowly.

Your heart stutters nervously, but you don’t back down.

“If you want me to leave, I will, but don’t tell me to go because you think you’re protecting me.”

His jaw tightens, and he stands. Towering over you like he’s trying to intimidate you. It works and it doesn’t. Your body responds the way it always does when he’s this close — your heart rate picks up, your breathing goes uneven, and awareness prickles across your skin. But you’re not scared of him. You don’t think you ever could be.

“You want to be soft right now,” he grits out, teeth bared. “You want to be sweet and gentle until everything’s better.”

You shake your head slowly.

“I want to be whatever you need me to be,” you tell him.

Wrong answer, or right one. You don’t know. All you do know is he makes a low, mean sound, and takes a predatory step towards you. You instinctively back up. The backs of your knees hit the bench, and you drop down on it with a graceless oof. Now it’s your turn to sit while he stands over you. 

“You have no idea what I need right now,” he snarls.

Realization hits you so fast you feel dizzy, then ridiculous for not realizing sooner. The way he’s practically vibrating in his skin. The way he’s been down here punishing his body for nearly three hours. The way he seems to want you close and also want you as far away as possible. 

He feels out of control.

He’s not just angry, he’s not just grieving. He’s spiraling. Tough cases always challenge his need for control, but he’s also pragmatic enough that he usually bounces back quickly. Whatever control he felt he lost with this trauma, he can’t get it back. He’s been trying to — down here alone, for hours — but it’s clearly not working. 

He must see the realization in your face, because his expression shutters further, and he makes a low warning sound in his throat.

“Don’t,” he grits.

You don’t say anything, just reach out slowly and grab one of his hands. It flexes almost spastically in yours, but he doesn’t pull away. At least until you bring it to your mouth and brush a soft kiss across his knuckles. Then he tries to jerk it back, but you won’t let him. 

“I can’t be gentle right now,” he scrapes out.

“I don’t need you to be gentle.”

He growls in frustration and crowds even closer.

“You don’t get it, I don’t trust myself around you.”

Your heart breaks, even as determination solidifies in your mind. Slowly, slowly enough that he can pull away if he really wants to, you lift his hand to your neck. His fingers twitch as you wrap them carefully around your throat, and his breath punches out of him like you struck him.

“I trust you,” you whisper.

A brief pause—

And then he’s moving. He spits out a curse and then he’s hauling you to your feet. His mouth crashes into yours, and it’s all teeth and anger wrapped in desperation. The awareness that’s been humming under your skin since he got home morphs into arousal from one breath to the next. Your hands scrabble for purchase against his shirt as you do your best to keep up with his relentless pace.

“Brave fucking girl,” he hisses against your mouth.

You whimper in response, concerned, relieved, and turned on all in equal measure. He kisses you like he’s punishing you. He kisses you like he can burn out his anger through your body, and you kiss him back like you want it. You do, you think, when he yanks your head back so his lips can find your jaw. You want whatever he wants, want to be whatever he needs.

He worries a bruise onto your neck, more teeth than lips. It’s petty, mean. It makes your cunt clench around nothing. You tilt your head further back to give him more access, and he rumbles a low sound of approval.

“So eager for me,” he mutters against your skin.

You nod frantically — you are, you always are. 

You tug at his shoulders to bring his mouth back to yours. He allows it, indulgent. One hand is still buried in your hair, while the other bands like steel around your waist, and it presses you as close to him as possible and then closer still. He seems content for a moment, letting you guide the kiss, at least until he nips sharply at your lip and slides his hand back to your throat. It tightens just enough to make you work harder for every breath, and the feeling goes through you like lightning.

“Hmm, you like it when I get to decide if you breathe?” he asks. 

Your only response is a whimper, and his eyes flash dangerously. You feel dazed, floaty, and he’s barely touched you yet. The same thought must cross his mind, because his grip loosens for a second, and the hand at your throat reaches up to brush a strand of hair back from your face.

“I mean it,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “I don’t know how to be gentle right now.”

You hear him fighting to keep his voice calm, to truly give you the out if you want it, and that more than anything makes your decision for you. He might not trust himself, but you do. You know he won’t hurt you.

Slowly, keeping your eyes locked with his, you sink to your knees.

Something complicated crosses his face. Longing and vulnerability mixed with love so deep it’s pain. He looks at you like you’re tearing him apart and remaking him at the same time, like he’s dying and you’re the only thing keeping him alive. His hand, steady enough to piece bodies back together, shakes as it reaches out to touch your face. His thumb brushes reverently over your cheek.

“Brave girl,” he whispers again.

Then all the softness disappears behind steel. You watch him physically piece his armor back together— his breath evening, his shoulders straightening. His eyes glint like ice, and the hand on your cheek grabs your chin and forces you to look up. You stare at him, feeling small and exposed.

“Clothes off.”

The words are quiet, but there’s no doubt they’re an order.

Your breath hitches, but your hands move to obey without thought. They grab them hem of your sweater and pull it off. Next comes your bra, and you blush a little when you drop it on top of the sweater. He’s seen you naked a thousand times before, but there’s something about it that feels especially vulnerable when you’re on your knees like this. You start to get up, so you can take off your shorts, but his voice stops you.

“I didn’t say you could stand.”

A shock of heat lances through you and goes straight to your cunt. You make a small sound, somewhere between a squeak and a whimper, and stare up at him with wide eyes. He stares unblinkingly back. Hands unsteady now, you hook your thumbs under the waistband of your sleep shorts and panties and start tugging them down. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and mildly embarrassing trying to wiggle out of them while still kneeling. You have to contort and do a sort of shuffle to get them off,  but you finally manage it.

Now naked, you look up at him and wait for whatever comes next. The air in the basement is cooler than the rest of the house, and you feel your nipples start to pebble. The subdued lighting that usually feels soothing now feels too bright, too revealing. The only sound is the quiet hum of the fridge, which makes you hyper aware of your own breathing.

Part of you is uncomfortable, itching to move, to say something — anything to break this silent standoff. It doesn’t matter how safe you feel with him, the stark power imbalance between the two of you — you naked and kneeling, him clothed and towering over you — never fails to tug at something soft and unprotected within you. You force yourself to remain still though. As strong as the urge to retreat is, the need to obey is stronger.

“Eyes closed,”he says at last, and you comply gratefully. “Stay here.”

You’re startled when you hear him disappear up the stairs, but you obey and stay still. You think you hear him continue to the stairs to the second floor, but you can’t be sure. Then there’s nothing. Alone, waiting, the anticipation feels sharper. The rubber mat under your knees feels slightly too firm, and the air feels slightly too cold. Your legs are starting to cramp. Time passes oddly while you wait, and you’re relieved when you hear him coming back down.

Anticipation runs down your spine like a physical touch when you hear him come to a stop somewhere behind you. Your eyes are still closed, and you have no idea what he’s doing or if he’s even looking at you. The uncertainty, the feeling of being completely at his mercy, makes your thighs clench together. The action makes you suddenly aware of how wet you are, and an involuntary sound escapes your throat.

One of his hands comes to rest briefly on your head at the sound, grounding, then vanishes. 

“Hands.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but you know what he means. Carefully, you stretch your hands behind you. He moves, looping something around your wrists and securing them at the small of your back. You test the bindings once — snug enough they won’t slip off, but loose enough you could get out of them without much effort. They’re more symbolic than anything, but they still make your cunt pulse.

Next he slips something over your eyes. You open them on instinct, but aside from a vague haze of light, you can’t see anything through the fabric. Now truly unable to see and with your hands bound, your awareness of everything else around you skyrockets. You can feel the heat of his body behind you, hear the measured rhythm of his breathing. He trails a hand lightly down one of your arms, barely anything, and it sets off fireworks in your body.

He stands, and you feel more than hear him walk around you. He stops in front of you, one hand coming to rest on your face. You feel his fingers press against your lips, and you open obediently. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Your cunt clenches around nothing again. You suck lightly on his fingers, wishing it was his cock instead, and feel yourself getting steadily wetter. Your breasts feel heavy, your nipples tight, and you want him to touch you so badly it’s nearly pain.

“Good girl,” he repeats, then draws his fingers out. “Open.”

You do and are rewarded with the slide of his cock over your tongue. You make a grateful sound that would have been embarrassing if your brain was functioning. Instead, all you care about is the weight of him in your mouth and the low hiss he lets out when you start sucking.

“So eager to have my cock in your mouth,” he mocks.

You hum in agreement, lost in the taste of sweat and skin and the slightly bitter flavor of pre-come. 

He lets you play for a while, his hand resting lightly on the back of your head. You alternate between sucking the flared head, tongue flicking the slit until his hips twitch, and sinking down further until your jaw aches. His fingers card through your hair, misleadingly gentle, and you think then that you could stay like this forever. Your knees ache, and your shoulders are starting to protest, but all that matters is this. Him, his taste, the sounds he makes. You’re actively clenching your thighs together now, trying to get any friction on your clit. He lets out a mean laugh when he notices, but he doesn’t stop you.

You know his patience won’t last though, and you’re proved correct when his grip suddenly tightens.

“I’m going to fuck your pretty throat now,” he says darkly.

You make a sound that might be agreement, might be a plea, and then his hips snap forward sharply. You nearly gag around the intrusion — too much, too fast — but you force yourself to breathe through it. He hums in approval, and you fairly whine. 

He sets a slow rhythm, steadily fucking his way deeper with every thrust. His hand at the back of your head holds you in place, and you moan at the feeling of him bullying his way into your throat. You gag around him a couple times, spit sliding down your chin and tears pricking your eyes. He doesn’t stop. He knows if you really wanted out, you would slip the loose bindings and tap his thigh. But you don’t, and he mutters filthy encouragement as he slides even deeper.

“So fucking pretty like this-”

“Feels so good-”

“Fuck, baby, just like that.”

By the time you’ve finally taken all of him, you’re shaking, hips grinding down against nothing. Your jaw aches and you can feel the tears on your cheeks, but all you want is more. You make a desperate sound, and he groans in response, before slowly drawing back. A pause, then he returns with a harsh snap of his hips, and you’re whining. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you relish it. You want him everywhere, stamped on your body inside and out. 

His breath punches out of him harshly as he fucks your face, and for a brief second you think you could come like this. Untouched, just the taste and feel of him and the sound of his voice spewing filth.

“My perfect girl, take- ah, take my cock so fucking well.”

You swallow around him, and his hips spasm.

“Shit, don’t-. Baby-, fucking Christ.”

You know he’s getting close. He’s spending longer down your throat with each thrust, grinding your nose against his pelvis. His breathing goes ragged, and his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain. Sure enough, one, two thrusts later and he’s yanking you off his cock with a curse. 

You hear the obscene slide of his fist over his spit-soaked cock, and then you feel the first splash of come hit your cheek. He grunts as he fucks his fist, painting your face and chest. You moan at the feeling.

“Fuck, you did so well,” he says when he’s finally spent.

You preen under his praise.

“You think you deserve a reward?”

“Please.”

You sound wrecked, desperate, but you don’t care. Your body is hot, your skin too tight, and you want his hands on you more than you want your next breath.

He makes you wait for a minute.

He moves away from you, and you hear a rustle of cloth. You think he’s wiping his hands off, but you can’t be sure. Then he’s coming back over to you, and you’re nearly squirming in anticipation when he lowers himself behind you. His chest touches your back, and you feel his legs on either side of yours. It can’t be comfortable for him, but he doesn’t seem concerned.

“Spread your legs,” he tells you.

You do, ignoring the way your knees protest the movement. Now that you’re not focused on his cock, you’re fiercely aware of how long you’ve been kneeling. He doesn’t tell you to get up though, and any discomfort vanishes a moment later when his arms come around you and then his fingers are running through your folds. Your hips jerk forward.

“Oh, sweetheart. Did you get this wet just sucking my cock?”

You don’t answer right away, too focused on the feeling of finally, finally being touched. But his fingers stop when you stay silent, and you cry out in protest.

“Answer me, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp.

“Yes, what?”

Even after everything he’s already done to you, even with his come drying on your face, saying the words makes your cheeks burn.

“Yes, sucking your cock made me this wet.”

“Good girl.”

And then he shoves two fingers inside you without warning, and you nearly fall over. There’s no build up, no ease in. Just his fingers crooking in a practiced motion and rubbing relentlessly at the spot that makes you see stars. You moan, high and helpless. Your head drops back against his shoulder, and your hips move gracelessly as you chase his fingers. His thumb eventually moves to swipe against your clit, one brief moment of fire-tipped pleasure. Then his hand is withdrawing, and you nearly sob.

“Bren,” you cry pathetically.

He body pulls away from yours, but before you can protest, you feel something else moving between your legs. Not his fingers-

“Oh,” you gasp.

It’s a dildo. Not as thick as his cock, but definitely thicker than his fingers. Your walls clamp down around the intrusion. He fucks you shallowly with it, teasing more than anything, but you’re grateful for anything after waiting for so long. It’s more than enough to get you there, and your hips are starting to stutter when he says-

“No coming, baby.”

He actually laughs at your cry of distress.

“Don’t you want to be good for me?” he asks. 

That alone almost makes you come.

Your cunt spasms around the dildo, and everything in your body pulls tight. Yes, you want to be good for him, it’s all you want right now. Sometimes you think it’s all you’ve ever wanted. You garble out some version of that and preen at his murmured approval.

“Spread your legs a little more-, just like that. Sink a bit lower-”

You obey, not quite knowing what he’s trying to do yet, when you feel something against your clit and it clicks. Oh. You know exactly which dildo he’s using now. The dark purple one with the rabbit attachment at the base, which means-

The vibrator switches on, and you make a sound like you’re dying.

“Hmm, feel good?”

You’re nodding, babbling, something. 

“Now be a good girl and keep that in for me.”

He stands then, and while part of your mourns the loss of his warmth behind you, most of you is too focused on the incessant buzzing against your clit to care. It feels like it’s been years since he first kissed you, and you’ve moved past arousal into physical distress. You try to focus on something else, anything else. Your attention turns to your legs, which are cramping badly now, and your knees, which are aching as they dig into the ground. It doesn’t work though — you still feel like you’re a breath away from coming. 

That’s when you hear it.

A scraping sound, followed by the click of weights hitting each other. A few footfalls hitting the floor, then the same sound again. Your brain short-circuits. He’s working out. You’re kneeling bound and blindfolded, his come drying on your skin and a vibrator shoved up your pussy, and he’s working out. He must see the understanding dawn on your face, because he huffs out a laugh.

“Focus, baby.”

It takes a moment for your brain to come back online, even longer to notice the dildo is slipping out of you. You’d started rising up on your knees without realizing it, until only the tip is left inside of you. Startled, you drop back down without thought, only to yelp when the movement slams the rabbit into your clit. 

Another laugh, meaner this time, and then he goes back to his workout. 

Time ceases to matter. You can’t see anything, and your attempt to count the seconds that go by lasts approximately ninety seconds before you give up. The only thing you have to mark the passing of time is the rhythmic sound of him breathing his way through every rep, punctuated by longer pauses between sets. 

The base of the dildo perches precariously on the ground, held upright only because it’s inside of you. When you sink all the way down, it rests snugly inside of you, but it also pushes the rabbit directly against your clit. The stimulation is somehow too much and not enough at the same time — almost numbing after so long, but still just one wrong twitch away from making you come. But every time you rise up to get away from it, the dildo threatens to fall out. You can only lift a couple inches without it slipping, and the awkward half-kneel makes your already-trembling thighs scream after only a minute. 

You can’t stay pressed against the vibrator without coming, and you can’t get away from it without the dildo falling out. Either way, you’re going to disobey him. The thought fills you with dread, and you fight to be good, cycling between both agonizing positions. You don’t know how long passes like that. Your body is on fire, but your mind is full of static, the only clear thought you have: be good. You repeat it in your head until it’s all you know, all you are. 

You start drifting, experiencing things through a haze, like they’re happening to someone else. The need to come is still there, but it’s not as urgent anymore. It’s been muted by distance. You’re somewhere else, floating and far away and-

A hand lands on top of your head and you come crashing back into your body. 

Sensation comes back, ten times sharper than before, and your body convulses as you fight the sharp, stabbing need to come. You make an agonized noise. You’re sweating, trembling, and you’re so wet you can feel it dripping out of you. Every nerve ending is on fire, your legs feel like they’re going to collapse even though you’re already kneeling, and you need to come, you-

“Shh, breathe, sweetheart.”

You gasp out a breath.

“That’s it. Focus on me.”

He starts taking deep, even breaths, and you fight to mimic him. Slowly, the frantic energy in you eases into something manageable. His hand stays on you the whole time. It’s not gentle, not rough, but it grounds you enough that you’re able to settle all the way back into your body.

“Good girl, I’m going to turn this off now okay?”

His fingers tap lightly at the vibrator, forcing a whine out of you. But you nod, and he murmurs more praise. The buzzing switches off, followed by him removing the dildo altogether, and you don’t know whether to sob in relief or to wail at the loss. 

“Fuck, baby, you made such a mess. Are you sure you didn’t come without permission?”

You shake your head frantically. No, you were good. You’re always good. Panic wells up in you, and you garble out a protest. You wouldn’t do that, you-

“I believe you, sweetheart. Always so perfect for me.”

You wilt in relief.

“Next is your wrists, okay?”

He waits until you nod before slipping the bindings off. Your shoulders scream in protest when you bring your arms back in front of you. His hands are there immediately though, rubbing carefully to help you through the worst of it. And even though it hurts, even though your knees ache and the muscles in your legs feel like they’re on fire, you still moan at the feel of his hands on you. Your body is caught somewhere between overstimulated and touch-starved, and you arch into his touch even though it’s painful.

“Alright, sweetheart, hands and knees. Do you think you can do that for me?”

You honestly don’t know if your limbs can hold you up anymore, but you try. You’d do anything he asked you at this point. Anything if he’ll finally let you come. You place your hands on the floor in front of you and lean some of your weight on them. Encouraged when they don’t give out right away, you shift slowly forward until you’re properly on all fours. You’re shaking, but you don’t fall.

“Doing so well, my perfect girl.”

The praise washes over you like a physical touch, and your pussy spasms weakly.

“Listened so well; I’m going to fuck you now, okay?”

You’re beyond words a this point, but you make a desperate sound of agreement and arch your back as best you can. He makes an appreciative noise at the sight. One hand finds your hip, the other running down the length of your spine, and you feel all of it like you’ve touched a live wire. Then he’s moving behind you, positioning himself, and the noise you make when you feel the head of his cock against your swollen pussy is feral.

“So fucking wet,” he says, dragging the tip through your folds. 

And then he slams into you in one, harsh thrust, and you choke on a scream.

He sets a brutal rhythm immediately, his hands bruising your hips to hold you in place. The respite you got when he took the dildo out vanishes, and you’re suddenly back to teetering on the edge of coming. His cock is so much thicker than the dildo, so much longer — you can feel him in your throat. You can feel every ridge, every vein as he fucks you like he’s trying to mold you to the shape of him.

“Shit,” he snarls when a particularly rough thrust makes you clench around him. “This perfect-, ah, perfect fucking pussy.”

His shifts slightly behind you, and you wail at the change in angle. Every thrust sends lightning down your spine, pleasure so sharp in hurts. Your arms shake, then give out, and you collapse forward onto the floor. He doesn’t pause though, just tightens his grip on your hips until you know you’ll wake up with his fingerprints on your skin. The thought makes you moan.

“That’s it, baby, taking my cock so well. Like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

Your breath is coming out in pathetic little moans every time he buries himself inside of you, but you try to respond, try to say yes. The only thing you manage is an incoherent approximation of his name. 

“My smart girl, so cock drunk you can’t speak.”

You don’t know which part of that sentence affects you more. Either would suffice to ruin you, and you feel your wetness start to drip down your thigh. You’re so wet you can hear your cunt trying to suck him back in every time he withdraws. The sound is loud, obscene in the small room, but you don’t care. You want more. Want him closer, harder, more.

Like he can hear your thoughts, he hooks one arm around you and reaches between your legs. He thumbs your clit lightly, barely a touch, but you clamp down so hard you nearly force him out.

“Jesus fucking-, hngg, fuck, fuck.”

His hips stutter, the first crack in his iron control. He keeps rubbing your clit though, and you know without a doubt that if he doesn’t stop, you’re going to come. 

“P-please,” you gasp. “Bren, please. Please let me c-come. I-, ah, I need to come.”

“Sweetheart-”

“Please.”

You’re outright crying now. Crying, begging, willing to do anything if he’ll let you come. It’s not a matter of willpower anymore, it’s a matter of survival. Your body has been denied for so long that you’re either going to come or pass out.

“Shit, alright. You’ve been so good for me, baby, you can come.”

He delivers a particularly brutal thrust and pinches your clit, and you detonate.

Lightning explodes through you. Your body spasms with it, your hands scrabbling for purchase against the floor. Pleasure so intense it’s agony forces a sob out of your mouth. It’s too much, and you feel like you’re going to break under the pressure of it, but you can’t escape. His hands are still pinning you in place, and you’re too weak to move, so all you can do is lay there as it tears you apart.

Dimly, you’re aware of him coming, too. His hips stutter, then slam forward one more time before he’s twitching inside of you. He holds you through it, spewing a litany of curses and praise, but it’s like you’re hearing from underwater. You’re still coming, drenching his cock with it. Every time you think it’s over, another wave hits you, and your vision actually greys out for a second. 

When you finally settle back into your body, you feel hollowed out. Everything is too much, too sensitive. Your breath is coming in broken gasps, your legs are shaking, and you can’t stop crying.

When he pulls out, it’s relief and loss all at once. You make a distressed noise, but quiet when he scoops you up into his arms. He sits on the ground and settles you in his lap, and you immediately burrow as close to him as humanly possible.

“Shh,” he soothes. “You did so well, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you.”

The words are like a balm to your ragged nerves. 

“Listened so well, my perfect girl.”

You’re an absolute mess — a mixture of both your releases dripping from between your legs and tears mixing with the remnants of dried come on your cheeks. He ignores all of it, cradling you close. For a while, there’s only the sound of him murmuring reassurances in your ear, only the feeling of being totally surrounded and safe. He doesn’t rush you, and eventually you calm enough to accept the bottle of water he holds to your lips. 

“Can I take off the blindfold?” he asks once you finish drinking.

You nod.

The overheads in the gym are dimmed all the way down, but you still wince at the first stab of light. You have to blink several times to adjust, and the first thing your eyes settle on is the reflection of you and Brendon in the mirror. You look about as wrecked as you feel, and though he looks similarly exhausted, you can immediately tell that the simmering anger from earlier has cooled. His pelagic eyes are calm as they stare back at you, his hand steady as it cards through your hair.

“You with me?” he asks softly. 

You hum in agreement, and he huffs a laugh.

“Words, sweetheart.”

A weak spark of arousal runs through your body.

“‘m with you,” you mumble. 

You’ve learned many things about Brendon Park in the month or so since you met him. You know he takes his coffee black, like a complete psychopath. You know he has a secret sweet tooth (black coffee notwithstanding) and that he never lets his fuel tank drop below a quarter. You know he loves Sudoku, his favorite color is blue, and that he can’t draw to save his life. 

What you don’t know is whether or not you should call him.

You’re sitting on a bed in the ED, picking nervously at the sheets and trying to pretend there’s not an IV needle inside of you. Your head is throbbing, there’s dried blood itching the side of your face, and you’re so embarrassed you almost forget both of those things.

You’d been standing on the second floor balcony that overlooks the main atrium, head buried in an email on your phone. It was an email from the outside member on your committee, and you’d been so wrapped up in wording your reply properly that someone could probably had died next to you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Ironic, given that some poor radiology intern carrying a stack of boxes had then crashed into you. The force of the collision had knocked you off your feet, and you’d subsequently hit your head on the balcony railing and, humiliatingly, passed out.

Apparently any loss of consciousness is a big deal, because even though you’d been down for less than thirty seconds, you’d still been rushed to the ED. That was almost an hour ago, and in that time, you’ve been poked, prodded, and questioned half to death. 

What day is it?

Do you know where you are?

What’s the last thing you remember before losing consciousness?

Can you tell me what five times seven is?

Friday, PTMC, emailing Dr. Usher, thirty-five.

The resident checking you out had seemed satisfied with both your answers and your vitals, and it wasn’t long before they sent an intern in to stitch up the nasty gash on your temple. They’d given you a local anesthetic, but your head still hurts. You can hear them in the hall now debating whether you need a CT, and you’re suddenly confronted with the fact that you know next to nothing about medicine.

Sure, you did your obligatory Grey’s Anatomy stint in high school, but that highly questionable, medical-adjacent soap opera is your only reference for anything that’s happening right now. You feel out of your depth, lonely and sort of scared, and of course the first solution your possibly-concussed brain provides is call Brendon. 

It’s past five, so he should be finishing up his last consults for the day. He’s not on call this weekend, and you don’t remember him mentioning any evening plans. He’s also the most medically competent person you know, and he would definitely know what’s happening and what to do. 

Some part of you doesn’t want to call him though. The two of you haven’t talked any more about whatever it is happening between you after the night he’d driven you home. He’s not quite your boyfriend, not quite just your friend. There’s no real reason to call him except you want to, and you’re very good at convincing yourself that that’s not a good enough reason to do anything. You don’t want to put him on the spot, don’t want to make him uncomfortable or make him feel obligated-

That last thought stops you. You don’t think there’s a multiverse out there in which Brendon Park feels obligated to do anything. The President himself could probably stand directly in front of him and ask him to do something, and Brendon would just stare flatly back and say no. If he doesn’t want to come down to see you, he won’t. Simple as that.

Feeling slightly better, you pick up your phone and call him before you can talk yourself out of it. It rings once before he picks up.

“Imp.”

His voice — sharp and biting and familiar — washes over you like a wave. The sound of it touches the fragile part of you you’ve been holding together since you woke up on the tile, and you immediately feel tears begin to well. Shit, you take back all your prior reasoning. You’re just going to hang up. You are not going to cry on the phone with him-

“Imp, why are there monitors beeping in the background. You’re not observing today.”

Well, now you’re definitely crying.

He remembers your schedule. He remembers your schedule and your ridiculous coffee order and tiny details about your ten thousand page long dissertation.  He remembers unimportant things because they’re important to you. He would rather die than admit he’s maybe a nice person, but you love his caustic brand of care, and you suddenly want him here with you so badly it aches.

“Um, would you-, could you come down to the ED?”

The brief silence that follows your question is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Bren?”

“What room are you in.”

The words are short, clipped, and everything you needed to hear.

“I think Central Three-“

“Hi, Ms. Y/l/n, I’m just here to check on your stitches.”

The same resident you saw when you first came in walks into the bay, Dr. Copeland you think is his name. He’s probably your age, with sandy blonde hair and the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. The intern who did your stitches is trailing behind him. They both pause when they see you on the phone, and you’re about to hang up and apologize for whatever hospital policy you’re probably violating, when Brendon’s voice snaps in your ear-

“Give me five minutes. And tell whatever fuckwit resident that is to keep his fucking hands to himself until I get there.”

The line goes dead, but you don’t feel nearly as alone as you did a few minutes ago. 

“Everything okay?” Copeland asks.

He seems genuinely concerned, and you suddenly feel kind of bad for him. You don’t know what Brendon’s going to say when he gets here, but it’s certainly not going to be good job.

“Um, yes?”

None of you are convinced by your unenthusiastic answer, but no one points it out. Instead, Copeland snaps on some gloves and starts moving towards you. You make a sound of protest and lean away. You’re pretty sure he’s a senior resident, he seems perfectly competent, and he’s been nothing but nice to you, but the need to obey Brendon’s directive outweighs the need to get your busted-open skull checked out. That is something you will one hundred percent have to unpack later in therapy, but right now, you’re standing by it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Copeland asks again, looking even more concerned this time. “Would you like a female doctor?”

Very observant and kind of him, but no, you don’t think that will help. Brendon’s fuckwit resident comment probably applies to the entire ED if not the entire hospital. You’re trying to think of a way to explain why you don’t want your head examined yet, when you hear it.

“Park? I didn’t know we called for a-”

Brendon says something biting and likely rude though you can’t make out the specifics, and then he’s there. Standing in the entrance of the bay, looking like wrath given form. His eyes assess the room in one quick sweep before settling on where you’re curled up on the bed. Something complicated passes across his face, and you’re sure your expression does something similar.

You can’t explain why the sight of him feels so reassuring, or why he’s the person you want with you right now. Your parents and siblings are states away, but you could have called one of your friends from school — your cohort is actually quite close, and you enjoy spending time with them. But right now, when you’re tired and injured and not sure what to do next, his iron control and ruthlessness confidence are what you need. Just the sight of him makes some of the rigid tension in your body ease.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Dr. Park,” Copeland greets. “Can I help you?”

Brendon ignores him completely and makes his way over to you.

“What happened.”

It’s a command, not a question.

Copeland is still standing next to you, gloves on and clearly unamused with this sudden interruption, and you hesitate. Maybe you should just let him work first. But Brendon says your name once — low, dangerous —and you start speaking before your brain catches up. 

“Um, I fell?”

His eyes narrow.

“Okay, I fell and then hit my head. And maybe I passed out, but it was only for like…twenty seconds.”

He exhales slowly through his nose and makes a visible effort not to say something nasty. Instead, his hand comes up to rest on your jaw, and his touch is so gentle it steals your breath. His fingers trail featherlight over your cheek, and then he turns your head to the side, so he can see the gash on your temple. The complicated look from earlier intensifies.

“Vitals and GCS.”

Once again, it’s not a question, and Copeland answers albeit reluctantly.

“98/63, 79 pulse, 98 sat. GCS 15.”

“Which of you idiots put these sutures in?”

You don’t mean to, you really don’t. But your eyes flick over to the intern in the corner, and Brendon follows your gaze like a shark scenting blood. It’s only then that you recognize the woman, Dr. Wilts. She’s the same intern Brendon tore to pieces the last time he was down here. She clearly also remembers the incident — she looks mildly terrified and actually takes a half step backwards.

“Dr. Wilts is a talented doctor and is perfectly capable of suturing a head laceration,” Copeland says calmly.

You have to admire his composure — Brendon’s radiating caged-tiger energy right now. He dislikes most other people on a good day, and he’s definitely not having a good day. In fact, he looks one step away from homicide. 

“If this scars, it’s because you suture like shit,” he says to Wilts. “And where are her films?”

He directs the second part to Copeland while simultaneously looking at your chart, open on the work station next to your bed.

“She hasn’t been to CT yet.”

Brendon turns slowly with a glare that makes even you flinch. 

“Is there a specific reason, or were you just feeling particularly fucking useless today?”

It’s at this moment that another man walks into the room. He’s older than the residents, maybe in his forties, with dark hair and a scruffy beard on his jaw. He looks tired in the way everyone in the ED looks tired, but his brown eyes are kind. 

“Park, why are you harassing my residents?” he asks, amicable but firm.

“Robinavitch.”

From his tone, you can tell Brendon doesn’t necessarily like this new man, but he at least respects him. Sort of. 

“A trauma came in earlier, but Ms. Y/l/n should be up for CT soon. Dr. Copeland and Dr. Wilts have followed procedure and done an excellent job.”

Brendon clearly disagrees with the word excellent, judging by the sneer that curls his lip.

“Ms. Y/l/n, my name is Dr. Robby, one of the attendings here. How are you feeling?”

You actually feel quite a bit better now that Brendon’s here, but you don’t think your emotional state is what Dr. Robby was interested in. You take a minute to think about it, taking stock of your body now that your brain isn’t so frazzled. The anesthetic is still doing its job, so you can’t feel the stitches, but the rest of your head is throbbing dully. That, and your whole left side feels bruised from where you’d hit the ground. 

You tell him, and he nods.

“That’s normal, but we can get you something for the pain. Otherwise, if your CT comes back clean, you should be good to go.”

You nod, then immediately regret it when it makes your head worse. 

“In the meantime, Dr. Wilts will bandage your-”

“Like fuck she will.”

Brendon’s voice cuts like glass in the wake of Robby’s warmth. You turn your head to look at him, and your breath catches. His face is carved of ice and quiet fury. He’s looking at poor Dr. Wilts like he’s trying to eviscerate her with his eyes, and the hand that had been on your face is now resting possessively on your shoulder.

Oh god, maybe you are concussed.

Because there’s no way that Brendon Park’s attractiveness should be anywhere near the top of your current priority list, but oh. It is. It really, really is. You like that he came for you. You like that he’s touching you. And maybe it makes you a terrible, horrible, no-good person, but you really like that he’s being all snarly at other people over you.

“Park,” Robby starts. “This isn’t the OR, you’re not in charge down here.”

“No one else is touching her.”

The two of them lock eyes for a long moment, and it’s like watching a rabid tiger and a slightly confused bear stare each other down. Robby ends up looking away first, which you know he would probably call being the bigger person, and Brendon would definitely call being the loser.

“Ms. Y/l/n, is it okay with you if Dr. Park takes care of wrapping your wound?” Robby asks.

Brendon smirks like he knows exactly what you’re going to say, which, fair, but you still shoot him a look to cut it out.

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Robby.”

Robby nods before leaving with a promise to check on you after your CT. Copeland and Wilts trail after him. Brendon waits until they pull the curtain closed, giving the two of you at least the semblance of privacy in the busy ED, before rounding on you.

“How the fuck do you knock yourself out just by standing?”

The words are biting, angrier than when he spoke to anyone else, but his hands are impossibly gentle as they reach up to cradle your face. He tilts your head to look at the wound again, but his hands linger this time, and he strokes one thumb carefully over the uninjured side of your face. Your eyes flutter shut, and you nuzzle closer into his touch.

“Wasn’t my fault,” you mumble.

“What?”

It takes you a second to find more words. Some of the adrenaline that’s kept you upright and alert has started to wear off, like your body knows it’s safe now that he’s here. Without it, you realize just how tired you are. It takes concentrated effort to open your eyes and arrange a sentence.

“Someone bumped into me.”

His eyes turn downright murderous.

“It was an accident,” you hasten to add. “They were carrying a lot of boxes, and I think they just didn’t see me.”

That doesn’t appease him in the least, but he thankfully doesn’t push it. Instead, he grabs the tray of supplies Wilts left behind and gets a pair of gloves from the boxes attached to the wall. 

“Don’t move,” he orders.

Once again his touch is at odds with his tone. He does a bit more poking and prodding at the sutures, but so carefully it’s like you’re made of glass. Then he cleans the wound again, even though you know Wilts already did it, and applies gauze and tape with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for diffusing bombs. 

“Thank you,” you say softly when he finishes.

He doesn’t answer at first. His pelagic eyes are calmer now, like taking care of you himself has eased some of his fury, and he watches you with an unnameable expression. He strips off his gloves slowly.

“Why did you call me?” he finally asks.

You could say so many things.

Because he was already in the hospital, and it was convenient. Because he’s a doctor and would do things like demand to know your vitals and see your films. Because he’s Park the Shark, and the ED respected him. All of those things were true, and easy.

“Because you make me feel safe.”

You weren’t expecting him to confess his undying love to you after that, but you weren’t expecting…nothing either. He just stares at you. Silent, unmoving, face blank. It takes about three seconds of that for you to regret your words, then an additional five for you to start panicking. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ha-“

He kisses you.

He braces one hand next to your head and leans down before brushing his lips against yours. The touch is brief, over nearly as quickly as it started, but sure. You feel it with every nerve in your body. A breathless noise escapes you, and he pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes.

“Brave girl,” he murmurs. “Swimming with sharks.”

He moves to kiss you again, but the curtain behind him jerks open. You both freeze. Your cheeks immediately go nuclear at being caught, but he just looks annoyed. He straightens slowly and turns to face whoever it is with a nastier-than-usual scowl on his face. You wince when you see its Wilts.

“What?” he barks.

“I’m uh, I’m here to take Ms. Y/l/n to imaging.”

She sounds like she would rather be doing literally anything else right now, and you place a hand on Brendon’s arm before he can take her head off. Very, very begrudgingly, he turns his attention to you again. 

“Will you be here when I get back?” you ask, partially to distract him, partially because you want to know.

He gives you a look that clearly says what kind of stupid question is that and sighs in annoyance. But he still reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and lets his hand linger. 

“Yes.”

You smile.

“But only if you don’t take too long.”

You’re laughing as they wheel you away.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Robby

“Huh.”

It’s nearing seven, he’s been on his feet for twelve and a half hours, and all that stands between him and his couch is shift change with Jack. But for some godforsaken reason, Robby finds himself standing at the nursing station, staring at Central Three like he’s being paid to do it.

He doesn’t know The Shark well. He knows he’s something of a god to the surgical residents that are down here sometimes, and he certainly commands the room when he himself deigns to make an appearance. But short of being ruthlessly efficient, allergic to small talk, and kind of a dick, Robby doesn’t know anything about him. So really, there’s no reason to be surprised that the other man has a girlfriend.

He is indeed, surprised.

Maybe it’s not because Park has a girlfriend, but because Park has this specific girlfriend. She’s sweet, quiet, though that could admittedly be because she’s in the ED. But she spoke very politely to Copeland and Wilts, didn’t show any indication she was annoyed by the wait for CT, and had apologized at least twice for things like twitching while getting sutured. 

“What are we staring at?”

Jack steps up to the desk next to him, backpack slung over his shoulder and energy drink sweating in his hand. Robby just nods his head at Central Three. As they watch, Park’s girlfriend walks out of the room, looking calm if not a bit tired. Park follows close on her heels, and he looks exactly as pissed off as he did when Robby talked to him an hour ago.

“Apparently Park has a girlfriend.”

“Huh. I think I saw them in the elevator together a few weeks ago.”

“She came in with a head lac and a minor concussion, and he bit Wilts’ head off over it.”

Wilts was normally confident and decisive, especially for a first year, but there was something about The Shark that made even seasoned residents question themselves.

“Nearly took off my head, too.”

“That’s kind of sweet.”

Robby looks over at Jack like he’s the one with head trauma. 

“Excuse me?”

“At least now we know he’s capable of an emotion besides disgust.”

Like he knows they’re talking about him, Park’s head swings in their direction, and his lip curls in a sneer. His girlfriend follows his gaze and offers them a shy smile. The dichotomy is actually kind of funny once you get over the oddness of it, and Robby finds it in himself to offer a genuine smile back.

“He’s still an asshole,” he says to Jack once the couple leaves.

The first time you meet Brendon Park, you’re sitting on the floor of a supply closet with your laptop on your knees, a screwdriver between your teeth, and your head half-buried behind an open control-panel. There’s papers scattered next to you and a granola bar discarded by your feet. When the closet door opens, you jump like a startled raccoon caught raiding a trash bin.

“What the fuck?”

The man in the doorway freezes when he sees you, and you scramble to take the screwdriver out of your mouth and offer a timid smile.

“Um…hi?”

He does not smile back.

In fact, the man who just walked into your temporary work space doesn’t look like he smiles much at all. His startlingly blue eyes glint like ice as he stares you down, and his perfect Cupid’s bow is curled by the start of a sneer. His dark hair is gelled back from the harsh lines of his face, and his tall form is corded with muscles his scrubs do nothing to hide. Everything about him screams precision and control, and he looks at your poorly contained chaos the way other people look at particularly ugly bugs.

“What are you doing?”

His voice is low, sharp. The voice of someone used to being obeyed. You feel heat stain your cheeks.

“I’m uh, there wasn’t-, I didn’t want to-”

His arctic eyes narrow, and you wince.

“The room I was assigned to got double-booked,” you manage, pleased with yourself for getting out a complete sentence this time. 

“That doesn’t explain why you’re squatting in here.”

“It has an Ethernet port?”

He holds your gaze for another moment before dropping his eyes to the visitor badge clipped to your shirt. It says your name, followed by “Carnegie Mellon University” and then “IT Consultant.” A little bit of the suspicion leaves his expression when he realizes you’re at least allowed to be in the hospital, if not this particular closet. 

“You work for CMU?”

“Kind of? I’m in my last year of grad school.”

He says nothing, and you hurriedly continue. 

“I’m in computer science. My dissertation deals with healthcare systems, and PTMC is a teaching hospital-, which you already know, sorry, and they work a lot with CMU. Which, you probably also already know sorry, but I’m working on my model here, and the room I was supposed to be in got double-booked, but I already told you that so sor-”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry,” you blurt instinctively.  

He levels you with a deeply unimpressed look, which is why you’re shocked when he asks you-

“What’s your dissertation title?”

“Oh, uh, it’s-, well it deals with healthcare systems and how to improve them-”

“I’m not a computer engineer, but I’m also not a fucking idiot. Give me the real title.”

“I’m s-”

He arches one dark eyebrow. It’s arrogant, almost condescending, but it makes your pulse do something embarrassing.

“-not sorry,”you amend. “My working title right now is: Hybrid Model-Predictive and Machine Learning Approaches for Adaptive Patient Flow Control.”

He’s silent for a moment, gaze calculating. 

“How does your model account for unique versus overlapping variation caused by the nonlinear rotation of personnel on care teams?”

This time it’s your turn to stare. Most people kind of short-circuit when you start explaining what it is you actually study. This man not only clearly understands what you’re talking about, but he just asked you a surprisingly perceptive question. He must sense your surprise, because he snorts and says:

“I told you I’m not a fucking idiot.”

He’s still staring at you like you’re a bug under a microscope, but the rigid line of his back has relaxed a bit, and he no longer looks like he might bodily drag you out of the supply closet. In fact, you think he might even look…amused. Your heart gives another embarrassing stutter, and you hurry to answer his question. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that — him taking up the entire doorway with his broad shoulders, and you sitting on the floor with your screwdriver and notes and granola bar. All you know is that he’s listening, really listening, while you ramble on and on about your project. He nods when appropriate, asks astute questions, and then seems to genuinely care about the answer. When your long-winded speech finally peters out, he cocks his head.

On anyone else, the movement would convey curiosity, maybe deep thought. On him though, it looks like a predator considering prey. The thought should not make heat curl in your belly, but it does. 

“Do you want an actual desk to work at?” he finally asks. 

You blink twice.

“I don’t need one, I’m okay staying here-”

“That’s not what I asked.”

That tone again. The one that makes it clear he’s used to being in charge and expects obedience. It makes something in you sit up straighter. 

“An actual desk would be nice,” you admit.

He nods once, as if in approval.

“Good.”

Your brain blue screens for a second. It was a completely innocent word, spoken in a completely innocent context. At least that’’s what you tell yourself as the part of you that likes his commanding tone decides it really likes when that command is shadowed with a hint of approval. He’s pleased with you that part of you whispers, and you feel your cheeks go nuclear. You’re a grown woman who’s a few months away from completing her doctorate in computer engineering. You should not care if a random, kind of rude, kind of overbearing stranger in a hospital is pleased with you. But you do, and to your absolute horror, he seems to know it, too.

The corner of his mouth crooks up in the smallest, yet somehow smuggest, smirk you’ve ever seen.

“You’re terrible,” you blurt out.

Two things happen at once. First, you physically recoil, appalled by your own words. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but apparently your self-control vanished somewhere along with your dignity. Second, far from being offended, he looks pleased. The ghost of a smirk becomes an actual grin. Granted, it’s a small one, still somewhat mocking and entirely too self-satisfied, but it’s a grin. One that only emphasizes the sharp beauty of his features and makes you blue screen again. 

“Come on, closet gremlin. I have somewhere for you to work.”

You shoot him an embarrassed scowl that does nothing but make him roll his eyes at you, and hurry to gather your things. You can feel his gaze on you while you unplug your laptop before shoving everything into your backpack, and the weight of it feels like a physical touch. When you finally stand up, your entire body is thrumming with nervous energy, and you hope he can’t see the way you’re practically vibrating out of your skin. 

“Let’s go,” he says and turns to leave.

“Wait! Didn’t you need something?” you ask.

“Nope.”

He leads the way into the brightly lit hallway, and you trail behind like a lost puppy.

“So why’d you come in the closet?”

“Because I heard you talking to yourself from all the way out here.”

“I do not talk to myself.”

“You were either talking to yourself or the wall. You can decide which one is less flattering.”

You stick your tongue out at his back, but you still follow obediently as he wends his way through the seemingly endless maze of hospital corridors. You notice as you walk that he doesn’t so much as offer a nod in greeting to the various people you pass. It’s early on a Monday, barely after six, and the atmosphere is a bit more relaxed than you’ve seen it later in the day. The staff who are already here call greetings to each other, some stopping to catch up about their weekends. Your stranger, however, ignores everyone like they don’t exist. It’s only when you step onto a nearly empty elevator that he finally deigns to acknowledge someone.

“Abbot,” he says to the lone occupant of the car.

“Park.”

The other man nods to your stranger — Park, apparently — before giving you a curious look. He’s older, with silver staining his hair and five o’clock shadow, and the beginning of crows feet bracketing his eyes. He’s handsome though, very handsome, and you flush a bit when he gives you a kind smile and says good morning. 

Neither man fills the quiet that follows, and the three of you ride in silence until Abbot gets off in the next floor. Two floors later, and Park is striding out of the elevator with you hurrying behind him to keep pace. 

A sign on the wall tells you you’re now in the in the surgical wing. He continues past the reception desk and the charge desk, veers down a hallway labeled “orthopedics,” and then finally stops outside the third door on the left. The name plate beside it reads “Dr. Brendon Park, Orthopedic Surgery.”

“Do not touch anything,” he says once he opens the door.

Inside is a small but fastidiously neat office. The desk has nothing on it except a monitor, phone, and a pencil holder holding exactly three pens. The only decorations on the walls are his framed diplomas, and the filing cabinets lining the far wall gleam like they came straight from the factory. A muted blue accent chair and bookshelf round out the space.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the desk.

You shuffle into the room and gingerly perch in his high-backed office chair. From here you can see just how spotless his desk is. The smooth wooden surface is perfectly polished with not a single crumb or water ring in sight. It’s either brand new, or he’s neurotic about keeping it clean. Your money is on the latter.

“When I said don’t touch anything, I didn’t mean the desk,” he says when you just sit there staring.

Your huff of annoyance is promptly ignored. Grumbling under your breath, you set your bag on the floor and pull your laptop out of it with as much dignity as possible. Which is to say absolutely none, as your screwdriver and a rogue pencil fall out of the bag and roll across the floor. You think his eye twitches.

“Am I even allowed to be in here?” you ask while your laptop boots up. 

“All the important drawers are locked. I keep the first edition books at my house. Feel free to steal the monitor though, it’s hospital property.”

You scowl.

“You don’t seem to like me very much, so why are you letting me use your office?”

He pauses, considering. He’s leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, and you fight the urge to squirm under his scrutiny when he spends a minute just looking at you. You also fight the urge to stare at the way his scrub sleeves are pulled tight around his biceps. Finally, he says:

“The room you said you were assigned to, I passed it before I passed your closet cave.”

You hiss of indignation. 

“They were celebrating Dr. Bell’s birthday in it.”

That shocks you into silence. The person at reception had told you the room was being reassigned last minute to accommodate an important meeting. Which you guess technically wasn’t a lie, since parties were a kind of meeting in the loosest sense, but it feels like a lie. The knowledge that you got booted so someone could have space to store their cupcakes fills you with a mixture of frustration and humiliation. 

As a woman in a heavily male-dominated field, you’re used to being overlooked or stepped over, but this is a new low even for you. Part of you knows that they didn’t pick you, specifically, to kick out — they likely just needed a room, and space for the unpaid grad student was considered the least essential. Still, it stings.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

Park, Dr. Park, whatever he wants to be called, nods his head briefly towards your computer.

“You’re smart, ambitious. Your project could do a lot to benefit the hospital, even if the idiots on the second floor don’t realize it yet.”

A pause.

“Let’s be clear though, this is not me being nice. When you patent that program and get rich, I expect a 20% cut.”

Whatever complicated emotions you had are momentarily shoved aside by a reluctant laugh. 

“Aren’t you already rich?” you ask, gesturing widely to encompass him, the office, and whatever being a surgeon at a major hospital entails.

He shrugs.

“Yes.”

He pushes off the bookshelf then and crosses the small space to stand next to you. The sudden proximity makes your breath catch, but you quickly realize he’s not interested in you. In fact, he completely ignores you in favor of opening the top drawer of the desk and pulling out a notepad. He grabs one of his three identical pens and scribbles something down for you, a phone number you realize.

“I have rounds this morning,” he says. “Do not call me.”

He then proceeds to hand you the paper with the number you’re not supposed to call before putting everything away. 

“Do not touch anything, do not move anything, do not-”

“What, breathe on anything?”

Just like earlier, your snappy comment seems to entertain him greatly. He actually huffs a ghost of a laugh. Then slowly, so slowly you know he’s giving you time to move if you want to, he spins the office chair until you’re facing him. He leans even further towards you, placing his hands on either armrest so you’re trapped between him and the back of the chair.

If you thought your brain had malfunctioned in the closet, it has now officially combusted. His eyes are somehow bluer up close, he smells like a devastating mix of bergamot and vetiver, and the velvet darkness of his voice feels like a physical caress. Arousal hits you hot and fast, and you can’t help the way your thighs press together instinctively. He notes the motion with a slow, lazy smile, and you’re pretty sure you stop breathing. 

“You,” he drawls. “Are awfully mouthy for someone who’s receiving a favor.”

You do your best to ignore the heat licking through your veins and glower back.

“You are awfully rude for someone whose job is supposed to be helping people.”

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“I think you like me rude,” he murmurs.

Time feels suspended for a second.

He’s brusque, supercilious. He’s kind of an asshole. But he listened to you ramble about your machine learning model and actually seemed interested. He gave you a place to work. Your brain is too overwhelmed by his proximity to sift through the dichotomy, and your body is too turned on to care. For one fleeting second, you think he might kiss you. You think you might let him.

Then the moment is shattered by the sound of his pager going off. He stays in place for one more tense breath, caging you in place, before straightening and taking a step back. The heated intensity immediately vanishes from his face, and the same perfect coldness from when you first met him takes its place. You, on the other hand, can do nothing but stare at him with uneven breathing, wet panties, and cotton candy for brains.

“I’ll be back after rounds,” he says, either unaware of your inability to function or choosing to ignore it. “I doubt anyone will bother you, but if they do, tell them Park said to fuck off.”

That startles a laugh out of you. His face doesn’t change, but you think the sound pleases him. He heads to the door, grabs his stethoscope from the hook next to it, and pauses just before stepping out. He looks back at you. You’re searching for something to say to him, maybe thank you, when be beats you to it. 

“Bye, closet gremlin,” he smirks, then leaves before you can respond.

You stare after him for a moment, blinking slowly.

The chatter died instantly. A few students exchanged looks. One whispered, "Is this… still Philosophy 482?"

You chuckled and tapped the board once with the chalk, standing at the front, hands folded behind your back, watching the rest of the class settle into their seats.

Finally, a student raised her hand.

"Professor… what exactly is today’s topic?"

"Exactly what you see," you simply gestured toward the board, and a ripple of laughter moved through the room. "This is the beginning of our next unit. For the first half of the semester, we’ve been laying the groundwork with the psychology of decision‑making, but for the next few weeks, we’re going to discuss power and what people will do to keep it. The ethics of secrecy. The morality of fear. And the rituals societies create to justify the unjustifiable."

You erased the word MURDER with a slow, deliberate swipe.

Underneath it, you wrote:

MORAL COMPROMISE

"Let’s begin," you said. "Would you sacrifice a person to maintain wealth, status, or influence?"

A student in the front row frowned. "Most people wouldn’t sacrifice anyone for status. That’s not normal."

"Who’s to say what’s normal?" you challenged. "Most people don’t have status to lose. Power changes the moral landscape. When the stakes rise, so does the willingness to rationalize the unthinkable."

"Is this just about corruption?" another student asked.

"Corruption is such a small word for such a large phenomenon. I’m talking about the stories powerful groups tell themselves. The rituals they cling to. The lines they cross because they believe no one will ever hold them accountable," you said.

Another student leaned forward. "Rituals? Like… actual rituals?"

"Every powerful group has rituals. Some are harmless. Some are… less so. But all of them serve the same purpose: to create loyalty through fear, secrecy, or shared belief," you answered.

A student in the back raised his hand slowly. "Are you saying some people would actually hurt someone to keep their status?"

"I’m saying," you replied, "that throughout history, people have done far worse for far less."

A murmur passed through the room. Then the boldest student (the one who always asked what everyone else was thinking) raised his hand.

"Do you believe there are people out there sacrificing people?"

You walked back to the board, underlined MORAL COMPROMISE, and turned back to the class.

"Belief is irrelevant. What matters is that throughout history, powerful groups have used myths, rituals, and fear to maintain control and make others afraid to question them." You let your gaze drift toward the window. "Whether the stories are true or not is less important than the mere fact that the power of the story is real."

A couple of students traded glances, clearly unsure what to make of your statement. One student lowered their head and began scribbling something quickly in the margin of their notebook.

You picked up the chalk again and wrote on the board:

THE ETHICS OF POWER

"Now," you said, turning back to them, "let’s discuss."

You were about to launch into the first discussion question when the classroom door opened without a knock.

Every head turned.

Your aunt stepped inside, still in her coat, hair slightly windblown, and her eyes darted around the room as if she wasn’t entirely sure how she’d gotten there.

"I need to talk to you," she said abruptly. It stopped you cold. Your aunt was the type to apologize for interrupting a voicemail, the type to ease into every conversation with a dozen gentle qualifiers. For her to cut straight to the point like that… something was wrong.

You turned back to the students. "Everyone, I’m sorry, I need to step out for a moment."

Your aunt was already backing toward the hallway, and you followed her out of the classroom, letting the door fall shut behind you.

"I’ve been calling you all morning," she whispered, voice trembling slightly. "You didn’t answer."

"I’ve been in back‑to‑back classes," you said. "I haven’t even had a break. What’s going on?"

"I was having breakfast with your mom," she swallowed, eyes glistening.

"Okay… and?"

Your aunt took a breath that shook on the way out.

"She had a heart attack."

The moment the package arrived, it didn’t feel real at first. It was too small, too ordinary-looking for what it contained. A cardboard box, the kind that could’ve held books or kitchenware. But you knew. Your hands knew before your mind did, and they went stiff.

You carried it inside like it might break, even though it was the heaviest thing you’d ever held.

Inside the box was the urn you’d chosen. She’d been clear about that for years. Don’t bury me. Don’t put me in the ground. She’d told you once, in a rare moment of unfiltered honesty, that watching her father lowered into the ground had carved something into her. Still, opening the container and seeing the ashes and knowing that this was what remained of the woman who raised you… it hit like a second heart attack. One for her, one for you. You sat there with the urn for a long time, not crying or anything, just sitting with it while the silence settled around you like dust.

You kept the memorial small because you knew she would’ve hated anything grand or performative. It was just a handful of close friends and the few relatives who actually mattered. Your father (who you hadn’t seen since you were a child) had wanted to come, but you asked him not too, especially when you heard him slurring over the phone call. It seemed he still loved his vodka. Having your alcoholic father basically a fucking sperm donor was not something you needed at the memorial. You didn’t say much that day. You didn’t need to. People shared stories…the kind that made your grief feel like a warm ache instead of a blade. Someone brought her favorite pastries. Someone else read a poem she used to quote.

At the end, you opened the urn and let the wind take a handful of her. It lifted the ash gently, almost tenderly, scattering it through the sunlight. It felt right. It felt like giving her back to something bigger than the body that failed her.

What people don’t tell you about death is that once the shock fades, you’re left with a stack of practical tasks that feel almost insulting in their normalcy. There’s no space to fall apart because there are passwords to track down, accounts to close, forms to sign, and strangers on customer‑service lines asking you to "verify the deceased’s date of birth." Every conversation feels like sandpaper. Every checkbox feels like a betrayal. But you keep going because someone has to.

You spent the next month sorting through her things, making phone calls, and canceling subscriptions she never got around to canceling herself. You met with the realtor to put her apartment on the market, walking through rooms that still smelled like her shampoo. The realtor talked about square footage and comps while you nodded along, pretending you were fine.

At one point, you were sitting in her small home office, going through drawers when you found an envelope tucked beneath a stack of utility bills. Written in her handwriting was a letter addressed to Chester Danforth.

You hadn’t seen him in a long time. Honestly, you hadn’t seen any of the Danforths in years. Your mother had retired 5 years ago, but she had worked for the Danforths for a long time. She had gotten the job when you were 14 and became their live‑in housekeeper, and you moved in with her. The estate sprawled like a fortress with endless echoing hallways, too many locked doors, and grounds so vast they needed their own staff just to keep the place from swallowing itself.

Chester was the patriarch of the family. He was a frightening man with a quick-tempered kind of presence that made a room feel smaller the moment he walked into it. People stepped carefully around him, including his own children. The twins were older than you, so you mostly saw them on holidays, during the occasional family meetings that required everyone’s presence, or on those 'hunting trips' the Danforth trio treated like sacred tradition. However, he treated you like a bonus child, but not in some warm, fatherly way. Chester wasn’t affectionate. He didn’t ask about your day or sit you down for heart‑to‑hearts. His kindness showed up in more transactional ways: offering to put you in a private school during high school, covering your college tuition, and making sure you had what you needed until you graduated from Princeton. It was an odd dynamic—being poor but living inside someone else’s wealth, benefiting from it without ever belonging to it.

The older you got, the more the imbalance of it all started to bother you. You didn’t want to be someone’s charity case, or worse, you didn’t want to owe him anything…not gratitude, not loyalty, and not a place in your life. So you pulled away after college and kept your distance. Your mother stayed on the estate long after you moved out, so she’d still pass along the occasional update...nothing dramatic, just the usual household gossip, but it was enough to remind you why you’d stepped away. There was something about that family that had always unsettled you. You always had the feeling that getting too close meant getting pulled into something you’d never fully understand.

You held the envelope for a long moment, thumb resting on the sealed flap. It would’ve been so easy to slip a finger under the edge and tear it open. You tilted the envelope toward the light, as if that would help you see through it. But then, just as you started to lift the flap, you heard your mother’s voice in your head, the way she sounded when she was laying down a rule she expected you to follow. If something isn’t meant for you, leave it alone. She’d said that to you once when you were a kid, and it stuck.

Whether you wanted to or not, you knew what you had to do.

It was time to go back to the estate and deliver the letter your mother never sent.

Newport, Rhode Island

Ursula yanked the door open like she was already annoyed at whoever dared knock. Her eyes swept over you once, unimpressed.

"You look like shit," she said, voice flat as a cutting board.

"Nice to see you too," you replied. The real surprise was that she answered the door herself. This was a house with enough staff to field a small army. She, of course, looked as flawless as ever with her blonde hair twisted into a perfect bun, makeup sharp, and wearing an outfit that probably cost more than your entire yearly salary.

She didn’t move aside, just stared at you like she was trying to place a face from an old yearbook. "What are you doing here? I haven’t seen since—"

"That night," you said, and Ursula’s mouth twitched.

"God. No wonder you look terrible. That was years ago."

"Not all of us can afford Botox."

"It’s preventative," she shot back.

"Where’s your father?"

"In his study." She glanced behind you, scanning the empty porch. "Is your mother with you?" The question came out a little too quickly, Ursula’s green eyes flicking past you with an eagerness she didn’t bother disguising. For a second, she actually looked hopeful, like your mother might materialize out of thin air with a polite smile and a casserole.

"If you see her, let me know. That’d be impressive," you said as you stepped past her into the foyer.

"Why?"

"Because she’s dead."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Ursula’s face went slack.

You exhaled, already exhausted. "Exactly what it sounds like." And then you gave her the short version.

Ursula blinked hard, processing. "A heart attack?"

"Yes."

"Fuck!"

Before you could respond, she grabbed your wrist and hauled you down the hallway, heels clicking like gunshots. She didn’t bother knocking when she reached the study; she just threw the door open.

"Excuse me," came Chester’s booming voice, and then his eyes landed on you. Surprisingly, he looked the same. And sitting across from him, turning slowly in his chair, was Titus. Ursula immediately cut to the chase, blurting out the news before you could stop her. Chester shot to his feet, with Titus rising a beat after him. It was odd. Titus hadn’t really changed, and yet he had. The gray suited him (annoyingly so), and it only sharpened the features that had always made him objectively attractive.

Chester asked when the funeral was, and you explained that there wasn’t going to be one, and that there had already been a small memorial.

Ursula’s head snapped toward you. "You didn’t invite us?"

In all the years you’d known her, you had never seen Ursula shed a single tear. Not once. But now her eyes glossed over (just for a second) before she jerked her chin up, refusing to let it fall.

Titus exhaled a quiet, dismissive scoff. "Ursula… she was the help." You turned to him immediately and gave him a look that made it unmistakably clear you were offended.

What a fucking asshole.

 "I—excuse me," Ursula muttered, voice thin and breaking in ways she clearly hated. And then she spun on her heel and rushed out of the room, disappearing down the hallway before anyone could see whatever expression she was fighting to keep off her face.

Titus stood, straightening his jacket with a lazy flick. "I’ll go deal with her. Last thing we need is her mascara on the antique rugs." He took a few slow steps toward you, closing the distance. "Thanks for the update. Maybe if you’d told us about the memorial, we could’ve shown up and pretended to care." He leaned in just a fraction. "But, it was nice of you to spare us the travel. Very thoughtful."

And with that, Titus walked out after Ursula walked out after Ursula leaving Chester frozen in place and you still vibrating with the sting of his words.

Chester finally exhaled, the sound shaky, and lowered himself into the nearest chair like his bones had suddenly remembered their age. He rubbed a hand over his face, then looked up at you, and something in his expression softened.

"I’m sorry," he muttered. "She was a wonderful woman."

"Thank you," you murmured. "You look well," you added awkwardly, because you’d never been good at tiptoeing around feelings.

"It’s so like you to give me a compliment during a hard time. You haven’t changed at all." He tilted his head, studying you. "Are you okay? Do you need money?"

You rolled your eyes. "That’s not why I’m here."

"Well, I don’t know," he said, spreading his hands. "I haven’t seen you since that summer after you graduated from Princeton. You disappeared after Kip’s wedding."

Kip was Chester’s nephew and the twins’ cousin, close to your age, and he’d gone to prep school with you. He made your life miserable, telling everyone your mother was the maid. It was hard to make friends when the school’s golden boy treated you like gum on the bottom of his shoe.

"Kip’s wedding," you echoed. "I’d hardly call that a wedding."

"He did get married."

"For less than twenty‑four hours. And then his bride vanished."

"It’s not his fault his wife ran off with her ex."

"Whatever you say, Chester."

Your tone made it clear you didn’t buy that story for a second and that you knew something far more complicated and far more uncomfortable had happened that night.

And Chester knew you knew something.

"Well, I’m not here to go down memory lane," you said, cutting off whatever excuse Chester was about to reach for. "I’m here because I found a letter in my mother’s office. And I thought you would want this."

You reached into your bag and held it out.

Chester straightened a little, surprised, and took the envelope with both hands. He opened it carefully, smoothing the paper flat on his knee. You watched him read—watched the tiny shifts in his expression, and the way his eyes flicked back and forth faster at certain lines. When he finally reached the end, he folded the letter with deliberate precision and set it on the table beside him.

"Thank you…for bringing me this."

You nodded, but your eyes lingered on the envelope. You couldn’t help it. Something in the way he’d read it made you wonder what was inside. You didn’t pry, but the question settled in the back of your mind anyway, a small, persistent curiosity you tried to swallow down.

"I should go," you pushed yourself to your feet.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to New York."

“It’s the summer,” he said, as if that explained everything. "Aren’t you off?"

"Technically," you said. "I’m teaching 1 online course and doing research."

Your most recent research was exhausting, the kind of hyper‑specific niche work where every lead was a dead end, and every source felt like it had been written by someone who actively hated clarity.

He leaned back, studying you. "Stay."

"What? Why?"

"Why not?" he countered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Before you could argue, he added, "Why not stay a few weeks and take your mind off things?"

For a moment, you could almost see the version of him who snuck you extra dessert from the kitchen one day after a boy had called you ugly at school and you had punched him in the face.

"I don’t think Ursula and Titus want me here."

 "Their reaction is fair. You know how much they adored your mother."

"Even Titus?"

"Especially Titus," Chester sighed.

You turned your gaze aside, jaw clenched. You had thought about inviting them. You’d even drafted the message multiple times, thumb hovering over the send button. But then the fear had crept in…

And you’d let that win.

The truth was, they had always treated your mother well. Better than well. She’d been the one person in this house everyone trusted. The one who could calm Ursula’s storms, the one who could coax a real smile out of Titus, and the one who could get Chester to eat something besides black coffee and stress. They’d adored her in a way that sometimes made you feel like you were the outsider.

"I fucked up," you said sincerely. "I’m sorry."

"I know you had your reasons," he grunted, the lines around his eyes easing. "The carriage home is under renovation." It was the place you and your mother stayed in when you lived here. "You know how small it is, so we’re expanding it. Adding a few things."

You almost snorted. It had three bedrooms, vaulted ceilings, a sunroom, and a kitchen larger than most apartments. 3500 square feet of "modest" living space, technically separate from the main house but still very much part of the estate. You had no idea what they could possibly be adding. A ballroom for the horses?

"But," Chester continued, gesturing vaguely toward the east side of the mansion, "the East Wing has more than enough rooms available. You’d be comfortable there." You took a small step back, instinctively creating space between you and the offer.

"I’ll… consider it."

Chester nodded once, accepting that as the closest thing to a yes he was going to get today.

A week later, you returned to the estate with your car and a single suitcase. You’d packed with precision—exactly two weeks’ worth of clothes, no more, no less. Staying longer felt like a stupid fucking idea.

The wait staff greeted you warmly, just as they always had with your mother, and carried your things through the East Wing to your room. The space was stunning. It was impossible not to feel a little disoriented by the beauty of the room. Chester wasn’t there since he was somewhere in Switzerland  tied up in a board meeting or a summit he couldn’t skip…otherwise known as some fucking old white men's business you didn’t give a fuck about.

Your first task was making things right with Ursula. She accepted your apology in her own dramatic fashion: by calling you a shady bitch, grabbing her purse, and ordering you to drive her to her manicurist so she could fix a chipped nail. You didn’t argue. You drove her across town while she lectured you about the importance of cuticle oil, but only after she took one look at your beat‑up car, made a noise of pure horror, and whipped you the keys to her Bentley. She begged you to get a manicure once you both got there, but you declined, which earned you an eye roll. By the time you dropped her off at cocktails with her friends, you were reasonably sure you’d been forgiven. Or at least reinstated.

When you returned to the house, the late afternoon sun slanting through the hallways, you headed toward the kitchen, and found Titus. He stood at the counter, speaking with the chef about dinner preparations. Titus was specifying the exact marbling grade of the wagyu A5, from a particular farm outside Kobe, flown in from Tokyo that morning. He wanted it seared at a precise temperature, rested for a precise number of minutes, and sliced at a precise angle to preserve the integrity of the fat cap.

Then came the potatoes.

He was requesting a whipped potato so specific it sounded like a spell: Yukon Golds passed through a fine-mesh tamis three times, folded with cultured butter from Normandy, a splash of cream infused with roasted garlic and thyme, and finished with a drizzle of white truffle oil 'only if it’s the one from Alba, not the synthetic stuff.' He added something about the salt needing to be Maldon, not fleur de sel, because fleur de sel interfered with the texture.

The chef nodded along, clearly used to this level of specificity.

You were still trying to understand how mashed potatoes required international sourcing and a culinary dissertation when the chef finally noticed you standing in the doorway.

"Madame," he greeted warmly, "would you like some dinner as well?"

"Please don’t call me that," you said, stepping forward. You offered your hand and your name. "It’s extremely nice to meet you."

"Likewise," he shook your hand with a polite, practiced smile.

"I’ll make my own dinner," you added, glancing at the array of ingredients Titus had demanded. "You seem to have quite a meal to prepare tonight."

Titus’s head snapped toward you, his expression flattening into a slow, unimpressed glare. The chef gave a small, knowing nod and excused himself, heading toward the actual kitchen to begin the real work. This room was just the show kitchen.

You cleared your throat. "So… I guess we’re going to be roommates for a couple weeks."

"If you’re expecting me to roll out a welcome mat, you’re in the wrong house," he exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated.

"Oh, trust me," you folded your arms, "I’m painfully aware of what house I’m in."

"You know, your mother never made things this complicated. She understood her place here."

"Her place?" you snarled.

"You may have been extended an invitation by my father, but it was done out of courtesy, not because you suddenly matter."

"Look… I know it's been a long time… but there’s no need to be such a dick."

His beautiful hazel eyes narrowed just slightly. "If you didn’t want the truth, you shouldn’t have come back."

"I can’t believe you’re still like this after all this time."

"Like what?"

"A petulant child pretending to be a man. Same old Titus. Snarky, spoiled, and convinced the sun rises just to shine on your trust fund." You pointed towards the other kitchen, exasperated. "And seriously—what was that? You could’ve just asked for a simple meal. Steak and mashed potatoes. That’s it. But no, with you it has to be a whole production. Three sauces, a garnish flown in from somewhere ridiculous, and wagyu that had to cross the entire Pacific so you can feel important." You shook your head, incredulous. "Jesus Christ, do you ever think about the fuel emissions from your dinners, or does the planet also exist to serve your palate?"

"Is this you trying to sound important?" He tilted his head, lips curling in a patronizing half‑smile. "I’d hate to see the unedited version."

"You walk around acting like you’re above everyone," you let out a short, disbelieving laugh, and threw your hands up, pacing a step away before turning back to him, "because you’re miserable, and you want everyone else to feel it too."

His nostrils flared like he was trying to breathe through the spike of anger. "I will not be spoken to like this in my house."

And maybe it was the long drive, or the exhaustion, or the way he was getting under your skin, but the words came out before you could stop them.

"Except it’s not your house. It’s Chester’s. You’re a forty‑something‑year‑old man still living at home with your daddy. Am I missing the part where I should be impressed?" You knew he probably owned his own multiple properties, but that was besides the point.

"I expected better material from you. That was lazy," his expression softened into something infuriatingly patient, like he was humoring a child, "and predictable."

"I can’t believe I was actually going to apologize to you."

"For what? Existing?"

"For not inviting you to the memorial."

"You didn’t want us there. Message received," his voice was flat, but the hurt underneath it was unmistakable.

"You’re right… I didn’t," you swallowed, and your fingers drifted to the counter beside you, tracing the edge of a decorative inlay—anything to keep your hands busy, anything to avoid looking directly at him while you said the next part.

"But my mother probably would have wanted all of you there... especially you. She had a soft spot for you," you admitted, eyes dropping to the pattern beneath your fingertips. "I’m sorry." The words felt strange in your mouth because he drove you insane, but you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t messed up. You kept your gaze on the counter, tracing the design again, slower this time. "I’ll stay out of your way while I’m here."

You pushed off the counter gently, your fingers slipping away from the cool surface, and took a step back, then another, as you moved toward the doorway.

You were infuriating.

It had been a few days, and you were doing a really good job of ignoring him, or at least pretending to. You didn’t look at him when he entered a room, and whenever he passed you in the hall, you didn’t acknowledge him at all. You didn’t even give him the satisfaction of a sarcastic remark. It was as if he wasn’t worth your attention.

He’d stomp around the estate, muttering under his breath, burning holes into your back every time you didn’t look at him. Titus didn’t understand why it bothered him so much, and the truth was, he was still furious about the way you’d spoken to him. No one talked to him like that…and no one ever had. You were lucky your mother was your mother because Titus had been this close to having all your shit tossed out onto the front steps, setting your car (or maybe even you) on fire, and telling you to fucking walk back to Manhattan.

But it was impossible not to notice you drifting through the house, as if you belonged there. You sat with the staff like you were one of them. Letting the chef teach you knife skills like you were some apprentice he’d taken a liking to. Chatting with the groundskeeper about soil acidity. Sitting with the new housekeeper over tea. And then there was Ursula… Ursula, who didn’t enjoy people. Ursula, who communicated mostly in dry comments and raised eyebrows. Ursula, who had once told a senator’s wife to "stop hovering, you’re blocking the light." But…now there was a spark of amusement in her eyes whenever you walked into a room. She’d mutter something under her breath, and you’d fire back without missing a beat, and Titus would catch the corner of her mouth twitching like she was fighting a smile.

He also didn’t fucking understand how you dressed like someone who’d wandered in from a bus stop, not someone who’d spent the formative years of her life in this house. Half the time, you wore soft, washed‑out t-shirts and jeans that were frayed at the hems. A canvas tote bag with a fading print instead of a designer purse. Shoes that looked like the same ones you still had in fucking high school.

Titus was cutting through the east hallway when he heard your voice before he saw you.

"…I don’t know if the argument holds anymore," you were saying to someone. "I’ve been trying to map the points for days, but the structure keeps collapsing because I can’t find the details I need. I’m starting to think I need to adjust the topic entirely." There was a soft murmur in response, something sympathetic. You let out a breath that sounded like defeat. "I just… I don’t want to scrap 4 months of work. But I can’t keep forcing something that isn’t working."

He finally rounded the corner and found you against the window, phone pressed to your ear, sunlight catching on a yellow sundress he’d never seen before. You looked… You looked beautiful. He’d noticed it the day he saw you in his father's study when you dropped the news about your mother. He hadn’t spent much time with you while you were in high school or college; you were simply the housekeeper's daughter that his father had decided to move in. Plus, when you went to Princeton, you had basically moved out yourself and only came back for holidays or summer breaks. He slowed without meaning to, and you glanced up mid‑sentence, eyes flicking to him.

"Hey, I—I have to go," you said quickly into the phone. "We’ll talk later."

You ended the call before the person on the other end could respond, like you were trying to hide the fact that he’d caught you in a moment you hadn’t meant to share.

"What’s wrong?" he asked.

You blinked, surprised he’d spoken to you at all. "Nothing."

"Right. You look like the picture of emotional stability."

You shot him a look, the kind that said don’t start, but he just raised an eyebrow, waiting. He wasn’t good at patience, but he could manage it long enough to call your bluff.

You sighed. "My most recent research is just… a pain in my ass."

"Tragic," he said dryly, leaning a shoulder against the opposite wall.

You rolled your eyes, and before he could say anything else, you reached for the laptop you’d left on the decorative side table and didn’t even look at him as you turned away.

Titus watched you go for half a second before pushing off the wall.

"What’s the actual problem?" he said behind you. He was trying to get you to keep talking…and that was the part you didn’t know yet: Titus didn’t ask questions unless he cared about the answer.

You turned just enough to look at him over your shoulder. "I told you. It’s fine."

"I might have a solution," he said, tone annoyingly self‑assured.

You turned fully this time, brows lifting, skepticism written all over your face. "Oh really?"

"Really."

"I’m examining the ritual life of the Carolingian court…8th to 9th century." You cleared your throat. "It’s… complicated. The documentation is sparse. Half the manuscripts are missing, and the ones that survived contradict each other. So I’m trying to reconstruct how the court actually used ritual to create legitimacy."

"Ritual?" he repeated.

"Yeah, that’s what my research is about. That’s what my entire career is about. Symbolic enactments of authority, legitimacy, continuity, and how political structures use ritual to make power feel real."

"So tell me," he said, deceptively casual, "when you say ritual… what exactly do you mean?” He took a slow step closer, gaze locked on yours. "Crowns and scepters?" A faint, sardonic lift of his brow occurred. "Coronations?"

"Rituals don’t have to be grand," you said, testing the words as you offered them. There was a deliberate edge to them, like you were choosing each word with care. "They can be as simple as… a game of hide‑and‑seek."

The moment the phrase left your mouth, Titus’s eyes flickered with a hint of suspicion, the subtle shift in his expression betraying his awareness. He tilted his head, a slow, measured smile playing on his lips, weighing your words and deciding whether you’d meant them the way they sounded. His gaze narrowed slightly, studying you with a calculated calm, but he’d heard exactly what you were implying. He knew you were testing him. And he was trying to decide how much to give back. You remained still, your posture poised and deliberate, not giving away any sign of nervousness. There was a quiet patience in your stance… an unspoken challenge lingering in the air.

"That’s an interesting example," he said.

"You’d be surprised how many rituals survive by being disguised as something harmless," you said. "Especially the ones meant to test people," you said, offering the next breadcrumb, watching to see if he’d follow it. Because he knew the two of you weren’t talking about Carolingian courts anymore.

"You’re right," Titus said, leaning back just slightly, like he was giving you space while still very much watching you. A slow, crooked smile tugged at one corner of his mouth—the kind that never reached his eyes. "This research is clearly out of my depths."

"Well, that’s refreshingly self‑aware of you," you tilted your chin up a little, lips pressing together like you were genuinely impressed.

He stepped away from you, down the hall. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t linger either. He needed space to think, to breathe, to get whatever that hide-and-seek comment had stirred up out of his head. When he reached a side door, he pushed it open and stepped outside. He exhaled, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and tried to make sense of the unease sitting in his stomach. Titus pulled out his phone and typed your name into Google. The Columbia directory loaded instantly, and your faculty profile appeared with your photo, your credentials, and your research.

Professor of Philosophy

Specializations: Political Theory, Symbolic Power, Ritual Studies

Research Interests: – Structures of elite authority – Hidden governance – Ritual as social control – Esoteric traditions in modern institutions

Education:

PhD in Philosophy: Social and Political Philosophy – Yale

MA in Philosophy: Ethics and Society – University of Cambridge

BA in Philosophy, Politics, and Economics – Princeton

Then he read the title of your dissertation at Yale, and then clicked on the abstract:

"Hidden Power: Esoteric Symbolism and Elite Ritual"

This dissertation shows how esoteric symbols and ritual traditions help elite groups preserve authority in the Western society. Rather than secrecy, their power comes from cultural continuity, shaping modern narratives of hidden influence and legitimacy.

He tapped the back arrow and returned to your main faculty page and kept scrolling. Selected Publications: – "The Architecture of Obedience: Ritual as a Mechanism of Social Order" – "Inheritance and Initiation: The Unspoken Rules of Elite Continuity" – "Games, Trials, and Tests: Symbolic Violence in Modern Ceremonial Practices"

He stopped for a moment, his eyes fixed on the list of titles in front of him. They were so exact, so precise, it almost felt like they were too on the nose. Titus finally lowered his phone slowly, his gaze drifting back to the picture of you he'd kept on his screen.

You knew something about his family… that much was clear.

And that was a problem.

"Oh my God, Titus. You’re panicking about nothing," Ursula groaned.

"It’s not nothing," he shot back. Yesterday, he had gone straight to his study, shut the door, and pulled up your faculty page again. What started as a quick skim turned into hours of reading, one tab opening another, each link pulling him deeper.

He read everything.

Every article you’d published. Every conference paper. Every footnote, every citation, every obscure reference. Then he opened your dissertation. Two hundred pages of dense theory, historical analysis, and symbolic interpretation, and he read it cover to cover. If he were honest with himself, maybe his dick got hard reading it. You were smart (undeniably and unavoidably smart) and competent in a way that commanded attention. By the time he reached the final chapter, the sky outside had already started to lighten. When Ursula found him, he was still in the same chair, still staring at the same paragraph he’d been rereading for twenty minutes.

 Ursula pinched the bridge of her nose. "It’s a coincidence."

"No, it’s not," he growled.

She sighed dramatically, like he was exhausting her on purpose. "Fine. You’re right. It’s not a coincidence… But," she added, holding up a finger, "you said that nothing she’s written or produced alludes anything about the High Council. So clearly she doesn’t know everything."

Titus stared at her. "That’s your reassurance?"

"Yes," Ursula said, completely unbothered. "Because if she did know everything, she wouldn’t be fucking alive. Father has been following her career for years, and he’s never felt threatened by it."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. "You knew about this?"

"Of course I knew."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"You should’ve known sooner," she scowled. "Her mother talked about her constantly when she was in school… which was for like 500 fucking years. Every degree, every fellowship, every paper—God, it was endless."

"I wasn’t listening," Titus frowned.

"Well, that’s your problem," Ursula said, shrugging. "Her mother told us she was getting a philosophy degree. Then another one. Then another one. And Father kept tabs on her the whole time."

"He kept tabs?"

"Yes," Ursula said, rolling her eyes. "Because of her mother. And because… you know." She gestured vaguely. "That night… at Kip’s wedding."

He hadn’t thought about that night in years. In his defense, after so many hunts over the years, they all started to blend together. He remembered coming downstairs the morning after the wedding, and you were already in the foyer, suitcase zipped, coat on, looking like you’d been awake for hours. He’d stood on the stairs, unseen, watching as you thanked Chester for his hospitality and kindness over the last few years. Then you walked out the front door, got into the car waiting for you, and by the end of the week you were in the UK.

"Are you sure we don’t need to take care of her just in case?" Titus turned his head towards his sister, and the look he gave her said everything.

"Yes, I’m sure. She’s a philosopher, Titus. They write about power structures and rituals all the time because they’re bored and underpaid."

"She’s not bored," he rumbled.

"No. She’s not. But she’s also not writing exposés on the High Council. So until she does? Who fucking cares?"

Titus dragged a hand through his hair. "She knows enough to be dangerous."

"Everyone knows enough to be dangerous. You’re just upset she got under your skin."

"She didn’t get under my skin."

"Mm‑hmm," she hummed, unconvinced.

Titus glared at her, but she only smirked.

"Relax," Ursula said, trying to calm him down. "She’s observant, but she’s not omniscient. If she knew the whole picture, she wouldn’t be dropping hints. She’d be fucking running."

Titus was behind the bar the next night, pouring himself a whiskey he absolutely needed. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made his thoughts louder, and he’d just taken a drink when the door swung open hard enough to make the bottles rattle.

You walked in, furious.

"What is this?" you demanded, holding your phone out. Titus didn’t answer… He took another slow sip, set the glass down, and only then reached for your phone.

Subject: Resources for Carolingian Research

Dear Professor, It’s a pleasure to meet you. My brother has done business with the Danforth’s for years, and Titus mentioned that you are currently conducting research on the ritual life of the Carolingian court. He thought I might be able to assist. I’ve attached several items that may be useful to your work. I hope they prove helpful as you continue developing your project. A colleague of mine, Dr. Adams, is spending the semester teaching at Peking University; this area happens to be his specialization. I’ve CC’d him here in case you have additional questions or would like further materials. Your credentials are impressive. If your schedule allows, we would be delighted to host you as a guest lecturer at some point this year. Your philosophical background complements Dr. Adams' historical approach particularly well. Interdisciplinary work is often where the most interesting insights emerge. Warm regards, Dr. Barnes, University of Sydney Department of History

Titus skimmed it once, then handed your phone back and picked up his whiskey again. "Am I supposed to be having a reaction? Why are you freaking out?"

"Because—" you shoved the phone toward him again, as if he hadn’t read it properly the first time. "Because I don’t understand how they have access to this. These manuscripts aren’t even digitized. They’re not public. They’re not—" You broke off, breath catching. "This isn’t possible."

"Maybe it’s not as impossible as you think."

"No, it is," you snapped. "This is impossible. These sources don’t circulate. They don’t leave the archive. People have been trying to get access to these things for years. And suddenly, some guy in Sydney just—just emails them to me?"

He tapped the bar with one finger, casual, almost bored. "Maybe Australians are smarter than Americans and can locate things more easily. I don’t know."

"Why did you contact him?"

"Because you needed help," Titus said, as if it were obvious. "His brother owed me. He’s a historian with access. You needed sources. It wasn’t complicated." He lifted his glass again.

"I didn’t need your help."

He raised an eyebrow. "You didn’t need access to the sources you’ve been trying to find for months?"

"That’s not the point."

"It’s exactly the point," Titus set his glass down softly, leaning a little forward, eyes now sharp and attentive.

You crossed your arms. "I didn’t need the help from you."

"Oh yes. God forbid you accept help from me."

"I didn’t ask for it, and I certainly don’t want help from a selfish and self-centered individual."

In just a week, Titus had learned to read the progression of your frustration—from the flicker of your lips to the furrow between your brows. He hated admitting that whenever you were pissed off, your eyes would devour him just enough to leave him craving more. He liked it. He enjoyed the thrill he got from being the reason you became rude when you were so nice to everyone else.

"You know, people use connections to get ahead, and you’re acting like using a connection is dirty. It’s not. That’s how the world works."

"Not my world."

"Where do you get off acting morally superior about this?" he chuckled quietly, a low, almost amused sound. 

You opened your mouth to retort, but Titus cut you off with a quick raise of his hand. "You grew up in the Danforth bubble, whether you like it or not," he said. "Just because you ran away doesn’t mean you didn’t benefit from connections your entire life. But the second I use one on your behalf, suddenly it’s unethical?"

"That’s not what I—"

"It is," he cut in. "You’re fine with privilege as long as it’s invisible. The moment it has a name attached, you panic."

"So maybe," he said calmly, "stop yelling at me for having helped you."

And while you never said it out loud (not even to yourself on the worst days), you knew the truth: the life you had now existed because of the opportunities Chester Danforth had handed you when you were too young to understand their weight.

Being a philosophy professor at Columbia with a whole string of letters after your name still felt surreal sometimes. You were a Doctor, taught in bright classrooms, published in journals, sat on panels, and lived a life built on ideas and arguments, and the luxury of time to think. You’d worked fucking hard to get there, no question about that, but the door had been opened for you long before you ever reached it because Chester had invested in your education. Admitting that felt like swallowing glass, and it felt like acknowledging a debt you’d spent years trying to outrun.

"My mother always said I had too much pride to admit when I was wrong," you finally said.

"Then we’re both guilty. What I said about your mother… I shouldn’t have said it." The guilt has been pulsing in his wrists, turning his veins black. "About her just being the help. She was obviously so much more than that. I’m sorry."

The words hung there, raw and exposed, pulling at the thread of tension between you. His eyes locked on yours, dark and searching, the confusion from before twisting into something deeper—a pull that made his chest tighten, his body aware of every inch of space separating you.

A few tears escaped your eyes, and Titus stood there, frozen, his broad shoulders tense under the dim light of the room. He wasn't good at this…with emotions crashing like waves he couldn't shoot or outrun. His hands flexed at his sides, unsure whether to reach out or pull back, because he knew he wasn’t the best at comforting people.

You stepped closer, the air between you thick with unspoken things, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, his stubble scraping lightly against your lips. An unexpected ache unfurled beneath his ribs, subtle but insistent, as if something inside him had shifted a fraction to the left.

"Thank you, Titus..." you whispered, his name sounding like a melody despite the tears. "She loved you and Ursula very much."

You turned to leave the room, your footsteps soft on the floor, but paused at the doorway. Glancing back, you pointed at your phone, the screen still glowing with the email, "And thank you for this too."

"It was nothing," Titus muttered, the words tumbling out, awkward and honest, surprising even him as they bridged the gap of his usual guarded silence.

Titus watched your teeth sink gently into your bottom lip, causing a faint, subconscious tug low in his gut. Titus wondered what it would feel like to slide his tongue into your mouth, and to taste the subtle saltiness of your skin and the lingering hint of your breath. His gaze dipped involuntarily, drawn to the soft swell of your cleavage peeking from the neckline of your shirt, the gentle rise and fall of your chest with each steadying breath. Your eyes held his, fierce yet soft, pulling him in like a current he couldn't fight. The way your body moved, that subtle shift of hips as you lingered in the doorway, ignited a heat that spread through him, making his pulse throb.

You gave him a small wave and murmured a quiet goodnight.

Titus turned abruptly and walked out, striding down the hall to his bedroom. His bedroom was a good 5‑minute walk from the bar, and every step felt like a deliberate fucking punishment. Once he made it to his bedroom, he locked the door behind him before sinking onto the bed, back pressed against the sturdy headboard. His hand drifted down almost without thinking, fingers brushing over the fabric of his dress pants. He popped the button, zipper rasping open, and shoved them down just enough to free his cock. It was already hard, and he wrapped his calloused fingers around the base, squeezing lightly, and let out a low groan.

Fuck, he thought, eyes squeezing shut. You were beautiful, no denying it. Not in that fake, dolled-up way he'd chased before, but real… He stroked upward slowly, thumb circling the head where a bead of pre-come glistened. The sound of his name on your tongue echoed in his head, soft now in his imagination, whispered like a secret. 'Titus...' He imagined you saying it closer, your breath hot against his ear, your hand replacing his.

His grip tightened, pumping in a steady rhythm, hips bucking up off the cushion. He pictured you there, peeling off your clothes to reveal the curves he'd only glimpsed—full breasts straining against your shirt, hips that swayed with purpose. He spread his legs wider, free hand gripping his sheets as he jerked faster, the slick sound filling the quiet room. Your lips parting to say his name again, this time moaning it, your body arching toward him.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, breath coming in ragged bursts. He envisioned pinning you down, your legs wrapping around his waist, pussy wet and welcoming as he thrust in deep. 'Titus,' you'd gasp, nails digging into his back, that beautiful face of yours scrunching up with need. His cock throbbed in his fist, veins pulsing, and he twisted his wrist on the upstroke, chasing the heat building low in his belly.

Titus

Titus

Titus

His strokes became more erratic, his balls drawing tight, the pressure coiling like a spring. Suddenly, he came with a guttural curse, his spend spilling over his knuckles in hot spurts, splattering his shirt. His body jerked, chest heaving, as waves of pleasure crashed through him. For a moment, he just lay there, spent, cock softening in his grip, the sticky mess cooling on his skin. But as the high faded, something gnawed at him. He wiped his hand on his thigh, staring at the ceiling, confusion settling in. He'd fucked plenty of women…usually with no strings attached. Bodies slamming together, release and done. But this? Jerking off to the thought of you, not just your body, but the way you moved, the way you saw him? It twisted something inside, unfamiliar and raw. He'd never felt this pull before…this ache that went beyond getting off.

What the hell was this?

Masterlist | You're reading Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | FINAL PART

Thanks for reading! When it comes to the Carolingian research in this story, a lot of the material in her research may be intentionally fictionalized. I did look into how difficult it is to access certain manuscripts, and in reality, many of them are extremely restricted… but in this world, Titus can make anything happen. So that’s part of the fun.

Some of the degree program specializations I mentioned don’t actually exist at the universities I listed. That was deliberate. I wanted the reader to come across as someone who grew up in the Danforth bubble, with the kind of privilege and access that lands you in the Ivy League or top‑tier international programs. Her specialization is also uncommon in real academia. It’s loosely inspired by a program I found online (Doctor Ph.D. Degree Mythology & Occultism), and additional research on this topic Deciphering the Esoteric Meaning: A Conceptual Analysis | Meridian University, and I expanded it to fit the tone and worldbuilding of the story.

So none of this should be taken as historically or academically accurate. It’s all crafted to serve the narrative and the characters. Sorry for the little disclaimer moment—I just know academia and research are their own galaxies, and I want to be clear that I’m taking creative liberties. If anyone reading this has careers in philosophy, history, medieval studies, manuscript research, or anything adjacent… I’m genuinely in awe of you. I felt like a confused child Googling half this stuff. The years you all put into your work is unreal.